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+
+Emma
+
+by Jane Austen
+
+
+VOLUME I
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and
+happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of
+existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very
+little to distress or vex her.
+
+She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,
+indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage,
+been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had
+died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance
+of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman
+as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.
+
+Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as a
+governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly
+of Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even
+before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,
+the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any
+restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they
+had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,
+and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s
+judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
+
+The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having
+rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too
+well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to
+her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so
+unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with
+her.
+
+Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any
+disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor’s
+loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this
+beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any
+continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
+and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to
+cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after
+dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she
+had lost.
+
+The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was
+a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and
+pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with
+what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and
+promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want
+of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her
+past kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had
+taught and how she had played with her from five years old—how she had
+devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how nursed
+her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of
+gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,
+the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed
+Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a
+dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such
+as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing
+all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and
+peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of
+hers—one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had
+such an affection for her as could never find fault.
+
+How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going
+only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
+difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a
+Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and
+domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual
+solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.
+He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
+
+The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had
+not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;
+for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind
+or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though
+everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
+temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.
+
+Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being
+settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
+reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled
+through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from
+Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,
+and give her pleasant society again.
+
+Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,
+to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and
+name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were
+first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many
+acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but
+not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for
+even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but
+sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,
+and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He
+was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was
+used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
+Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was
+by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor could
+ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a
+match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor
+too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able
+to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he
+was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for
+herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she
+had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and
+chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but
+when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had
+said at dinner,
+
+“Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that
+Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”
+
+“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a
+good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a
+good wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for
+ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her
+own?”
+
+“A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her own?
+This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours, my
+dear.”
+
+“How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!—We
+shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding
+visit very soon.”
+
+“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could
+not walk half so far.”
+
+“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,
+to be sure.”
+
+“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
+little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our
+visit?”
+
+“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we have
+settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last
+night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going
+to Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only
+doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,
+papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you
+mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!”
+
+“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not
+have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am
+sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken
+girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always
+curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you
+have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock
+of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an
+excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
+to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes
+over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will
+be able to tell her how we all are.”
+
+Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and
+hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through
+the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The
+backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
+walked in and made it unnecessary.
+
+Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not
+only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly
+connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived
+about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
+and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their
+mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after
+some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were
+well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr.
+Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which
+always did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and
+her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.
+Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,
+to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must
+have had a shocking walk.”
+
+“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I
+must draw back from your great fire.”
+
+“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not
+catch cold.”
+
+“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”
+
+“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain
+here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at
+breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”
+
+“By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what
+sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my
+congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you
+all behave? Who cried most?”
+
+“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”
+
+“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
+‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it
+comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it
+must be better to have only one to please than two.”
+
+“Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome
+creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your head, I
+know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”
+
+“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, with
+a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”
+
+“My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.
+Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only
+myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in a
+joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”
+
+Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults
+in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and
+though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it
+would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him
+really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by
+every body.
+
+“Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I meant no
+reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons
+to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be
+a gainer.”
+
+“Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—“you want to hear about the
+wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
+charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:
+not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that
+we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting
+every day.”
+
+“Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, Mr.
+Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am
+sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.”
+
+Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. “It is
+impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr.
+Knightley. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
+suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s
+advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s
+time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to
+her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow
+herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor
+must be glad to have her so happily married.”
+
+“And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said Emma, “and a
+very considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made the match,
+you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in
+the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,
+may comfort me for any thing.”
+
+Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! my
+dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for
+whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more
+matches.”
+
+“I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
+other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such
+success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry
+again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who
+seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied
+either in his business in town or among his friends here, always
+acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spend
+a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.
+Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a
+promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the
+uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the
+subject, but I believed none of it.
+
+“Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I met
+with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
+away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from
+Farmer Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the
+match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this
+instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off
+match-making.”
+
+“I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’” said Mr. Knightley.
+“Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately
+spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring
+about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But
+if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it,
+means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, ‘I
+think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were
+to marry her,’ and saying it again to yourself every now and then
+afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are
+you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be
+said.”
+
+“And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?—I
+pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky guess is
+never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor
+word ‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so
+entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;
+but I think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and
+the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given
+many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might
+not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield
+enough to comprehend that.”
+
+“A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,
+unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their
+own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than
+good to them, by interference.”
+
+“Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rejoined
+Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do not
+make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s family
+circle grievously.”
+
+“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
+Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in
+Highbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and has
+fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
+him single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands
+to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same
+kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is
+the only way I have of doing him a service.”
+
+“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good
+young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew
+him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.
+That will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
+kind as to meet him.”
+
+“With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr. Knightley,
+laughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better
+thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish
+and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a
+man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,
+which for the last two or three generations had been rising into
+gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on
+succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed
+for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,
+and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by
+entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.
+
+Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
+military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great
+Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was
+surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and
+who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would
+offend.
+
+Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
+fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate—was
+not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the
+infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off
+with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce
+much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had
+a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing
+due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;
+but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had
+resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but
+not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s
+unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
+They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison
+of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at
+once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
+
+Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,
+as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of
+the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he
+was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
+From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy
+had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his
+mother’s, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
+Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young
+creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
+of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some
+reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they
+were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the
+care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
+to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
+
+A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and
+engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in
+London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which
+brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,
+where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful
+occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty
+years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time,
+realised an easy competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little
+estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for—enough to
+marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according
+to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.
+
+It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
+schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it
+had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could
+purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;
+but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were
+accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained
+his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
+probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had
+never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,
+even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful
+a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the
+pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be
+chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.
+
+He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
+for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his
+uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume
+the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,
+therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance. His father
+had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and
+governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to
+imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear,
+and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in
+London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine
+young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was
+looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and
+prospects a kind of common concern.
+
+Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
+curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little
+returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit
+his father had been often talked of but never achieved.
+
+Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
+most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not
+a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea
+with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
+visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and
+the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his
+new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in
+Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had
+received. “I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank
+Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very
+handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw
+the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his
+life.”
+
+It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,
+formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
+attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most
+welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation
+which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
+fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate
+she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial
+separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and
+who could ill bear to part with her.
+
+She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without
+pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui,
+from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
+character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
+have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
+would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
+privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance
+of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female
+walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and circumstances, which would
+make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the
+evenings in the week together.
+
+Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.
+Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction—her more
+than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,
+that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize
+at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her
+at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away
+in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
+own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh,
+and saying, “Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.”
+
+There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of ceasing to
+pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
+The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
+being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which
+had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could
+bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
+different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
+unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade
+them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as
+earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He had been at the
+pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr.
+Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were
+one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and upon being applied to,
+he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias
+of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with
+many—perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an
+opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence
+every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;
+and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
+
+There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being
+seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.
+Woodhouse would never believe it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to
+have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from
+his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,
+his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own
+little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much
+intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late
+hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance
+but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him,
+Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in
+the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many
+such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of the
+chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he
+preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
+company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could
+not make up a card-table for him.
+
+Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and
+by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege
+of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the
+elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles
+of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.
+
+After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were
+Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at
+the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
+carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for
+either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it
+would have been a grievance.
+
+Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old
+lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her
+single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the
+regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
+circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree
+of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
+Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having
+much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to
+make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into
+outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her
+youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was
+devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a
+small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and
+a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal
+good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
+every body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to
+every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and
+surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good
+neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
+simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful
+spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to
+herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly
+suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless
+gossip.
+
+Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an
+establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of
+refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant
+morality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies
+for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a
+real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable
+quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where
+girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into
+a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs.
+Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for Highbury
+was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and
+garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about
+a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with
+her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now
+walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman,
+who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to
+the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to
+Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her
+neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win
+or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
+
+These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to
+collect; and happy was she, for her father’s sake, in the power;
+though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the
+absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look
+comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things
+so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that
+every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had
+fearfully anticipated.
+
+As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the
+present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most
+respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most
+welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew
+very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her
+beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no
+longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
+
+Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed
+her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and somebody had
+lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of
+parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.
+She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and
+was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young
+ladies who had been at school there with her.
+
+She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort
+which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a
+fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of
+great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much
+pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to
+continue the acquaintance.
+
+She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s
+conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not
+inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,
+shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly
+grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
+the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had
+been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
+Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those
+natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of
+Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
+were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though
+very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of
+the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a
+large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very
+creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of
+them—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the
+intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and
+elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve
+her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her
+into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It
+would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly
+becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
+
+She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and
+listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the
+evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which
+always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and
+watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to
+the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common
+impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of
+doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a
+mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of
+the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped
+oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the
+early hours and civil scruples of their guests.
+
+Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare.
+He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his
+youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
+rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality
+would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their
+health made him grieve that they would eat.
+
+Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he
+could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might
+constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer
+things, to say:
+
+“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg
+boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg
+better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body
+else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of
+our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a
+_little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You
+need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the
+custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A
+_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it
+could disagree with you.”
+
+Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a much
+more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular
+pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was
+quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage
+in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much
+panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with
+highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which
+Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken
+hands with her at last!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick
+and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging,
+and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance
+increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking
+companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.
+In that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her father never
+went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed
+him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs.
+Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had
+ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet
+Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk,
+would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect,
+as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her
+kind designs.
+
+Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
+disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be
+guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was
+very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of
+appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want
+of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
+Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the
+young friend she wanted—exactly the something which her home required.
+Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could
+never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different
+sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was
+the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
+Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs.
+Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
+
+Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who
+were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell
+every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma
+was obliged to fancy what she liked—but she could never believe that in
+the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet
+had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just
+what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.
+
+Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the
+school in general, formed naturally a great part of the
+conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of
+Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied
+her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with
+them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe
+the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her
+talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and
+enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much
+exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having “_two_ parlours, two very good
+parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s
+drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived
+five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of
+them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch
+cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it
+should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome
+summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to
+drink tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen
+people.”
+
+For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
+cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings
+arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
+daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it
+appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was
+always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
+something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.
+Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
+friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were
+not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.
+
+With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and
+meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,
+and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to
+speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry
+evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
+good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in
+order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was
+of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
+shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.
+She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She
+believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very
+fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
+wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well
+of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had
+told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was
+impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
+whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she
+_wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
+
+“Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what you are about.”
+
+“And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send
+Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever
+seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
+teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with
+her.”
+
+“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of
+his own business? He does not read?”
+
+“Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has read a good
+deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the
+Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the
+window seats—but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an
+evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of
+the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the
+Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The
+Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I
+mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he
+can.”
+
+The next question was—
+
+“What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”
+
+“Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at
+first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,
+after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now
+and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
+Kingston. He has passed you very often.”
+
+“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having
+any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,
+is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are
+precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to
+do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest
+me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.
+But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense,
+as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.”
+
+“To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed
+him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”
+
+“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,
+indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine
+his age to be?”
+
+“He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the
+23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which is very odd.”
+
+“Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is
+perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as
+they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would
+probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort
+of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it
+might be very desirable.”
+
+“Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!”
+
+“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are
+not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune
+entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever
+money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of
+the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his
+stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may
+be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised
+any thing yet.”
+
+“To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no
+indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks
+of taking a boy another year.”
+
+“I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does
+marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his
+sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected
+to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you
+to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly
+careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a
+gentleman’s daughter, and you must support your claim to that station
+by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people
+who would take pleasure in degrading you.”
+
+“Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,
+and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any
+body can do.”
+
+“You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I
+would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be
+independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you
+permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to
+have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if
+you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you
+may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted
+with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer’s daughter,
+without education.”
+
+“To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body
+but what had had some education—and been very well brought up. However,
+I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours—and I am sure I shall
+not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great
+regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very
+sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But
+if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not
+visit her, if I can help it.”
+
+Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no
+alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer,
+but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no
+serious difficulty, on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly
+arrangement of her own.
+
+They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the
+Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at
+her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was
+not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few
+yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye
+sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very
+neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no
+other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she
+thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet’s
+inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily
+noticed her father’s gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.
+Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.
+
+They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be
+kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,
+and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to
+compose.
+
+“Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It was quite a
+chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not
+think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls
+most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.
+He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot
+it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet!
+Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think
+of him? Do you think him so very plain?”
+
+“He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but that is nothing
+compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect
+much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so
+very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a
+degree or two nearer gentility.”
+
+“To be sure,” said Harriet, in a mortified voice, “he is not so genteel
+as real gentlemen.”
+
+“I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been
+repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you
+must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At
+Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred
+men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in
+company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very
+inferior creature—and rather wondering at yourself for having ever
+thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now?
+Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward
+look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to
+be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.”
+
+“Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air
+and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough.
+But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!”
+
+“Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to
+compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with
+_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the
+only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston
+and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their
+manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being
+silent. You must see the difference.”
+
+“Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old
+man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.”
+
+“Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person
+grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not
+be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or
+awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later
+age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.
+Weston’s time of life?”
+
+“There is no saying, indeed,” replied Harriet rather solemnly.
+
+“But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,
+vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of
+nothing but profit and loss.”
+
+“Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.”
+
+“How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the
+circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.
+He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing
+else—which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to
+do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very
+rich man in time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb
+_us_.”
+
+“I wonder he did not remember the book”—was all Harriet’s answer, and
+spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be
+safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her
+next beginning was,
+
+“In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior to Mr.
+Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentleness. They might be
+more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,
+almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,
+because there is so much good-humour with it—but that would not do to
+be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding
+sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,
+and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to
+set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I
+think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as
+a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He
+seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know
+whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,
+Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are
+softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to
+please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?”
+
+She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from
+Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled,
+and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
+
+Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young
+farmer out of Harriet’s head. She thought it would be an excellent
+match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her
+to have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body
+else must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any
+body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had
+entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet’s coming to
+Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of
+its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suitable, quite the
+gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of
+any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.
+He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient
+income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known
+to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him
+as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any
+deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.
+
+She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful
+girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was
+foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet’s there could be little
+doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual
+weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a
+young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned
+very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,
+there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense
+with:—but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin’s riding
+about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered
+by Mr. Elton’s admiration.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+“I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr.
+Knightley, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but
+I think it a bad thing.”
+
+“A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?—why so?”
+
+“I think they will neither of them do the other any good.”
+
+“You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with
+a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have
+been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very
+differently we feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This
+will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.
+Knightley.”
+
+“Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing
+Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.”
+
+“Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he
+thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only
+yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there
+should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr.
+Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You
+are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a
+companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a
+woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to
+it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is
+not the superior young woman which Emma’s friend ought to be. But on
+the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an
+inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She
+means it, I know.”
+
+“Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years
+old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times
+of books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists
+they were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes
+alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up
+when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much
+credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made
+out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of
+steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring
+industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the
+understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely
+affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.—You never could persuade her
+to read half so much as you wished.—You know you could not.”
+
+“I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought so
+_then_;—but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma’s omitting
+to do any thing I wished.”
+
+“There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,”—said
+Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. “But I,”
+he soon added, “who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must
+still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest
+of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able
+to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was
+always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since
+she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In
+her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits
+her mother’s talents, and must have been under subjection to her.”
+
+“I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_
+recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s family and wanted another
+situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to
+any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.”
+
+“Yes,” said he, smiling. “You are better placed _here_; very fit for a
+wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself
+to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might
+not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to
+promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on
+the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and
+doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a
+wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.”
+
+“Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to
+such a man as Mr. Weston.”
+
+“Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and
+that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne.
+We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness
+of comfort, or his son may plague him.”
+
+“I hope not _that_.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not
+foretell vexation from that quarter.”
+
+“Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma’s
+genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the
+young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.—But
+Harriet Smith—I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the
+very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows
+nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a
+flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.
+Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any
+thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful
+inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_
+cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of
+conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just
+refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and
+circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s
+doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl
+adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in
+life.—They only give a little polish.”
+
+“I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you do, or am more
+anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.
+How well she looked last night!”
+
+“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very
+well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s being pretty.”
+
+“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect
+beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”
+
+“I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom
+seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial
+old friend.”
+
+“Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular features,
+open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,
+and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!
+There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her
+glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health;’
+now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of
+grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”
+
+“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her
+all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,
+that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome
+she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies
+another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of
+Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”
+
+“And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not
+doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little faults, she is an
+excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder
+sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be
+trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no
+lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred
+times.”
+
+“Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and
+I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and
+Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind
+affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not
+quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their
+opinions with me.”
+
+“I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;
+but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,
+you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s
+mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any
+possible good can arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a
+matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any
+little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be
+expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly
+approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a
+source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to
+give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this
+little remains of office.”
+
+“Not at all,” cried he; “I am much obliged to you for it. It is very
+good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often
+found; for it shall be attended to.”
+
+“Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about
+her sister.”
+
+“Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my
+ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella
+does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;
+perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one
+feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!”
+
+“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”
+
+“She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just
+nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she
+cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love
+with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some
+doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts
+to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.”
+
+“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her
+resolution at present,” said Mrs. Weston, “as can well be; and while
+she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any
+attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr.
+Woodhouse’s account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma,
+though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you.”
+
+Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own
+and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes
+at Randalls respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have
+them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon
+afterwards made to “What does Weston think of the weather; shall we
+have rain?” convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise
+about Hartfield.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy a proper
+direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good
+purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.
+Elton’s being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;
+and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his
+admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of
+creating as much liking on Harriet’s side, as there could be any
+occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton’s being in the
+fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no
+scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so
+warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little
+time would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of
+Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of
+the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.
+
+“You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he; “you have
+made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came
+to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are
+infinitely superior to what she received from nature.”
+
+“I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
+drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the
+natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have
+done very little.”
+
+“If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant Mr.
+Elton—
+
+“I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
+taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.”
+
+“Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded
+decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!”
+
+“Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition
+more truly amiable.”
+
+“I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
+animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased
+another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,
+to have Harriet’s picture.
+
+“Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she: “did you
+ever sit for your picture?”
+
+Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,
+with a very interesting naïveté,
+
+“Oh! dear, no, never.”
+
+No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
+
+“What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would
+give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
+You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great
+passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
+was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or
+another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,
+if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her
+picture!”
+
+“Let me entreat you,” cried Mr. Elton; “it would indeed be a delight!
+Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in
+favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you
+suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your
+landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable
+figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?”
+
+Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do with taking
+likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don’t pretend to be in
+raptures about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face. “Well, if
+you give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try
+what I can do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a
+likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the
+eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.”
+
+“Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I have
+not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,
+it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.”
+
+“But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks
+so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of
+answering me? How completely it meant, ‘why should my picture be
+drawn?’”
+
+“Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still
+I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.”
+
+Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;
+and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the
+earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work
+directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various
+attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that
+they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many
+beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths,
+pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had
+always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in
+drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as
+she would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in almost every
+style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she
+approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to
+command, and ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as
+to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not
+unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for
+accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
+
+There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the
+most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had
+there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two
+companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A
+likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be
+capital.
+
+“No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only my own
+family to study from. There is my father—another of my father—but the
+idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only
+take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston
+again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my
+kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.
+There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!—and
+the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she
+would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her
+four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my
+attempts at three of those four children;—there they are, Henry and
+John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of
+them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them
+drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three
+or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take
+any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are
+coarser featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my
+sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on
+the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would
+wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That’s
+very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa
+is very good. Then here is my last,”—unclosing a pretty sketch of a
+gentleman in small size, whole-length—“my last and my best—my brother,
+Mr. John Knightley.—This did not want much of being finished, when I
+put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I
+could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had
+really made a very good likeness of it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite
+agreed in thinking it _very_ like)—only too handsome—too flattering—but
+that was a fault on the right side”—after all this, came poor dear
+Isabella’s cold approbation of—“Yes, it was a little like—but to be
+sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble in
+persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
+altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish
+it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every
+morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then
+forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet’s sake, or rather
+for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_
+_present_, I will break my resolution now.”
+
+Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and
+was repeating, “No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as
+you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,” with so interesting a
+consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
+leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the
+declaration must wait a little longer.
+
+She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a
+whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley’s, and was
+destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable
+station over the mantelpiece.
+
+The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not
+keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of
+youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no
+doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every
+touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze
+and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to
+it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her
+to employ him in reading.
+
+“If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness
+indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen
+the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.”
+
+Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.
+She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing
+less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready
+at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the
+progress, and be charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an
+encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost
+before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and
+his complaisance were unexceptionable.
+
+The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough
+pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want
+of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant
+to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more
+height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its
+being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its
+destined place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the
+beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with
+as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton’s very promising
+attachment was likely to add.
+
+Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
+entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
+
+“By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
+party.”
+
+The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,
+took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the
+picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,
+but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
+criticism.
+
+“Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
+wanted,”—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that
+she was addressing a lover.—“The expression of the eye is most correct,
+but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of
+her face that she has them not.”
+
+“Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It appears to
+me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
+likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”
+
+“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.
+
+Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly
+added,
+
+“Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider,
+she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short
+gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
+Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
+such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”
+
+“It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as
+your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so
+well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she
+seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
+shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.”
+
+“But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
+Look at the tree.”
+
+“But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”
+
+“You, sir, may say any thing,” cried Mr. Elton, “but I must confess
+that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out
+of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any
+other situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of
+Miss Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot
+keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”
+
+The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a
+few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London;
+the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose
+taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all
+commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr.
+Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in
+the fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr.
+Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.
+“Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should
+he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was
+impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on
+such an errand.”
+
+“He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would not give
+him such a troublesome office for the world,”—brought on the desired
+repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled
+the business.
+
+Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give
+the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
+safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
+not being incommoded enough.
+
+“What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he received
+it.
+
+“This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought Emma. “I should
+say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of
+being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
+exactly; it will be an ‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he does
+sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
+endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
+But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion
+for Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,
+as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to
+return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked
+of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something
+extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a
+minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to
+Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and
+finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a
+little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on
+opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs
+which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this
+letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal
+of marriage. “Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did
+not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good
+letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her
+very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she
+could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—” Emma was half-ashamed
+of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.
+
+“Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined not to lose any
+thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.”
+
+“Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do. II’d rather you
+would.”
+
+Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The
+style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not
+merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have
+disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and
+unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of
+the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment,
+liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,
+while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a “Well,
+well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a good letter? or is it
+too short?”
+
+“Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather slowly—“so good
+a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his
+sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I
+saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if
+left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;
+no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a
+woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural
+talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand,
+his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes,
+I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a
+certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning
+it,) than I had expected.”
+
+“Well,” said the still waiting Harriet;—“well—and—and what shall I do?”
+
+“What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
+letter?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and
+speedily.”
+
+“Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”
+
+“Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will
+express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your
+not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be
+unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
+concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will
+present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need
+not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his
+disappointment.”
+
+“You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.
+
+“Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any
+doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been
+under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you
+feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you
+were consulting me only as to the wording of it.”
+
+Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:
+
+“You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”
+
+“No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would you
+advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to
+do.”
+
+“I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do
+with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.”
+
+“I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet,
+contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her
+silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that
+letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,
+
+“I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as
+to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to
+refuse him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’ she ought to say ‘No’
+directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful
+feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and
+older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I
+want to influence you.”
+
+“Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you would
+just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean that—As you
+say, one’s mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be
+hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’
+perhaps.—Do you think I had better say ‘No?’”
+
+“Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I advise you
+either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you
+prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most
+agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you
+hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this
+moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive
+yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this
+moment whom are you thinking of?”
+
+The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away
+confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was
+still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without
+regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong
+hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—
+
+“Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as
+well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really
+almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”
+
+“Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just
+what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to
+myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation
+in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have
+grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the
+consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest
+degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not
+influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could
+not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am
+secure of you for ever.”
+
+Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
+forcibly.
+
+“You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. “No, to be
+sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have
+been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not
+give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any
+thing in the world.”
+
+“Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
+must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.
+I must have given you up.”
+
+“Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
+never to come to Hartfield any more!”
+
+“Dear affectionate creature!—_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!—_You_
+confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I
+wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must
+have a pretty good opinion of himself.”
+
+“I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said Harriet, her
+conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is very good natured,
+and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard
+for—but that is quite a different thing from—and you know, though he
+may like me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must
+confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes
+to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,
+_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.
+Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and
+his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as
+to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.”
+
+“Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be
+parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or
+because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.”
+
+“Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.”
+
+Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a “very
+true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish
+manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that
+her husband could write a good letter.”
+
+“Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
+happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him.
+But how shall I do? What shall I say?”
+
+Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and
+advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of
+her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any
+assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every
+sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had
+such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace
+her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much
+concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of
+what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious
+that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the
+young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been
+accepted after all.
+
+This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business
+was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but
+Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them
+by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the
+idea of Mr. Elton.
+
+“I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in rather a
+sorrowful tone.
+
+“Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You
+are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to
+Abbey-Mill.”
+
+“And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy
+but at Hartfield.”
+
+Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much
+surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for
+Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a
+linen-draper.”
+
+“One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher
+of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an
+opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear
+valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she
+is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be
+among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are
+the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained
+themselves.”
+
+Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that
+people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly
+cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards
+the rejected Mr. Martin.
+
+“Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what they are
+all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they will be
+unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much.”
+
+“Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully
+employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing
+your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful
+is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,
+allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.”
+
+“My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”
+
+“Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest
+Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till
+just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this
+evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,
+it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those
+pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm
+prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy
+their imaginations all are!”
+
+Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been
+spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a
+bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every
+respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible
+just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or
+two to Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that she should
+return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
+
+While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.
+Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his
+mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and
+was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of
+his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr.
+Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his
+short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies
+and civil hesitations of the other.
+
+“Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not
+consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma’s advice and
+go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had
+better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,
+Mr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.”
+
+“My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.”
+
+“I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to
+entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my
+three turns—my winter walk.”
+
+“You cannot do better, sir.”
+
+“I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am
+a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides,
+you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.”
+
+“Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think
+the sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open
+the garden door for you.”
+
+Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being
+immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more
+chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more
+voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.
+
+“I cannot rate her beauty as you do,” said he; “but she is a pretty
+little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her
+disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good
+hands she will turn out a valuable woman.”
+
+“I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be
+wanting.”
+
+“Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you
+that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl’s
+giggle; she really does you credit.”
+
+“Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had
+been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where
+they may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it.”
+
+“You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?”
+
+“Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she
+intended.”
+
+“Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.”
+
+“Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!”
+
+“Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.”
+
+Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said
+nothing. He presently added, with a smile,
+
+“I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I
+have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of
+something to her advantage.”
+
+“Indeed! how so? of what sort?”
+
+“A very serious sort, I assure you;” still smiling.
+
+“Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with her?
+Who makes you their confidant?”
+
+Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having dropt a hint.
+Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew
+Mr. Elton looked up to him.
+
+“I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith will soon
+have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable
+quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this
+summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and
+means to marry her.”
+
+“He is very obliging,” said Emma; “but is he sure that Harriet means to
+marry him?”
+
+“Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to
+the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows
+I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,
+considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I
+thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I
+thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice
+altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered
+(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society
+above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear
+better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the
+purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every
+thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in
+the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son
+and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to
+me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he
+could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent
+him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he
+would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house
+thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened
+the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not
+allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not
+appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be
+at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without
+thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.”
+
+“Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who had been smiling to herself
+through a great part of this speech, “how do you know that Mr. Martin
+did not speak yesterday?”
+
+“Certainly,” replied he, surprized, “I do not absolutely know it; but
+it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?”
+
+“Come,” said she, “I will tell you something, in return for what you
+have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was
+refused.”
+
+This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.
+Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he
+stood up, in tall indignation, and said,
+
+“Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the
+foolish girl about?”
+
+“Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man
+that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always
+imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.”
+
+“Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the
+meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is
+so; but I hope you are mistaken.”
+
+“I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.”
+
+“You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your
+doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”
+
+“And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not
+feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,
+but I cannot admit him to be Harriet’s equal; and am rather surprized
+indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he
+does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever
+got over.”
+
+“Not Harriet’s equal!” exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and
+with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, “No, he is not
+her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in
+situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are
+Harriet Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any
+connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of
+nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and
+certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as
+parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a
+girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too
+young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she
+can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely
+ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good
+tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on
+his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him.
+I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better;
+and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do
+worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to
+trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of
+disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright
+and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on
+her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there
+would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_
+satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you
+would not regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her
+being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, ‘Even Emma, with
+all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.’”
+
+“I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say
+any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all
+his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate
+friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man
+whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you
+should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you
+mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair.
+You are not just to Harriet’s claims. They would be estimated very
+differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest
+of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in
+society.—The sphere in which she moves is much above his.—It would be a
+degradation.”
+
+“A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a
+respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!”
+
+“As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may
+be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay
+for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with
+whom she is brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father
+is a gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very
+liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or
+comfort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me; that
+she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I apprehend, will
+deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.”
+
+“Whoever might be her parents,” said Mr. Knightley, “whoever may have
+had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of
+their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.
+After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs.
+Goddard’s hands to shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs.
+Goddard’s line, to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends
+evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough.
+She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a
+friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition
+beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.
+She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given
+it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would
+never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not
+being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling
+to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to
+conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it
+he had encouragement.”
+
+It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this
+assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject
+again.
+
+“You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are
+unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well are not so
+contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she
+has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have
+her understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point,
+however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and
+good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them,
+they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she
+is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine
+people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more
+philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed;
+till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome
+faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of
+being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from
+among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is
+not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough
+sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a
+great readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much
+mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such
+temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”
+
+“Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost
+enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply
+it as you do.”
+
+“To be sure!” cried she playfully. “I know _that_ is the feeling of you
+all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man
+delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his
+judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to
+marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just
+entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at
+because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let
+her have time to look about her.”
+
+“I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,” said Mr. Knightley
+presently, “though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now
+perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will
+puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a
+claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good
+enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of
+mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations
+too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so
+fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may
+chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very
+fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity—and most
+prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they
+might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be
+revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable,
+and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry
+greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of
+consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs.
+Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is
+a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and
+is glad to catch at the old writing-master’s son.”
+
+“We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there
+can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more
+angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is
+impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must
+prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having
+refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will
+not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I
+assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His
+appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she
+ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that
+before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was
+the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and
+altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great
+assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him
+disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen
+are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance
+with Harriet.”
+
+“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” cried Mr.
+Knightley.—“Robert Martin’s manners have sense, sincerity, and
+good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility
+than Harriet Smith could understand.”
+
+Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was
+really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She
+did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better
+judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;
+but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,
+which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him
+sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.
+Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt
+on Emma’s side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was
+thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.
+
+“Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; and I hope it
+will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known
+to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it
+is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as
+a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it
+will be all labour in vain.”
+
+Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,
+
+“Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,
+and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make
+an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any
+body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is
+as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s.
+He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite
+wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved
+moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does
+not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great
+animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are
+intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.”
+
+“I am very much obliged to you,” said Emma, laughing again. “If I had
+set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Harriet, it would have been very
+kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to
+myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to
+equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”
+
+“Good morning to you,”—said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was
+very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was
+mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he
+had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the
+affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
+
+Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more
+indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his. She did not always
+feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that
+her opinions were right and her adversary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He
+walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She
+was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and
+the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet’s
+staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility
+of the young man’s coming to Mrs. Goddard’s that morning, and meeting
+with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread
+of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when
+Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such
+reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which
+settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.
+Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which
+woman’s friendship and woman’s feelings would not justify.
+
+He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered
+that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither
+with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite
+of Mr. Knightley’s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on
+such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger,
+she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished
+resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly
+might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever
+done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate
+disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive
+than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due
+allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all
+interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course
+thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a
+doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence
+might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree
+of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.
+
+Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not
+to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been
+telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great
+delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child,
+and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was
+coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and
+found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to
+London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the
+whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.
+Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it
+was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much
+to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not
+do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_
+_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would
+not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very
+enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly
+precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very
+sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr.
+Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great
+spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal
+more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,
+“that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but
+she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should
+think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton
+had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with
+herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual
+before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave
+looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not
+repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more
+justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next
+few days.
+
+The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.
+Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common
+sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half
+sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s
+feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and
+steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was
+soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered,
+than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage
+to the latter.
+
+Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of
+useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few
+first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much
+easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination
+range and work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge
+her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary
+pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she
+was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing
+all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin
+quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with
+ciphers and trophies.
+
+In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are
+not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written
+out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint
+of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many
+more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as
+Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of
+the first order, in form as well as quantity.
+
+Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the
+girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting
+in. “So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young—he
+wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.”
+And it always ended in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”
+
+His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did
+not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had
+desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,
+something, he thought, might come from that quarter.
+
+It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of Highbury
+in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one
+whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really
+good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she
+had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his
+recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most
+earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe
+a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their
+two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at
+last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known
+charade,
+
+My first doth affliction denote,
+    Which my second is destin’d to feel
+And my whole is the best antidote
+    That affliction to soften and heal.—
+
+
+made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some
+pages ago already.
+
+“Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?” said she;
+“that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be
+easier to you.”
+
+“Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
+life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse”—he
+stopt a moment—“or Miss Smith could inspire him.”
+
+The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called
+for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table
+containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed
+to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his
+manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
+
+“I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he. “Being my
+friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,
+but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.”
+
+The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
+understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it
+easier to meet her eye than her friend’s. He was gone the next
+moment:—after another moment’s pause,
+
+“Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
+Harriet—“it is for you. Take your own.”
+
+But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never
+loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
+
+To Miss——
+
+
+CHARADE.
+
+
+My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
+    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
+Another view of man, my second brings,
+    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
+
+But ah! united, what reverse we have!
+    Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
+Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
+    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
+
+    Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
+    May its approval beam in that soft eye!
+
+
+She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
+again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then
+passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,
+while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope
+and dulness, “Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse
+charades. _Courtship_—a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This
+is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly—‘Pray, Miss Smith,
+give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my
+intentions in the same glance.’
+
+May its approval beam in that soft eye!
+
+
+Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the
+justest that could be given.
+
+Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
+
+
+Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in
+love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
+benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life
+you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade
+indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon
+now.”
+
+She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
+which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the
+eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions.
+
+“What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an idea—I
+cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find
+it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is
+it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was—and who could be the young
+lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
+
+And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
+
+
+Can it be Neptune?
+
+Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
+
+
+Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one
+syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!
+Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?”
+
+“Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking
+of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a
+friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
+
+For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.
+
+My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
+    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
+
+
+That is _court_.
+
+Another view of man, my second brings;
+    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
+
+
+That is _ship_;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.
+
+But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
+    Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
+Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
+    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
+
+
+A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, which I
+think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in
+comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of
+its being written for you and to you.”
+
+Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the
+concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not
+speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.
+Emma spoke for her.
+
+“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,”
+said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton’s intentions. You
+are his object—and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I
+thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now,
+it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my
+wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet,
+just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that
+has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and
+Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its
+eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I
+congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an
+attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a
+connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing
+that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix
+you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to
+me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance
+which can never raise a blush in either of us.”
+
+“Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,” was all that Harriet,
+with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did
+arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear
+to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as
+she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
+
+“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and therefore I
+suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not
+have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,
+who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He
+is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss ———.’
+Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”
+
+“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a
+certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the
+play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by
+matter-of-fact prose.”
+
+“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a
+month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take
+place!”
+
+“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do indeed—and
+really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
+evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of
+other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
+You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one
+another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying
+will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a
+something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
+direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.
+
+The course of true love never did run smooth—
+
+
+A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
+passage.”
+
+“That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people,
+who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
+handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
+quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body
+says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;
+that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so
+excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has
+ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back
+to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and
+I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he
+was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look
+through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look
+too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he
+looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”
+
+“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be, must
+be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we
+are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to
+see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives
+every assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same
+country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will
+be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the
+common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the
+respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy
+them.”
+
+“Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You
+understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the
+other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have
+made any thing like it.”
+
+“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
+yesterday.”
+
+“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”
+
+“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”
+
+“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”
+
+“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such
+things in general cannot be too short.”
+
+Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
+comparisons were rising in her mind.
+
+“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have
+very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is
+any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you
+must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
+this.”
+
+Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s
+prose.
+
+“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two last!—But how shall I
+ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss
+Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”
+
+“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare
+say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
+pass between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall
+chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”
+
+“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
+charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”
+
+“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should
+not write it into your book.”
+
+“Oh! but those two lines are”—
+
+—“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for private
+enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
+because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its
+meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a
+very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend
+upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better
+than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities,
+or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can
+be no possible reflection on you.”
+
+Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so
+as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
+declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree
+of publicity.
+
+“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.
+
+“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it
+lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you
+will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him
+so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any
+thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of
+gallantry towards us all!—You must let me read it to him.”
+
+Harriet looked grave.
+
+“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—You
+will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
+quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
+which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
+tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not
+have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me
+than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has
+encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over
+this charade.”
+
+“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”
+
+Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
+recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does
+your book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”
+
+“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A
+piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose,
+by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
+it in.”
+
+She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
+distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
+part as she proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had
+foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
+
+“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true.
+‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can
+easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so
+prettily, but you, Emma.”
+
+Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very
+tender sigh, he added,
+
+“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
+was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
+remember nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard
+me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are
+several.
+
+Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
+    Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
+The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
+Though of his near approach afraid,
+    So fatal to my suit before.
+
+
+And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all
+the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”
+
+“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
+Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”
+
+“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.
+
+Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
+
+
+The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
+christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
+next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what
+room there will be for the children?”
+
+“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
+has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you
+know. Why should there be any change?”
+
+“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was here!—not since
+last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a
+lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away
+from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss
+Taylor here!”
+
+“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”
+
+“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I
+first heard she was going to be married.”
+
+“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
+here.”
+
+“Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed tone)—she is
+coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”
+
+“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case of
+necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we
+ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time
+they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be
+taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim
+this Christmas—though you know it is longer since they were with him,
+than with us.”
+
+“It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be
+anywhere but at Hartfield.”
+
+Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his
+brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat
+musing a little while, and then said,
+
+“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so
+soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to
+stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.”
+
+“Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do
+not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her
+husband.”
+
+This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse
+could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected
+by the idea of his daughter’s attachment to her husband, she
+immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
+
+“Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my
+brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the
+children. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder
+which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?”
+
+“Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be
+to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”
+
+“I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.”
+
+“Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the
+eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,
+is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that
+the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I
+thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They
+are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will
+come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit
+of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives
+were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with
+them very often.”
+
+“He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are so very gentle
+yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not
+think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they
+misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an
+affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate
+father. The children are all fond of him.”
+
+“And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
+very frightful way!”
+
+“But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such
+enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of
+their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.”
+
+“Well, I cannot understand it.”
+
+“That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
+understand the pleasures of the other.”
+
+Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in
+preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this
+inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could
+receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in
+his the consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and
+she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible
+reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made
+up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest
+degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give
+way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his
+dining with him—had made such a point of it, that he had promised him
+conditionally to come.
+
+Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend
+on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she
+re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
+paper from the table, she returned it—
+
+“Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;
+thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have
+ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not
+take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first
+eight lines.”
+
+Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked
+rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something about
+“honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open
+on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the
+view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
+
+“You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must
+not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman’s
+approbation while he writes with such gallantry.”
+
+“I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating
+a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in saying—at least if
+my friend feels at all as _I_ do—I have not the smallest doubt that,
+could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at
+the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as
+the proudest moment of his life.”
+
+After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think
+it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a
+sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to
+laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and
+the sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to
+prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the
+morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who
+lived a little way out of Highbury.
+
+Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
+leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street
+of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of
+Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then,
+about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and
+not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had
+no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the
+present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility
+of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing
+eyes.—Emma’s remark was—
+
+“There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these
+days.”—Harriet’s was—
+
+“Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There are the yellow
+curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.”
+
+“I do not often walk this way _now_,” said Emma, as they proceeded,
+“but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get
+intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of
+this part of Highbury.”
+
+Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and
+her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and
+probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.
+Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.
+
+“I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think of any
+tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire
+about of his housekeeper—no message from my father.”
+
+She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of
+some minutes, Harriet thus began again—
+
+“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or
+going to be married! so charming as you are!”—
+
+Emma laughed, and replied,
+
+“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;
+I must find other people charming—one other person at least. And I am
+not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little
+intention of ever marrying at all.”
+
+“Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”
+
+“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
+tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the
+question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather
+not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to
+marry, I must expect to repent it.”
+
+“Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—
+
+“I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall
+in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been
+in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever
+shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a
+situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;
+consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much
+mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never,
+never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always
+first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my father’s.”
+
+“But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!”
+
+“That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I
+thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly—so satisfied—so
+smiling—so prosing—so undistinguishing and unfastidious—and so apt to
+tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry
+to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any
+likeness, except in being unmarried.”
+
+“But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dreadful!”
+
+“Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty
+only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single
+woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable
+old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of
+good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and
+pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much
+against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first;
+for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour
+the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very
+small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and
+cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too
+good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very
+much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty
+certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had
+only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away
+sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm.”
+
+“Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you
+grow old?”
+
+“If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
+many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more
+in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s
+usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they
+are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read
+more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for
+objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the
+great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil
+to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the
+children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be
+enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation
+that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and
+every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a
+parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and
+blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me.”
+
+“Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you must have seen her
+a hundred times—but are you acquainted?”
+
+“Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to
+Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit
+with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people
+half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane
+Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter
+from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go
+round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of
+a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears
+of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she
+tires me to death.”
+
+They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were
+superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor
+were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her
+counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,
+could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic
+expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had
+done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and
+always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In
+the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she
+came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give
+comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of
+the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,
+
+“These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make
+every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but
+these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how
+soon it may all vanish from my mind?”
+
+“Very true,” said Harriet. “Poor creatures! one can think of nothing
+else.”
+
+“And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,” said
+Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended
+the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them
+into the lane again. “I do not think it will,” stopping to look once
+more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still
+greater within.
+
+“Oh! dear, no,” said her companion.
+
+They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was
+passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma
+time only to say farther,
+
+“Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good
+thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion
+has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that
+is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we
+can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to
+ourselves.”
+
+Harriet could just answer, “Oh! dear, yes,” before the gentleman joined
+them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the
+first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit
+he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what
+could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to
+accompany them.
+
+“To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,” thought Emma;
+“to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of
+love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the
+declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.”
+
+Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon
+afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one
+side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had
+not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet’s habits of
+dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,
+they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately
+stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing
+of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the
+footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would
+follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time
+she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the
+comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from
+the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to
+fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk
+to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would
+have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without
+design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead,
+without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,
+involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and
+she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a
+conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with
+animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,
+having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw
+back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged
+to join them.
+
+Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;
+and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was
+only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday’s party at
+his friend Cole’s, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton
+cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and
+all the dessert.
+
+“This would soon have led to something better, of course,” was her
+consoling reflection; “any thing interests between those who love; and
+any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I
+could but have kept longer away!”
+
+They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage
+pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the
+house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot,
+and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off
+short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged
+to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself
+to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
+
+“Part of my lace is gone,” said she, “and I do not know how I am to
+contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I
+hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to
+stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or
+string, or any thing just to keep my boot on.”
+
+Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could
+exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house
+and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they
+were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards;
+behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door
+between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to
+receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged
+to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr.
+Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained
+ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she
+hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the
+adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It
+could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and
+make her appearance.
+
+The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most
+favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of
+having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to
+the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told
+Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them;
+other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing
+serious.
+
+“Cautious, very cautious,” thought Emma; “he advances inch by inch, and
+will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.”
+
+Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her
+ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been
+the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading
+them forward to the great event.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s power
+to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her
+sister’s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,
+and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;
+and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be
+expected—she did not herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional,
+fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They
+might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow
+or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more
+leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the
+less they will do for themselves.
+
+Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent
+from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual
+interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had
+been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays
+of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it
+was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by
+their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not
+be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and
+who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in
+forestalling this too short visit.
+
+He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little
+of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some
+of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;
+the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John
+Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of
+nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of
+such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and
+variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion
+which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have
+endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the
+feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that
+in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her
+little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and
+attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,
+which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the
+children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in
+themselves or in any restless attendance on them.
+
+Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle,
+quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate;
+wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so
+tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher
+ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a
+fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or
+any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited
+also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health,
+over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves,
+and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be
+of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper,
+and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.
+
+Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
+rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private
+character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being
+generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He
+was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to
+deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection;
+and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that
+any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme
+sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and
+quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an
+ungracious, or say a severe thing.
+
+He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
+in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to
+Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have
+passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister,
+but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without
+praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
+compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all
+in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful
+forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience
+that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and
+fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
+sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr.
+John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and
+generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often
+for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the pain of
+apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The
+beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest
+feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass
+away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and
+composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a
+sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield
+since she had been there last.
+
+“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous business.”
+
+“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her!
+And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I have been so
+grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
+her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”
+
+“Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know but that the
+place agrees with her tolerably.”
+
+Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any
+doubts of the air of Randalls.
+
+“Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
+life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”
+
+“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.
+
+“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the
+plaintive tone which just suited her father.
+
+Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—“Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”
+
+“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
+married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,
+have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,
+either at Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
+frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston
+is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy
+way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body
+must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought
+also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our
+missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which
+is the exact truth.”
+
+“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped
+it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not
+be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all
+easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of
+the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and
+now you have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
+
+“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—“yes, certainly—I cannot deny
+that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty
+often—but then—she is always obliged to go away again.”
+
+“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.—You quite
+forget poor Mr. Weston.”
+
+“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has
+some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of
+the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the
+claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for
+Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of
+putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”
+
+“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.—
+“Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
+greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for
+the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of
+Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to
+slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is
+nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very
+best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your
+brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his
+flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter—and ever
+since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing
+that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
+there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could
+not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body
+can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
+
+“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on
+this occasion—or has he not?”
+
+“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong
+expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in
+nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
+
+“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father. “He
+wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
+proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very
+well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
+cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”
+
+“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”
+
+“Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have thought it—and
+he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does
+fly indeed!—and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding
+good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of
+pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
+28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it
+was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I remember that perfectly.”
+
+“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
+Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
+how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
+something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents
+and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part
+with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of
+any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”
+
+“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr.
+John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have
+felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is
+rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings;
+he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow
+or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society
+for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and
+playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family
+affection, or any thing that home affords.”
+
+Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and
+had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She
+would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable
+and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home
+to himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on
+the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
+important.—It had a high claim to forbearance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the inclination of
+Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
+Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of right however had decided it; and
+besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
+particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
+between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
+invitation.
+
+She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time
+to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been
+in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be
+out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had
+ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration
+of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the
+children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months
+old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to
+be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though he began
+with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of
+them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with
+all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends
+again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and
+then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring
+the baby,
+
+“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and
+nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;
+but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
+
+“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and
+women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings
+with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might
+always think alike.”
+
+“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the
+wrong.”
+
+“Yes,” said he, smiling—“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when
+you were born.”
+
+“A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt you were much
+my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the
+lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
+nearer?”
+
+“Yes—a good deal _nearer_.”
+
+“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
+think differently.”
+
+“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by
+not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
+let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little
+Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing
+old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
+
+“That’s true,” she cried—“very true. Little Emma, grow up a better
+woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
+Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good
+intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects
+on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know
+that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”
+
+“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.
+
+“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.”
+
+This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
+Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John,
+how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a
+calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which
+would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the
+good of the other.
+
+The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards
+entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and
+the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his
+daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally
+distinct, or very rarely mixing—and Emma only occasionally joining in
+one or the other.
+
+The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
+of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
+and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had
+generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some
+curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the
+home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next
+year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being
+interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest
+part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a
+drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the
+destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was
+entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler
+manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any
+thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of
+eagerness.
+
+While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a
+full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
+
+“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and
+interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her
+five children—“How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
+And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,
+my dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I
+will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all
+have a little gruel.”
+
+Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both
+the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as
+herself;—and two basins only were ordered. After a little more
+discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being
+taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of
+grave reflection,
+
+“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South
+End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”
+
+“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or we should not
+have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for
+the weakness in little Bella’s throat,—both sea air and bathing.”
+
+“Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any
+good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though
+perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use
+to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.”
+
+“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must
+beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;—I
+who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear
+Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet;
+and he never forgets you.”
+
+“Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”
+
+“Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he
+has not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has not time to
+take care of himself—which is very sad—but he is always wanted all
+round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice
+anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where.”
+
+“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I
+have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He
+will be so pleased to see my little ones.”
+
+“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
+him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,
+you had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”
+
+“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
+uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to
+her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.
+Wingfield’s, which we have been applying at times ever since August.”
+
+“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use
+to her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have
+spoken to—
+
+“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma, “I
+have not heard one inquiry after them.”
+
+“Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—but you mention them
+in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.
+Bates—I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.—They are
+always so pleased to see my children.—And that excellent Miss
+Bates!—such thorough worthy people!—How are they, sir?”
+
+“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a
+bad cold about a month ago.”
+
+“How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
+this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more
+general or heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza.”
+
+“That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
+mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy
+as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it
+altogether a sickly season.”
+
+“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly
+except—
+
+“Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a
+sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a
+dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!—and the
+air so bad!”
+
+“No, indeed—_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is
+very superior to most others!—You must not confound us with London in
+general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
+different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be
+unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;—there is
+hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but
+_we_ are so remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of
+Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.”
+
+“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it—but
+after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different
+creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I
+think you are any of you looking well at present.”
+
+“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
+little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
+free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
+rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a
+little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of
+coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I
+assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever
+sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you
+do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with
+affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
+
+“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley
+very far from looking well.”
+
+“What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John
+Knightley, hearing his own name.
+
+“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
+well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have
+wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before
+you left home.”
+
+“My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—“pray do not concern yourself
+about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and
+the children, and let me look as I chuse.”
+
+“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,”
+cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have a bailiff
+from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will
+not the old prejudice be too strong?”
+
+And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced
+to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
+worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane
+Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that
+moment very happy to assist in praising.
+
+“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley.—“It is so
+long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
+accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old
+grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always
+regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at
+Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.
+Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a
+delightful companion for Emma.”
+
+Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
+
+“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
+kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a
+better companion than Harriet.”
+
+“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
+very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma’s age.”
+
+This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar
+moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not
+close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied
+a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—undoubting
+decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe
+Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with
+tolerably;—but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter
+had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in
+her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never
+had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth
+gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered
+it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a
+dangerous opening.
+
+“Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her
+with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah!
+there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It
+does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would
+not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore
+him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some
+minutes, however, he began with,
+
+“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
+instead of coming here.”
+
+“But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the children a
+great deal of good.”
+
+“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been
+to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to
+hear you had fixed upon South End.”
+
+“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite
+a mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there, never found
+the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is
+entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may
+be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air,
+and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”
+
+“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.—Perry
+was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the
+sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And,
+by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from
+the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have
+consulted Perry.”
+
+“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how
+great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”
+
+“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
+should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to
+chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all,
+better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a
+worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very
+ill-judged measure.”
+
+Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had
+reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
+brother-in-law’s breaking out.
+
+“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do
+as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it
+any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my family to
+one part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of
+my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more than
+his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only
+sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and
+five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater
+expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as
+willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
+
+“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition—“very
+true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling
+you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the
+right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive
+any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of
+inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly
+the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,
+will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow
+morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me
+your opinion.”
+
+Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his
+friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been
+attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;—but the soothing
+attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the
+immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the
+other, prevented any renewal of it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
+Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
+among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over
+what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had
+nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
+It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.
+
+In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
+mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
+there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
+denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was
+persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of
+the party.
+
+How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he
+could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually
+at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on
+that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
+to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for
+Harriet also.
+
+Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
+only persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well
+as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being
+consulted in every thing.
+
+The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
+Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
+by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with
+a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
+Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma
+called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with
+regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:
+Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of,
+and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which
+excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not
+speak of her loss without many tears.
+
+Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s
+unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much
+Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at
+last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a
+most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had
+not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by
+Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on
+slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the
+rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he
+might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr.
+John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two
+eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a
+country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton
+and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and
+proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s
+complaint;—“a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat
+about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.
+Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often
+alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as
+he exclaimed,
+
+“A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
+infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of
+yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.
+Why does not Perry see her?”
+
+Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
+excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and
+care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she
+could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist
+than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,
+
+“It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like
+snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I
+should really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from
+venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel
+the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so
+great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr.
+Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me
+a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and
+what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than
+common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”
+
+Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
+which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
+care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s,
+he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma,
+too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear
+him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied
+with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly
+very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from
+Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet
+every hour of the evening.
+
+“You do quite right,” said she;—“we will make your apologies to Mr. and
+Mrs. Weston.”
+
+But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
+offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only
+objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
+satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
+his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;
+never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
+he next looked at her.
+
+“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!—After I had got him
+off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill
+behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there is, I believe, in many men,
+especially single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining
+out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
+their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing
+gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
+valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in
+love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must
+dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see
+ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”
+
+Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
+the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
+manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while
+assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair
+friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting
+her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he
+sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of
+approbation much in his favour.
+
+After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley
+began with—
+
+“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
+Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With
+men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to
+please, every feature works.”
+
+“Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but where there
+is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a
+great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he
+will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such
+perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but
+value.”
+
+“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems
+to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”
+
+“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you imagining me
+to be Mr. Elton’s object?”
+
+“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
+occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration
+now.”
+
+“Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!”
+
+“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is
+so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your
+manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better
+look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”
+
+“I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I
+are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing
+herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a
+partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of
+high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very
+well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and
+in want of counsel. He said no more.
+
+Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in
+spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of
+shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his
+eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness
+of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his
+own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it
+was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was
+severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes
+of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of
+being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very
+white world in a very short time.
+
+Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The
+preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of
+his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,
+which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
+nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the
+whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his
+discontent.
+
+“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he
+asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as
+this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most
+agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest
+absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing
+people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying
+comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an
+evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we
+should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing
+than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of
+the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view
+or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter
+that he can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in
+another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
+and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
+Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and
+four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering
+creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had
+at home.”
+
+Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no
+doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true, my
+love,” which must have been usually administered by his travelling
+companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any
+answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being
+quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to
+talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening
+her lips.
+
+They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.
+Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma
+thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all
+obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities
+indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different
+account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while
+dressing, and the answer had been, “Much the same—not better.”
+
+“_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently, “was not so
+pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was _my_ answer.”
+
+His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of
+sentiment as he answered.
+
+“Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling you that
+when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I did the very last thing
+before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,
+by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had
+flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew
+had been given her in the morning.”
+
+Emma smiled and answered—“My visit was of use to the nervous part of
+her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it
+is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you
+probably heard.”
+
+“Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”
+
+“He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
+morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is
+impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party
+to-day!”
+
+“Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every moment.”
+
+This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really
+estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay
+when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,
+and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
+
+“What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin for
+carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold
+with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have
+rendered a gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced
+and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way
+unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very
+cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha!
+snows a little I see.”
+
+“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good deal of
+it.”
+
+“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable; and
+extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin
+yesterday, and prevent this day’s party, which it might very possibly
+have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been
+much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite
+the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body
+invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the
+worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house once for a week.
+Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not
+get away till that very day se’nnight.”
+
+Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but
+said only, coolly,
+
+“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”
+
+At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much
+astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other feelings. Harriet
+seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
+
+“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every thing in the
+greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs. Weston
+indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
+hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where
+small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
+Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten
+comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances,
+fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me,
+(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your
+approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large
+parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.”
+
+“I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine with
+any body.”
+
+“Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
+been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be
+paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great
+enjoyment.”
+
+“My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed through
+the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they
+walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-room;—Mr. Elton must compose his
+joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton
+must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
+place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as
+happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
+Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
+world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any
+one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and
+understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the
+little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father
+and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston
+had not a lively concern; and half an hour’s uninterrupted
+communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness
+of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
+
+This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit might not
+afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but
+the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was
+grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of
+Mr. Elton’s oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all
+that was enjoyable to the utmost.
+
+The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well gone through
+before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to
+give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and
+Isabella’s coming, and of Emma’s being to follow, and had indeed just
+got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his
+daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been
+almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away
+and welcome her dear Emma.
+
+Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather
+sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close
+to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility
+towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
+was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and
+solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting
+him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal
+suggestion of “Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be
+possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from
+Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!”—Yet he would be so anxious for
+her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and
+so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her
+drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly
+like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her
+good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for
+Harriet’s, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even
+positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was
+going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr.
+Elton’s nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard
+enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his
+son; she heard the words “my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,” repeated
+several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much
+suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but
+before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past
+that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.
+
+Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution of never
+marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank
+Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently
+thought—especially since his father’s marriage with Miss Taylor—that if
+she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,
+character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the
+families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a
+match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.
+Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not
+meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
+situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could
+change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided
+intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain
+degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in
+their friends’ imaginations.
+
+With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
+but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
+cross—and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly
+pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the
+substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it proved;—for
+when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at
+dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of
+hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say
+to her,
+
+“We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to
+see two more here,—your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my
+son—and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not
+hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting
+Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us
+within a fortnight.”
+
+Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to
+his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their
+party quite complete.
+
+“He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. Weston, “ever since
+September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his
+own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between
+ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
+But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
+January.”
+
+“What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
+anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
+yourself.”
+
+“Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
+She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
+know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is
+quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the
+other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)—The case is,
+that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in
+January; and that Frank’s coming depends upon their being put off. If
+they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it
+is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has
+a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite
+them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes
+to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as
+confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of
+being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the
+upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so
+little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their
+effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing.”
+
+“I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,” replied
+Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he
+will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.”
+
+“Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
+the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—But I never allow myself to
+speak ill of her, on Frank’s account; for I do believe her to be very
+fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any
+body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her
+way—allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing
+to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,
+that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it
+to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
+general; and the devil of a temper.”
+
+Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
+very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy—yet
+observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.—
+Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be
+secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked
+of: “for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as
+Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.
+Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter
+stands?”
+
+“Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
+Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.”
+
+“My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the certainty of
+caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending
+before—“You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means
+so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
+thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in
+short, upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may venture on the
+truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered
+woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare
+him.”
+
+“Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,” replied
+Isabella: “and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without
+the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered
+person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any
+thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she
+never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would
+have made them!”
+
+Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have
+heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve
+which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,
+would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from
+her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
+imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at
+present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon
+followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner,
+was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor
+conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with
+whom he was always comfortable.
+
+While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of
+saying,
+
+“And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
+certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,
+whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”
+
+“Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even
+if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that
+some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine
+any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the
+Churchills’ to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are
+jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no
+dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.”
+
+“He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a couple of days,
+he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man’s not having
+it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall
+into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she
+wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_’s being under
+such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if
+he likes it.”
+
+“One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before
+one decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs. Weston. “One ought to
+use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one
+individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must
+not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and
+every thing gives way to her.”
+
+“But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite.
+Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural,
+that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to
+whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice
+towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom
+she owes nothing at all.”
+
+“My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand
+a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.
+I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it
+may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will
+be.”
+
+Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satisfied, unless
+he comes.”
+
+“He may have a great deal of influence on some points,” continued Mrs.
+Weston, “and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is
+beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance
+of his coming away from them to visit us.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea
+he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three
+companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of
+the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty
+and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at
+last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in
+very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and
+Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and,
+with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
+
+Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the
+expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
+improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his
+making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most
+friendly smiles.
+
+He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair,
+lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing about
+her, since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must
+confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And
+in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much
+attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the
+terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.
+
+But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if
+he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than
+on Harriet’s—more anxious that she should escape the infection, than
+that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great
+earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber
+again, for the present—to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture
+into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and
+though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its
+proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude
+about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no concealing
+it—exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of
+Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!
+and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs.
+Weston to implore her assistance, “Would not she give him her
+support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss
+Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss
+Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a
+promise—would not she give him her influence in procuring it?”
+
+“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless for
+herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and
+yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore
+throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I
+some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”
+
+Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an
+address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right
+of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked
+and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the
+purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she
+thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa,
+removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.
+
+She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did
+another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room
+from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information
+of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,
+with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.
+Woodhouse:
+
+“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.
+Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way
+through a storm of snow.”
+
+Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
+had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,
+and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and
+Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his
+son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
+
+“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing out
+in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.
+Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit;
+and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow
+can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one
+is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the
+other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before
+midnight.”
+
+Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he
+had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it
+should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his
+hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely
+to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid
+they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable,
+that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost
+good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,
+calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,
+every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the
+consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.
+
+“What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” was Mr.
+Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.
+To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her
+representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of
+their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.
+
+His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being
+blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full
+in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for
+adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was
+eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at
+Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all
+the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.
+
+“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she; “I
+dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if
+we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at
+all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my
+shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing
+that gives me cold.”
+
+“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
+extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing
+does give you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home,
+I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.”
+
+Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.
+Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could
+not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;
+and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had
+left the room immediately after his brother’s first report of the snow,
+came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to
+examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty
+in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour
+hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—some way along the Highbury
+road—the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in many places hardly
+enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present,
+but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its
+being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with
+him in there being nothing to apprehend.
+
+To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
+scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was
+immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous
+constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be
+appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at
+Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in
+returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe
+to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,
+Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—
+
+“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”
+
+“I am ready, if the others are.”
+
+“Shall I ring the bell?”
+
+“Yes, do.”
+
+And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes
+more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his
+own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and
+happiness when this visit of hardship were over.
+
+The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
+occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.
+Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of
+alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the
+discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was
+afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella
+would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.
+He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together
+as they could;” and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very
+slow and wait for the other carriage.
+
+Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he
+did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;
+so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second
+carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,
+and that they were to have a tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been
+the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,
+previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to
+him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but
+one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had
+been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and felt sure that he
+would want to be talking nonsense.
+
+To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
+immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of
+the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had
+they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she
+found her subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and
+Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the
+precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well
+known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but
+flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and
+unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,
+very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It
+really was so. Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent
+diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself
+_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say
+it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to
+restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must
+be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to
+the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the
+playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she
+replied,
+
+“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget
+yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be
+happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.”
+
+“Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly mean!”—And
+he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful
+pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,
+
+“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
+for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak
+either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough
+to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”
+
+But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at
+all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and
+having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and
+slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but
+acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he
+resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a
+favourable answer.
+
+As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his
+inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,
+replied,
+
+“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself
+too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can
+express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last
+month, to Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit
+of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness
+of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me,
+sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such
+professions.”
+
+“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this?—Miss
+Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my
+existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never
+cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has
+fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very
+sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who
+can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my
+honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of
+you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one
+else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has
+been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot
+really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent meant to be
+insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me.”
+
+It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of
+all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely
+overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence
+being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he
+tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—
+
+“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting
+silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”
+
+“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having
+long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect
+to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you
+should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther
+from my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of
+her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been
+very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were
+not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you
+judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you
+have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss
+Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of her?”
+
+“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you.
+_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of
+girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her
+extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object
+to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,
+quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal
+alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my
+visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement
+I received—”
+
+“Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you have been entirely
+mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my
+friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
+acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake
+ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might
+have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,
+probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you
+are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I
+trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at
+present.”
+
+He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
+supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually
+deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,
+for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If
+there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate
+awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the
+little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage
+turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,
+all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another
+syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good
+night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under
+indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to
+Hartfield.
+
+There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had
+been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage
+Lane—turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in
+strange hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as
+if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.
+John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and
+attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her
+father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of
+gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the
+day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,
+except herself.—But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and
+it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till
+the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet
+reflection.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think
+and be miserable.—It was a wretched business indeed!—Such an overthrow
+of every thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of every
+thing most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the worst of
+all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or
+other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she
+would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in
+error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the
+effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.
+
+“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne
+any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor
+Harriet!”
+
+How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that he had never
+thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she
+could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she
+supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must
+have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so
+misled.
+
+The picture!—How eager he had been about the picture!—and the
+charade!—and an hundred other circumstances;—how clearly they had
+seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its “ready
+wit”—but then the “soft eyes”—in fact it suited neither; it was a
+jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such
+thick-headed nonsense?
+
+Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to
+herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere
+error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others
+that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the
+gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,
+till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean
+any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.
+
+To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the
+subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying
+that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley
+had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the
+conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry
+indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his
+character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was
+dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many
+respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;
+proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little
+concerned about the feelings of others.
+
+Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his
+addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his
+proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,
+and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the
+arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she
+was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need
+be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language
+or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she
+could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice,
+less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him.
+He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse
+of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so
+easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody
+else with twenty, or with ten.
+
+But—that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware
+of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry
+him!—should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!—look down
+upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below
+him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no
+presumption in addressing her!—It was most provoking.
+
+Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her
+inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of
+such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that
+in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know
+that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at
+Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the
+Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was
+inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,
+to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from
+other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell
+Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses
+had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood
+which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as
+he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend
+him to notice but his situation and his civility.—But he had fancied
+her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and
+after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners
+and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and
+admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and
+obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
+motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and
+delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.
+If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to
+wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken
+hers.
+
+The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was
+wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It
+was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought
+to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite
+concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
+
+“Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into being very
+much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for
+me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had
+not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I
+used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her
+not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done
+of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and
+chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the
+opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have
+attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.
+I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel
+this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any
+body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I
+could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.”
+
+She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a
+more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might
+be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to
+Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the
+awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or
+discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing
+resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most
+unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last
+with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most
+dreadfully.
+
+To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under temporary
+gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of
+spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,
+and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough
+to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of
+softened pain and brighter hope.
+
+Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone
+to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to
+depend on getting tolerably out of it.
+
+It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love
+with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to
+disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should not be of that superior
+sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there
+could be no necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except the
+three principals, and especially for her father’s being given a
+moment’s uneasiness about it.
+
+These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of
+snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome
+that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.
+
+The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she
+could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his
+daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting
+or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered
+with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and
+thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every
+morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to
+freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No
+intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on
+Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for
+Mr. Elton’s absenting himself.
+
+It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and
+though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some
+society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well
+satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir
+out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep
+entirely from them,—
+
+“Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?”
+
+These days of confinement would have been, but for her private
+perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited
+her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his
+companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his
+ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during
+the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and
+obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes
+of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still
+such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet,
+as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The
+weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.
+Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay
+behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set
+off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor
+Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated
+on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently
+busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.
+
+The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.
+Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with
+Mr. Elton’s best compliments, “that he was proposing to leave Highbury
+the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the
+pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few
+weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from
+various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal
+leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever
+retain a grateful sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be
+happy to attend to them.”
+
+Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s absence just at this
+time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving
+it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it
+was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than
+in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.
+She had not even a share in his opening compliments.—Her name was not
+mentioned;—and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an
+ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments,
+as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.
+
+It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so
+sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely
+to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was
+a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought
+and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse
+talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away
+with all her usual promptitude.
+
+She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason
+to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable
+that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of
+her other complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs.
+Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary
+penance of communication; and a severe one it was.—She had to destroy
+all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in
+the ungracious character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself
+grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all
+her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last
+six weeks.
+
+The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of
+Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
+herself again.
+
+Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—and in every
+thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion
+of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to
+her friend.
+
+Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;
+and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on
+Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having
+any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton
+would have been too great a distinction.—She never could have deserved
+him—and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would
+have thought it possible.
+
+Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no
+dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes—and she
+listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
+understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the
+superior creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for
+her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence
+could do.
+
+It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and
+ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of
+being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of
+her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims,
+was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own
+affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to
+Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to
+occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton
+from her thoughts.
+
+Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she
+could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in
+general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr.
+Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s
+age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might
+be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return,
+as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of
+acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing
+them.
+
+Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence
+of any body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove
+herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it
+appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an
+inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend
+its continuing very long in equal force.
+
+If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and
+indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not
+imagine Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
+recollection of him.
+
+Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for
+each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of
+effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each
+other, and make the best of it.
+
+Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.
+Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great
+girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could
+have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or
+repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be
+found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of
+cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near,
+Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of
+excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his “very great
+mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of
+coming to Randalls at no distant period.”
+
+Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed, in
+fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man
+had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever
+expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by
+any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,
+and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and
+sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three
+months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better
+weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay
+considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
+
+These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a
+more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of
+excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was
+to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.
+
+Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about
+Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at
+Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted,
+rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was
+desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she
+took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as
+warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as might naturally
+belong to their friendship.
+
+She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite
+as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather
+more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then
+proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of
+such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of
+looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the
+sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the
+Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement
+with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was
+taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making
+use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against herself.
+
+“The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley, coolly;
+“but I dare say he might come if he would.”
+
+“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;
+but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”
+
+“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a
+point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.”
+
+“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you
+suppose him such an unnatural creature?”
+
+“I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting
+that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very
+little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who
+have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural
+than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are
+proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish
+too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have
+contrived it between September and January. A man at his age—what is
+he?—three or four-and-twenty—cannot be without the means of doing as
+much as that. It is impossible.”
+
+“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your
+own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the
+difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers
+to manage.”
+
+“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty
+should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want
+money—he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so
+much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts
+in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or
+other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can
+leave the Churchills.”
+
+“Yes, sometimes he can.”
+
+“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
+there is any temptation of pleasure.”
+
+“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an intimate
+knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior
+of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that
+family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.
+Churchill’s temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew
+can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can
+at others.”
+
+“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and
+that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
+resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his
+father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he
+wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at
+once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—‘Every sacrifice of mere
+pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but
+I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my
+failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I
+shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at
+once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no
+opposition made to his going.”
+
+“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to his
+coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to
+use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you
+have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite
+to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to
+the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for
+him!—Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as
+loud as he could!—How can you imagine such conduct practicable?”
+
+“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.
+He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration—made, of
+course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner—would do
+him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the
+people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients
+can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that
+they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his
+father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as
+well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his
+father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their
+hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.
+Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in
+this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their
+little minds would bend to his.”
+
+“I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but
+where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they
+have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as
+great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were
+to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s
+situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been
+recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The
+Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would
+have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.
+To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into
+perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and
+regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right,
+as you can have, without being so equal, under particular
+circumstances, to act up to it.”
+
+“Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal
+exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”
+
+“Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to
+understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly
+opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his
+life.”
+
+“Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
+occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the
+will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of
+following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for
+the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he
+ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in
+their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their
+side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there
+would have been no difficulty now.”
+
+“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is nothing
+extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:
+I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,
+though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,
+complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man’s
+perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some
+advantages, it will secure him many others.”
+
+“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of
+leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely
+expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine
+flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade
+himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of
+preserving peace at home and preventing his father’s having any right
+to complain. His letters disgust me.”
+
+“Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.”
+
+“I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a
+woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother’s
+place, but without a mother’s affection to blind her. It is on her
+account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly
+feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he
+would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he
+did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of
+considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to
+herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in
+French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have very good
+manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy
+towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about
+him.”
+
+“You seem determined to think ill of him.”
+
+“Me!—not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; “I do not
+want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his
+merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely
+personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth,
+plausible manners.”
+
+“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure
+at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and
+agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the
+bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his
+coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the
+parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of
+curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak
+of nobody else.”
+
+“You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him
+conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a
+chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”
+
+“My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of
+every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally
+agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;
+and so on to every body, having that general information on all
+subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead,
+just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each;
+that is my idea of him.”
+
+“And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn out any
+thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!
+at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the
+practised politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make
+every body’s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to
+be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like
+fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could
+not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
+
+“I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn every thing to
+evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no
+chance of agreeing till he is really here.”
+
+“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”
+
+“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love
+for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”
+
+“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to another,” said
+Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately
+talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should
+be angry.
+
+To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a
+different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of
+mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the
+high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she
+had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the
+merit of another.
+
+
+
+
+VOLUME II
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma’s
+opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could
+not think that Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more; and she
+was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they
+returned;—but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,
+and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter,
+and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive—“Mr. Elton is so
+good to the poor!” she found something else must be done.
+
+They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
+She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was
+always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates
+loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few
+who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in
+that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of
+their scanty comforts.
+
+She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,
+as to her deficiency—but none were equal to counteract the persuasion
+of its being very disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women—and all
+the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and
+third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and
+therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden
+resolution of not passing their door without going in—observing, as she
+proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were
+just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
+
+The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied
+the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized
+apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most
+cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who
+with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to
+give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking
+daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks
+for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after
+Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her mother’s, and
+sweet-cake from the beaufet—“Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called
+in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them,
+and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she
+liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss
+Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too.”
+
+The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
+There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton
+since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the
+letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much
+he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he
+went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies’ ball had been; and she
+went through it very well, with all the interest and all the
+commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to
+prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.
+
+This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,
+having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by
+any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the
+Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not
+been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was
+actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last
+abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.
+
+“Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to dancing—Mrs. Cole was
+telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was—Mrs. Cole was so kind
+as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came
+in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite
+there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her
+kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any
+body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, ‘I
+know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time
+for writing;’ and when I immediately said, ‘But indeed we have, we had
+a letter this very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body
+more surprized. ‘Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well, that is
+quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’”
+
+Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest—
+
+“Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I
+hope she is well?”
+
+“Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived aunt, while
+eagerly hunting for the letter.—“Oh! here it is. I was sure it could
+not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without
+being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very
+lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it
+to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my
+mother, for it is such a pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she
+can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and
+here it is, only just under my huswife—and since you are so kind as to
+wish to hear what she says;—but, first of all, I really must, in
+justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter—only two
+pages you see—hardly two—and in general she fills the whole paper and
+crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
+She often says, when the letter is first opened, ‘Well, Hetty, now I
+think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’—don’t
+you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make
+it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her—every word of it—I
+am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And,
+indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can
+see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is
+such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often
+says, when she is here, ‘I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very
+strong eyes to see as you do—and so much fine work as you have done
+too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’”
+
+All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;
+and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss
+Fairfax’s handwriting.
+
+“You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; “you
+who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure
+there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss
+Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
+Ma’am,” addressing her, “do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging
+to say about Jane’s handwriting?”
+
+And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated
+twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was
+pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very
+rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost
+resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss
+Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
+
+“My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just nothing at all. By
+only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,
+she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very
+remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
+Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at
+all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at
+my mother’s time of life—and it really is full two years, you know,
+since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before,
+and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough
+of her now.”
+
+“Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”
+
+“Oh yes; next week.”
+
+“Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.”
+
+“Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so
+surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she
+will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see
+her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
+Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So
+very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you
+know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.
+That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in
+the common course, we should not have heard from her before next
+Tuesday or Wednesday.”
+
+“Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my
+hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.”
+
+“So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been
+for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My
+mother is so delighted!—for she is to be three months with us at least.
+Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the
+pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells
+are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to
+come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till
+the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again—for till she
+married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week,
+which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was
+going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very
+urgent letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do not know
+which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in Mr.
+Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly,
+and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to
+their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has
+heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean—I do not know
+that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very
+natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while
+he was paying his addresses—and as Jane used to be very often walking
+out with them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about
+their daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I
+do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be
+telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she
+wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views
+that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I
+believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of
+things.”
+
+At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma’s
+brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not
+going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther
+discovery,
+
+“You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to
+come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship
+between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be
+excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
+
+“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been
+rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a
+distance from us, for months together—not able to come if any thing was
+to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want
+her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.
+Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing
+than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;
+Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a
+most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at
+Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by
+the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would
+have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone,
+if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her
+habit— (I can never think of it without trembling!)—But ever since we
+had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”
+
+“But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish of seeing
+Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?”
+
+“Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and
+Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should
+recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native
+air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.”
+
+“I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.
+Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no
+remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be
+compared with Miss Fairfax.”
+
+“Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly not.
+There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was
+absolutely plain—but extremely elegant and amiable.”
+
+“Yes, that of course.”
+
+“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of
+November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well
+since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never
+mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so
+considerate!—But however, she is so far from well, that her kind
+friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air
+that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four
+months at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is certainly a great
+deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is
+unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.”
+
+“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”
+
+“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells
+leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following—as you will
+find from Jane’s letter. So sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,
+what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of
+her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and
+looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to
+me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through
+to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for
+fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me
+to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;
+but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I
+burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me! poor Jane is ill!’—which
+my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed
+at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had
+fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does
+not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my
+guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The
+expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so
+fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for
+attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife
+and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well,
+now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will
+turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal
+better than I can tell it for her.”
+
+“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at Harriet,
+and beginning to rise—“My father will be expecting us. I had no
+intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,
+when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not
+pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so
+pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good
+morning.”
+
+And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained
+the street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her
+against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of
+Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s youngest
+daughter.
+
+The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ——regiment of infantry, and Miss
+Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest;
+but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him
+dying in action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief
+soon afterwards—and this girl.
+
+By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on
+losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the
+consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had
+seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her
+being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up
+with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what
+nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and
+warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
+
+But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change
+to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded
+Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and
+farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe
+camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which
+he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the
+death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing
+in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took
+notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a
+girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long
+visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years
+old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a
+real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of
+undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and
+from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and
+had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time
+to time.
+
+The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the
+very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making
+independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of
+Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay and
+appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all
+his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be
+supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.
+
+Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known
+nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent
+education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed
+people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of
+discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in
+London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the
+attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were
+equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or
+nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the
+care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself;
+but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor
+mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil
+day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;
+and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the
+rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of
+home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering
+suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this
+might soon be over.
+
+The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell
+in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the
+circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and
+acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen
+by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by
+the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till
+the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so
+often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to
+what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the
+affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as
+soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled,
+while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.
+
+This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be
+yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path
+of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had
+fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
+should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she
+had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire
+from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,
+peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.
+
+The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a
+resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no
+exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and
+for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this
+would be selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps
+they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted
+the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such
+enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still,
+however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not
+hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since
+the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have
+completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging
+in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame
+and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances,
+to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be
+discharged with tolerable comfort.
+
+With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her
+aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not
+told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to
+Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with
+those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,
+whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double,
+or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that
+they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the
+recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she
+was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect
+novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put
+up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the
+freshness of a two years’ absence.
+
+Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
+through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and
+less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a
+difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was
+because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she
+wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been
+eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in
+which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But “she could never
+get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was
+such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she
+pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she
+was made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been always
+imagined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were the
+same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other.”
+These were her reasons—she had no better.
+
+It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by
+fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any
+considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and
+now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’
+interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and
+manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.
+Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself
+the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as
+almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall;
+her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium,
+between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed
+to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all
+this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them
+altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very
+pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and
+eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she
+had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and
+delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty,
+of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in
+honour, by all her principles, admire it:—elegance, which, whether of
+person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be
+vulgar, was distinction, and merit.
+
+In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with
+twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering
+justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When
+she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;
+when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she
+was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible
+to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every
+well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly
+probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so
+naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more
+pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
+Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s
+affections from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her
+imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be
+simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been
+unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his
+conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives,
+might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to
+divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon
+beginning her career of laborious duty.
+
+Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
+as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
+afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that
+she could wish to scheme about for her.
+
+These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed
+herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane
+Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and
+errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she
+is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with
+her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its
+usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome
+as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to
+admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of
+exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how
+small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of
+new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s
+offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the
+thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an
+affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off
+in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides,
+which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting
+at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed
+determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously
+reserved.
+
+If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved
+on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed
+bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own
+value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It
+was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or
+distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown
+away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There
+probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr.
+Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other,
+or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve
+thousand pounds.
+
+The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill
+had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a
+little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma
+procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”—“She believed he
+was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”—“He was
+generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man
+of information?”—“At a watering-place, or in a common London
+acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were
+all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than
+they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his
+manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation nor resentment
+were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had
+seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was
+expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with
+Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might
+have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain
+enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her
+unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.
+
+“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been
+talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers
+swept away;—“particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some
+very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than
+sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such
+young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am
+sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left
+nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no
+instrument at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”
+
+“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I am not
+often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”
+
+“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “_that_ I am sure you are
+not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any
+thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been
+handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”
+
+“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are not often
+deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I
+think you understand me, therefore.”
+
+An arch look expressed—“I understand you well enough;” but she said
+only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”
+
+“I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all
+that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its
+foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be
+honoured.”
+
+“You think her diffident. I do not see it.”
+
+“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,
+“you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant
+evening.”
+
+“Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions;
+and amused to think how little information I obtained.”
+
+“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.
+
+“I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, in his
+quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I
+moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.
+Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though
+she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.
+Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane
+Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very
+well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening
+agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”
+
+“True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”
+
+Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the
+present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—
+
+“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes
+from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my
+heart.”
+
+Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to
+express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose
+thoughts were on the Bates’s, said—
+
+“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a
+great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can
+venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now we
+have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;
+it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other
+pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure
+of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried,
+without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear
+roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my
+dear?”
+
+“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.
+There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice,
+and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”
+
+“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but
+that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it
+is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle
+boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a
+little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”
+
+“Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news for you.
+You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will
+interest you.”
+
+“News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do you smile
+so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?”
+
+He had time only to say,
+
+“No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when the door was
+thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full
+of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give
+quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that
+not another syllable of communication could rest with him.
+
+“Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse—I
+come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are
+too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be
+married.”
+
+Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so
+completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a
+little blush, at the sound.
+
+“There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,” said Mr.
+Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what
+had passed between them.
+
+“But where could _you_ hear it?” cried Miss Bates. “Where could you
+possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I
+received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be more than five—or at least
+ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I
+was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was
+standing in the passage—were not you, Jane?—for my mother was so afraid
+that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down
+and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go down instead? for I think you have
+a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’
+said I—well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins—that’s all I
+know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you
+possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of
+it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—”
+
+“I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just
+read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.”
+
+“Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more
+generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My
+mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand
+thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.”
+
+“We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr. Woodhouse—“indeed it
+certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I
+cannot have a greater pleasure than—”
+
+“Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to
+us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth
+themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We
+may well say that ‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr.
+Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well—”
+
+“It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of course.”—
+Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had been so fortunate as to—I forget
+the precise words—one has no business to remember them. The information
+was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins.
+By his style, I should imagine it just settled.”
+
+“Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
+“He will have every body’s wishes for his happiness.”
+
+“He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s observation. “He had
+better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We
+were always glad to see him at Hartfield.”
+
+“A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss Bates,
+joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!—she says she cannot bear to have
+the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed.
+Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a
+curiosity to see him.”
+
+Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to
+occupy her.
+
+“No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on this appeal;
+“is he—is he a tall man?”
+
+“Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father would say
+‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates and I that he is just the
+happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,
+you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in
+Highbury, both in person and mind.”
+
+“Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young
+man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was
+precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an
+excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother—wanting her
+to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my
+mother is a little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she does not hear
+quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He
+fancied bathing might be good for it—the warm bath—but she says it did
+him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.
+And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It
+is such a happiness when good people get together—and they always do.
+Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,
+such very good people; and the Perrys—I suppose there never was a
+happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,”
+turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “I think there are few places with such
+society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our
+neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better
+than another, it is pork—a roast loin of pork—”
+
+“As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted
+with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that
+it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four
+weeks.”
+
+Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,
+Emma said,
+
+“You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an interest
+in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on
+these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss
+Campbell’s account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.
+Elton and Miss Hawkins.”
+
+“When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “I dare say I shall be
+interested—but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some
+months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn
+off.”
+
+“Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss
+Woodhouse,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss
+Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady
+hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I
+immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but’—In
+short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of
+discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the
+same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss
+Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not
+offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered
+now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear
+little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr.
+John Knightley. I mean in person—tall, and with that sort of look—and
+not very talkative.”
+
+“Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”
+
+“Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
+One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is
+not, strictly speaking, handsome?”
+
+“Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told you he was
+plain.”
+
+“My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,
+and that you yourself—”
+
+“Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I
+always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the
+general opinion, when I called him plain.”
+
+“Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather
+does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging,
+my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a
+most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs.
+Cole’s; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better
+go home directly—I would not have you out in a shower!—We think she is
+the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not
+attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares
+for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be
+another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is
+coming too. Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will
+be so kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!—Good
+morning to you.”
+
+Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while
+he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—and to
+marry strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own view
+of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece
+of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but
+she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could
+hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from
+hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was
+likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its
+beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be
+detaining her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would
+undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.
+
+The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,
+when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which
+hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the “Oh!
+Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!” which instantly burst
+forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow
+was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than
+in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had
+to tell. “She had set out from Mrs. Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had
+been afraid it would rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every
+moment—but she thought she might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried
+on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where
+a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just
+step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay
+half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she
+did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could,
+and took shelter at Ford’s.”—Ford’s was the principal woollen-draper,
+linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; the shop first in size and
+fashion in the place.—“And so, there she had set, without an idea of
+any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of a
+sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they
+always dealt at Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her
+brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have
+fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the
+door—Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the
+umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took
+no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and
+I kept sitting near the door!—Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I
+must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know,
+because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but
+there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well, at last, I fancy, he looked round
+and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began
+whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I
+could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me—(do
+you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she came forward—came
+quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake
+hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she
+used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to
+be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but
+I know no more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember she said
+she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear,
+Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was
+beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me
+from getting away—and then—only think!—I found he was coming up towards
+me too—slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and
+so he came and spoke, and I answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling
+dreadfully, you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and
+said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not
+got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I
+was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr.
+Cole’s stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this
+rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I
+said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and
+then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—I
+believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh!
+Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and
+yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so
+pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do
+talk to me and make me comfortable again.”
+
+Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in
+her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly
+comfortable herself. The young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed
+the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet
+described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded
+affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed
+them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did
+this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed
+by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her—they must be all sorry.
+Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all
+have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what was the
+value of Harriet’s description?—So easily pleased—so little
+discerning;—what signified her praise?
+
+She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by
+considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of
+being dwelt on,
+
+“It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but you seem to
+have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and may never—can never, as
+a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about
+it.”
+
+Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about it;” but
+still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma,
+at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to
+hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender
+caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed
+or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet—such a
+conclusion of Mr. Elton’s importance with her!
+
+Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel
+the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an
+hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first
+conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations
+of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this
+fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under
+proper subordination in her fancy.
+
+Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It
+had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining
+any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get
+at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the
+courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the
+brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a
+twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with
+any necessity, or even any power of speech.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting
+situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of
+being kindly spoken of.
+
+A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first mentioned in
+Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have
+every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant,
+highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself
+arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of
+her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her
+Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.
+
+Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and
+mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
+appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right
+lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He
+had gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to
+another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such
+circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back
+gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss
+Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
+
+The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages
+of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent
+fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of
+some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had
+not thrown himself away—he had gained a woman of 10,000 _l_. or
+thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity—the
+first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by
+distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of
+the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious—the steps so quick,
+from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green’s, and the
+party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and blushes rising in importance—with
+consciousness and agitation richly scattered—the lady had been so
+easily impressed—so sweetly disposed—had in short, to use a most
+intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and
+prudence were equally contented.
+
+He had caught both substance and shadow—both fortune and affection, and
+was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his
+own concerns—expecting to be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and,
+with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of
+the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously
+gallant.
+
+The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to
+please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and
+when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which
+a certain glance of Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that when
+he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.
+
+During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just
+enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the
+impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and
+pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very
+much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his
+sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable
+feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a
+source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been
+thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very
+well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would
+administer most satisfaction.
+
+The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must
+certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be
+prevented—many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be
+an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink
+without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility
+again.
+
+Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good
+enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for
+Highbury—handsome enough—to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side. As
+to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all
+his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On
+that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be
+uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the
+10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet’s superior.
+She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the
+youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol—merchant, of course, he must
+be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life
+appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of
+his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she
+had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very
+heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years
+ago, an uncle remained—in the law line—nothing more distinctly
+honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and
+with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of
+some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the
+connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_
+_married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept
+two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory
+of Miss Hawkins.
+
+Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had
+talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out
+of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet’s
+mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he
+certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin
+would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure
+her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always
+in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this
+reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him
+somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times
+every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss
+him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have
+something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring
+warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually
+hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always
+among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so
+interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report,
+therefore, every guess—all that had already occurred, all that might
+occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,
+servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her
+regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her
+regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of
+Miss Hawkins’s happiness, and continual observation of, how much he
+seemed attached!—his air as he walked by the house—the very sitting of
+his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!
+
+Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her
+friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet’s mind,
+Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton
+predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful
+as a check to the other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of
+the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the
+knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth
+Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few days afterwards. Harriet had
+not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her,
+written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a
+great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had
+been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done
+in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr.
+Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the
+Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for
+Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned,
+judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin’s visit.
+
+How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would be necessary—and what
+might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.
+Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would
+be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the
+acquaintance—!
+
+After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than
+Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had
+understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal
+acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the
+Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so
+soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
+recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree
+of intimacy was chosen for the future.
+
+She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it
+which her own heart could not approve—something of ingratitude, merely
+glossed over—it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her
+friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led her to
+the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.
+Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of
+being lifted into the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where
+the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk
+and the direction, was consequently a blank.
+
+She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
+put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
+espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which
+had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
+revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed
+her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which
+determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of
+an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old
+servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.
+
+The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
+and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
+unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the
+gravel walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with
+her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
+
+Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was
+feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to
+understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
+She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her
+doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace
+had been talked almost all the time—till just at last, when Mrs.
+Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was
+grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner.
+In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two
+friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot
+by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day,
+the hour, the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness, the
+same regrets—to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and
+they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must
+suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when
+the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and
+the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to
+be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six
+months ago!—Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they
+might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business.
+She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had
+the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a
+_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she
+have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They must be
+separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so much to
+herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little
+consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure
+it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The
+refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
+
+It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that
+neither “master nor mistress was at home;” they had both been out some
+time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
+
+“This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now we shall
+just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know when I have been so
+disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her
+murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being
+the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the
+carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who
+were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight
+of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr.
+Weston immediately accosted her with,
+
+“How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with your father—glad
+to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I had a letter this
+morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty—he is at
+Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be
+so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I
+was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have
+just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall
+enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could
+wish.”
+
+There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the
+influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all was
+by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but
+not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain
+was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice
+in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted
+spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was
+coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped Mr.
+Elton would now be talked of no more.
+
+Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which
+allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his
+command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she
+listened, and smiled, and congratulated.
+
+“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the conclusion.
+
+Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his
+wife.
+
+“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are detaining the
+girls.”
+
+“Well, well, I am ready;”—and turning again to Emma, “but you must not
+be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_
+account you know; I dare say he is really nothing
+extraordinary:”—though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were
+speaking a very different conviction.
+
+Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a
+manner that appropriated nothing.
+
+“Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,” was Mrs.
+Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only
+for her.
+
+“Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,” was Mr.
+Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
+Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a
+different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as
+before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least
+must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
+something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
+
+“Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?”—was a
+question, however, which did not augur much.
+
+But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma
+was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
+
+The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s faithful
+pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o’clock, that
+she was to think of her at four.
+
+“My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental soliloquy, while
+walking downstairs from her own room, “always overcareful for every
+body’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,
+going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.” The
+clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. “’Tis twelve; I
+shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time
+to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the
+possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him
+soon.”
+
+She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
+father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few
+minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of
+Frank’s being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the
+midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared,
+to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.
+
+The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was
+actually before her—he was presented to her, and she did not think too
+much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young
+man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his
+countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his
+father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she
+should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a
+readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be
+acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
+
+He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the
+eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel
+earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
+
+“I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I told you
+all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I
+used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help
+getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
+upon one’s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal
+more than any little exertion it needs.”
+
+“It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the young
+man, “though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;
+but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.”
+
+The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
+Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
+conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
+with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
+allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to
+Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself
+to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but
+one’s _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That
+he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,
+passed suspiciously through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a
+falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner
+had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if
+in a state of no common enjoyment.
+
+Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening
+acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—“Was she a
+horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they a large
+neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?—There were
+several very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they balls?—Was
+it a musical society?”
+
+But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
+proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while
+their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his
+mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so
+much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured
+to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an
+additional proof of his knowing how to please—and of his certainly
+thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word
+of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.
+Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He
+understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. “His
+father’s marriage,” he said, “had been the wisest measure, every friend
+must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a
+blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest
+obligation on him.”
+
+He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits,
+without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it
+was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s
+character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if
+resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its
+object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of
+her person.
+
+“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he; “but I
+confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a
+very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that
+I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”
+
+“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,”
+said Emma; “were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen
+with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using
+such words. Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a
+pretty young woman.”
+
+“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon it, (with a
+gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I
+might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my
+terms.”
+
+Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from
+their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her
+mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be
+considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must
+see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they
+were agreeable.
+
+She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick
+eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy
+expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she
+was confident that he was often listening.
+
+Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
+entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,
+was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from
+approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.—Though always objecting to
+every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the
+apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any
+two persons’ understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it
+were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could
+now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a
+glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all
+his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.
+Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils
+of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed
+anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold—which,
+however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
+after another night.
+
+A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—“He must be going.
+He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands
+for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.” His
+son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
+
+“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity
+of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore
+may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a
+neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
+Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,
+I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the
+proper name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any
+family of that name?”
+
+“To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we passed her house—I
+saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss
+Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is.
+Call upon her, by all means.”
+
+“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young
+man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree of
+acquaintance at Weymouth which—”
+
+“Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done
+cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;
+any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You
+saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she
+mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely
+enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.”
+
+The son looked convinced.
+
+“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she is a very
+elegant young woman.”
+
+He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost to
+doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort
+of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought
+only ordinarily gifted with it.
+
+“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said
+she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her
+and hear her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has
+an aunt who never holds her tongue.”
+
+“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr.
+Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give
+me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young
+lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
+worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely
+glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to
+shew you the way.”
+
+“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”
+
+“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
+quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many
+houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,
+unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you
+had best cross the street.”
+
+Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,
+and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend,
+this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees
+it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
+step, and jump.”
+
+They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
+graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma
+remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and
+could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day,
+with full confidence in their comfort.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.
+Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He
+had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,
+till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their
+walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—“He did not doubt there being very
+pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always
+chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,
+would be his constant attraction.”—Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood
+for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction
+with him. They walked thither directly.
+
+Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
+half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
+nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,
+therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
+arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in
+company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him
+was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends
+for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It
+was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid
+his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole
+manner to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of
+considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was
+time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit
+included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about
+together for an hour or two—first round the shrubberies of Hartfield,
+and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired
+Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going
+farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with
+the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much
+oftener than Emma could have supposed.
+
+Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He
+begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and
+which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting
+that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest
+of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
+some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they
+shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must
+be very like a merit to those he was with.
+
+Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it
+could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily
+absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a
+parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had
+not done him justice.
+
+Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though
+the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses
+were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any
+run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by
+any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of
+the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a
+ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly
+populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but such
+brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for
+which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established
+among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately
+interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of
+passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed
+windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,
+and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no
+fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No,
+it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the
+very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every
+fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the
+former good old days of the room?—She who could do any thing in
+Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
+that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted
+to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be
+persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could
+not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when
+particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling
+to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing,
+or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s
+returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a
+young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to
+see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the
+habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit,
+cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing
+of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,
+perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank,
+bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however,
+of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively
+spirits.
+
+At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and
+being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma
+recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had
+paid it.
+
+“Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention it. A very
+successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much
+obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken
+me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I
+was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes
+would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper;
+and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—but
+there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I
+found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that
+I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an
+hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.”
+
+“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”
+
+“Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look
+ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?
+Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so
+pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.—A most
+deplorable want of complexion.”
+
+Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss
+Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would
+not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness
+and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character
+of her face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he
+had heard many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him
+nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.
+Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them
+all; and where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not
+attempt to describe what the effect was.
+
+“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.—At least you
+admire her except her complexion.”
+
+He shook his head and laughed.—“I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her
+complexion.”
+
+“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same
+society?”
+
+At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,
+“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of
+their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he
+says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If
+it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove
+myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must
+buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say
+they sell gloves.”
+
+“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will
+be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because
+you were Mr. Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your
+popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”
+
+They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers”
+and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he
+said—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,
+you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_
+_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of
+public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in
+private life.”
+
+“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
+party at Weymouth.”
+
+“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
+very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree
+of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.—I
+shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”
+
+“Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But
+her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very
+reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any
+body, that I really think you may say what you like of your
+acquaintance with her.”
+
+“May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so
+well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a
+little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
+Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,
+warm-hearted woman. I like them all.”
+
+“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is
+destined to be?”
+
+“Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.”
+
+“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling;
+“remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
+when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a
+little farther off.”
+
+“I certainly do forget to think of _her_,” said Emma, “as having ever
+been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”
+
+He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
+
+When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, “Did
+you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?” said Frank
+Churchill.
+
+“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs to
+Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.
+She plays charmingly.”
+
+“You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could
+really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with
+considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.—I am
+excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of
+judging of any body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s
+admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a
+man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman—engaged to
+her—on the point of marriage—would yet never ask that other woman to
+sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down
+instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.
+That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”
+
+“Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—“Mr. Dixon is very musical,
+is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,
+than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”
+
+“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
+very strong proof.”
+
+“Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger
+than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable
+to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music than love—more ear
+than eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.
+How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”
+
+“It was her very particular friend, you know.”
+
+“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger
+preferred than one’s very particular friend—with a stranger it might
+not recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend
+always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!—Poor
+Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”
+
+“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
+really did not seem to feel it.”
+
+“So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But be
+it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or
+dulness of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt
+it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous
+distinction.”
+
+“As to that—I do not—”
+
+“Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s
+sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human
+being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she
+was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”
+
+“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all—” he
+began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it is
+impossible for me to say on what terms they really were—how it might
+all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness
+outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a
+better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct
+herself in critical situations, than I can be.”
+
+“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and
+women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
+intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
+her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a
+little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to
+take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always
+was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her
+reserve—I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.”
+
+“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes very
+convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,
+but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”
+
+“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction
+may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an
+agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of
+conquering any body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss
+Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think
+ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and perpetual
+cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea
+about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something
+to conceal.”
+
+He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and
+thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,
+that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He
+was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in
+some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore
+better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his
+feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of
+considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would
+go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No,
+he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to
+be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved,
+he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There
+must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a
+blockhead who wanted more.
+
+Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking
+about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking
+how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he
+could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small
+one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he
+was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to
+settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not
+be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no
+housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no doubt he did
+perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that
+whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to
+be allowed an early establishment.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the
+following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to
+have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at
+breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to
+return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than
+having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling
+sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of
+foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not
+accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even
+the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to
+discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
+restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;
+heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston,
+indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became
+liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and
+thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was
+clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making
+no other comment than that “all young people would have their little
+whims.”
+
+With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit
+hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was
+very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made
+himself—how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He
+appeared to have a very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and
+lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great
+deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond
+of talking of him—said he would be the best man in the world if he were
+left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he
+acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to
+speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for
+such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to
+denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination
+had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of
+being at least very near it, and saved only by her own
+indifference—(for still her resolution held of never marrying)—the
+honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint
+acquaintance.
+
+Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have
+some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her
+extremely—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so
+much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
+harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, “all young people would have their
+little whims.”
+
+There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so
+leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes
+of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were
+made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man—one who
+smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them
+not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr.
+Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,
+he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to
+himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, “Hum! just the trifling,
+silly fellow I took him for.” She had half a mind to resent; but an
+instant’s observation convinced her that it was really said only to
+relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
+let it pass.
+
+Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.
+Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect particularly
+opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make
+Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted
+exactly the advice they gave.
+
+This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in
+Highbury, and were very good sort of people—friendly, liberal, and
+unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in
+trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the
+country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping
+little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two
+had brought them a considerable increase of means—the house in town had
+yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them.
+With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house,
+their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their
+number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time
+were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at
+Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared
+every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly
+among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best
+families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite—neither
+Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go,
+if they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits would be
+giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were
+very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was
+not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would
+visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only
+from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
+
+But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks
+before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her
+very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their
+invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.
+Weston’s accounting for it with “I suppose they will not take the
+liberty with you; they know you do not dine out,” was not quite
+sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of
+refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled
+there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,
+occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been
+tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the
+Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the
+day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her
+absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of
+his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her
+spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the
+omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.
+
+It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at
+Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her
+first remark, on reading it, was that “of course it must be declined,”
+she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do,
+that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.
+
+She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without
+inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so
+properly—there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so much
+consideration for her father. “They would have solicited the honour
+earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from
+London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of
+air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour
+of his company.” Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being
+briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without
+neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates,
+might be depended on for bearing him company—Mr. Woodhouse was to be
+talked into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a
+day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As
+for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours
+would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well
+resigned.
+
+“I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he—“I never was. No more is
+Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole
+should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come
+in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take us in
+their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so
+reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the
+evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any
+body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine
+with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to
+take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be
+what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs.
+Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—“Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not
+married, you would have staid at home with me.”
+
+“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away, it is
+incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.
+Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.”
+
+But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not
+lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better how to
+allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately
+arranged.
+
+With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking
+as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great
+regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
+James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer
+written to Mrs. Cole.”
+
+“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will
+say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must
+decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of
+course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is
+to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will
+be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have
+never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still
+I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get
+there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you
+again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying
+late. You will get very tired when tea is over.”
+
+“But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”
+
+“Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great
+many people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”
+
+“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away early, it
+will be breaking up the party.”
+
+“And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The sooner every
+party breaks up, the better.”
+
+“But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma’s going
+away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured
+people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel
+that any body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss
+Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than any other person’s
+in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I
+am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have
+been your neighbours these _ten_ years.”
+
+“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you
+for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any
+pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole
+never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but
+he is bilious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of
+giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,
+rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a
+little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You
+will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.”
+
+“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
+scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am
+only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not
+being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you
+know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by
+yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time—and the idea of
+that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit
+up.”
+
+He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if
+she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if
+hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should
+sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every
+thing were safe in the house, as usual.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner
+waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious
+for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
+imperfection which could be concealed.
+
+He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
+good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had
+done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any
+confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his
+spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
+seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
+
+“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
+cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent
+way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It
+depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
+_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this
+differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been
+ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a
+coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own
+vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”
+
+With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a
+longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
+inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing
+how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
+and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were
+now seeing them together for the first time.
+
+She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
+Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
+Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than
+his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
+
+Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
+Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left
+the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after
+dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
+dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping
+them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever
+unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged
+them to practise during the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner
+for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat
+it.
+
+She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to
+see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,
+having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and
+independence, was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could,
+and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.
+She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from
+her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
+
+“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman.—I am
+quite glad to see you.”
+
+He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same
+moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether
+you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You
+might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”
+
+“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
+consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be
+beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but
+with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I
+always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_
+you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed
+ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_
+I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”
+
+“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.
+
+Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as
+with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could
+not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When
+the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
+admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached
+her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,
+and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed,
+not without some dexterity on his side.
+
+The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
+unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
+naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family,
+the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the
+evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at
+dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
+general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
+fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her
+neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to
+attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating
+something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She
+listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of
+Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that
+she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room
+had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking
+instrument—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the
+substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of
+surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and
+explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived
+from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt
+and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account,
+Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could
+possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied
+that it could be from only one quarter;—of course it must be from
+Colonel Campbell.
+
+“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only
+surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,
+had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
+She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as
+any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse
+to surprize her.”
+
+Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
+subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
+and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
+enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still
+listen to Mrs. Cole.
+
+“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
+more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
+plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a
+shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine
+instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a
+slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I
+really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the
+drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little
+girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of
+it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not
+any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old
+spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr.
+Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so
+particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in
+the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so
+obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that
+really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we
+ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse
+may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”
+
+Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
+more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned
+to Frank Churchill.
+
+“Why do you smile?” said she.
+
+“Nay, why do you?”
+
+“Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich
+and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”
+
+“Very.”
+
+“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”
+
+“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”
+
+“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which must
+now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”
+
+“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
+Bates’s house.”
+
+“You may _say_ what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your
+_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.”
+
+“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
+acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
+suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what
+there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can
+be?”
+
+“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
+
+“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She
+must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;
+and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a
+young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare
+say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.”
+
+“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in
+them.”
+
+“Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the
+joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day,
+you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”
+
+“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had
+entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions
+of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting
+either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the
+misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a
+little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without
+guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular
+cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the
+Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and
+penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of
+trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.—In the summer
+it might have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for them in
+the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages
+would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and
+I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,
+though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell
+you what they are.”
+
+“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon’s
+preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being very
+decided.”
+
+“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water party;
+and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
+
+“He did. I was there—one of the party.”
+
+“Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course, for it
+seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I should
+have made some discoveries.”
+
+“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
+Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon
+caught her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent
+shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe
+it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that
+was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be
+observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made
+discoveries.”
+
+The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in
+the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and
+obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the
+table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed
+exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma
+said,
+
+“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a
+little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall
+soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
+
+“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must
+conclude it to come from the Campbells.”
+
+“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is
+not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She
+would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
+convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.
+Dixon is a principal in the business.”
+
+“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
+carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed
+you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as
+paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
+But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that
+it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see
+it in no other light than as an offering of love.”
+
+There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction
+seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other
+subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the
+dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired
+amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few
+downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor
+the other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old
+news, and heavy jokes.
+
+The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
+ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree
+of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her
+dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and
+the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,
+cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many
+alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed
+affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she
+had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and
+seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say
+nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax
+did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad
+to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the
+mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in
+vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself
+beloved by the husband of her friend.
+
+In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
+She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the
+secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,
+and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the
+subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of
+consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of
+guilt which accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colonel
+Campbell.”
+
+Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by
+the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
+perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and
+to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish
+of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the
+fair heroine’s countenance.
+
+They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of
+the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the
+handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates
+and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the
+circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
+would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be
+thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She
+introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments
+afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had never seen so
+lovely a face, and was delighted with her naïveté.” And she, “Only to
+be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think
+there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her
+indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
+
+Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
+glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
+He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated
+sitting long—was always the first to move when he could—that his
+father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over
+parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been
+pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of
+gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury
+altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable families—that Emma began
+to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She
+questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire—the extent of the
+neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his
+answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little
+going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families,
+none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations
+accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health
+and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
+person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not
+without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he
+could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
+
+She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at
+its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement
+at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He
+did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded
+his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and
+noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he
+could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on
+which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much
+to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she
+would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he
+said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.
+
+The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be
+good behaviour to his father.
+
+“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause.—
+“I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never knew days fly
+so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But
+just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I hate the
+recollection.”
+
+“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out
+of so few, in having your hair cut.”
+
+“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no
+pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be
+seen.”
+
+The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
+obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
+When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as
+before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at
+Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
+
+“What is the matter?” said she.
+
+He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I have
+been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a
+way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw
+any thing so outrée!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I
+see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her whether it is
+an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall
+see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”
+
+He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
+Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as
+he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in
+front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
+
+Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
+
+“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one can get near
+every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to
+you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
+yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how
+Miss Bates and her niece came here?”
+
+“How?—They were invited, were not they?”
+
+“Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of their
+coming?”
+
+“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”
+
+“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it
+would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and
+cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw
+her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
+would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could
+not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,
+and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may
+guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I
+made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage
+would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would
+be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
+possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as
+herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occasion to trouble
+us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to take them home
+again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite
+surprized. Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an
+attention!—the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in
+short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think
+that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do
+suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it
+was only as an excuse for assisting them.”
+
+“Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know no man more
+likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing
+really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a
+gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
+Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for
+an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on
+more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived
+together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that
+could betray.”
+
+“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more
+simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while
+Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have
+never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more
+probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.
+Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you
+company!—What do you say to it?”
+
+“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston,
+how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must
+not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?—Oh!
+no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr.
+Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am
+amazed that you should think of such a thing.”
+
+“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not
+want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea
+has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished
+to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of
+six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”
+
+“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr. Knightley
+marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.
+And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”
+
+“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
+know.”
+
+“But the imprudence of such a match!”
+
+“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”
+
+“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
+what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would
+be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for
+the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad
+to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to
+match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the
+Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not
+have him do so mad a thing.”
+
+“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,
+and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”
+
+“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the
+least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He
+is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and
+his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of
+his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up
+his time or his heart.”
+
+“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really
+loves Jane Fairfax—”
+
+“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I
+am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—”
+
+“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he could
+do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”
+
+“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a
+very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss
+Bates belonging to him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
+him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind
+and obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And
+then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat.
+‘Not that it was such a very old petticoat either—for still it would
+last a great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their
+petticoats were all very strong.’”
+
+“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my
+conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be
+much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She
+might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only
+talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it
+would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think
+he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of
+Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety about her
+health—his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have
+heard him express himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer of
+her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him
+say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost
+forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been
+sent here by somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to
+consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr.
+Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person
+to do it, even without being in love.”
+
+“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not
+think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does
+nothing mysteriously.”
+
+“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;
+oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common
+course of things, occur to him.”
+
+“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
+her so.”
+
+“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very
+strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly
+silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”
+
+“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
+many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I
+believe nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that
+Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”
+
+They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather
+gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the
+most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed
+them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;—and at the
+same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do
+them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the
+eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing
+nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.
+Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it
+suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.
+
+She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more
+than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit
+in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could
+accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her
+agreeably by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank
+Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and
+every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful
+voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and
+that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly
+asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her
+place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental,
+she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely
+superior to her own.
+
+With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
+numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.
+They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the
+sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half
+Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of
+Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united
+voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr.
+Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside. She could see
+nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John
+Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a
+most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;—a very great
+deduction from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she could
+not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.
+Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never
+marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
+
+Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They
+talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly
+very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have
+struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his
+kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in
+the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate
+only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.
+
+“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage
+more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;
+but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should
+put-to for such a purpose.”
+
+“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he
+replied;—“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with
+such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another
+step.
+
+“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this pianoforte is very
+kindly given.”
+
+“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent
+embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her
+notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not
+enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have
+expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”
+
+From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had
+had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely
+free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual
+preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s
+second song, her voice grew thick.
+
+“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—“you have
+sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet.”
+
+Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would not
+fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.”
+And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could manage this
+without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the
+song falls on the second.”
+
+Mr. Knightley grew angry.
+
+“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing off
+his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at that
+moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing
+herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on
+her.”
+
+Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
+grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther
+singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss
+Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but
+soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing—originating nobody
+exactly knew where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole,
+that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs.
+Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an
+irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming
+gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
+
+While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
+Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her
+voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.
+Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he
+were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur
+something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to
+Mrs. Cole—he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody
+else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
+
+Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and
+she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than
+five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it
+made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
+partner. They were a couple worth looking at.
+
+Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was
+growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her
+mother’s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to
+begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful,
+and have done.
+
+“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to
+her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
+would not have agreed with me, after yours.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit
+afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
+might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must
+be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted
+the Coles—worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a name
+behind her that would not soon die away.
+
+Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two
+points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not
+transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
+Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it
+had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his
+submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration,
+which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to
+have held her tongue.
+
+The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and
+there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret
+the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily
+grieve over the idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised
+vigorously an hour and a half.
+
+She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s
+praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
+
+“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”
+
+“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her’s,
+than a lamp is like sunshine.”
+
+“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite
+as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body
+last night said how well you played.”
+
+“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
+truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
+but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”
+
+“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
+that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole
+said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great
+deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than
+execution.”
+
+“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”
+
+“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
+taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.—There is no
+understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you
+know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to
+teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into
+any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?”
+
+“Just as they always do—very vulgar.”
+
+“They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly; “but it is
+nothing of any consequence.”
+
+Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its
+producing Mr. Elton.
+
+“They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay
+to dinner.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know
+what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay
+there again next summer.”
+
+“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should
+be.”
+
+“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her
+at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to
+marry him.”
+
+“Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
+girls in Highbury.”
+
+Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most prudent to go with
+her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in
+her present state, would be dangerous.
+
+Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
+very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins
+and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could
+not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr.
+Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the
+office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a
+stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
+could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher
+with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her
+full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of
+dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the
+gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused
+enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at
+ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not
+answer.
+
+She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons
+appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into
+Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the
+first place at Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls
+than Ford’s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
+eye.—Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the
+agreeableness of yesterday’s engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure
+to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to
+call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
+
+“For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely promised Miss
+Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it
+myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I
+am going now.”
+
+“And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,” said
+Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield—if
+you are going home.”
+
+Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
+
+“I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.”
+
+“Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be equally in the
+way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt
+always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to
+death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
+What am I to do?”
+
+“I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am only waiting for
+my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.
+But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.”
+
+“Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should
+have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an
+indifferent tone—what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.
+Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would
+be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the
+world at a civil falsehood.”
+
+“I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.—“I am persuaded that
+you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but
+there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite
+otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.”
+
+“Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very disagreeable to
+you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We
+will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It
+will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.”
+
+He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
+returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door. Emma watched them in,
+and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,—trying, with all
+the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain
+muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be
+it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At
+last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
+
+“Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs.
+Ford.—“Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern gown is at
+Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,
+Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.—And I could take the pattern gown
+home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly—so it had better go
+to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,
+Mrs. Ford, could not you?”
+
+“It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two
+parcels.”
+
+“No more it is.”
+
+“No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Ford.
+
+“Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you
+please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s—I do not know—No, I
+think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,
+and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?”
+
+“That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,
+if you please, Mrs. Ford.”
+
+“Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied, “I should
+not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.”
+
+Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
+Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
+
+“My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run across to
+entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
+and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How
+do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston
+to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”
+
+“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”
+
+“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;
+and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad
+to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh!
+then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me
+just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so
+very happy to see her—and now we are such a nice party, she cannot
+refuse.—‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s
+opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’—But, said I, I shall
+be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.—‘Oh,’ said
+he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would you
+believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in
+the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The rivet
+came out, you know, this morning.—So very obliging!—For my mother had
+no use of her spectacles—could not put them on. And, by the bye, every
+body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane
+said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I
+did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one
+thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time
+Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh,
+said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet
+of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home,
+Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging
+to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say that Mrs.
+Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never
+known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be
+for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread,
+you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really
+eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite
+frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she
+eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But
+about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she
+likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,
+for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I
+happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I
+have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it
+is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly
+wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an
+excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I
+hope, and these ladies will oblige us.”
+
+Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they did at
+last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,
+
+“How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.
+I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane
+came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a
+little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”
+
+“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were all
+in the street.
+
+Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
+
+“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my mother’s
+spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I
+do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
+excessively.’—Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must
+say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,
+he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,
+most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could.... ‘Oh!’
+said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort
+excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out
+the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so
+very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is
+nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the
+finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you
+know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no
+compliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis
+does them full justice—only we do not have them baked more than twice,
+and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times—but
+Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples
+themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all
+from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a
+sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple
+anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother
+says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was
+really quite shocked the other day—for Mr. Knightley called one
+morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and
+said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to
+the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will
+send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever
+use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this
+year. I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.’ So
+I begged he would not—for really as to ours being gone, I could not
+absolutely say that we had a great many left—it was but half a dozen
+indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all
+bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been
+already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost
+quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a
+quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the
+apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a
+great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.
+However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large
+basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was
+very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said
+every thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old
+acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found
+afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of
+_that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all—and now his master
+had not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it
+himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for
+William, you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;
+but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent
+away. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have
+another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not
+mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs.
+Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were
+sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me,
+and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley
+know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted
+to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
+before I was aware.”
+
+Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
+walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
+pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
+
+“Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
+care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather darker and
+narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss
+Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss
+Smith, the step at the turning.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was
+tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,
+slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near
+her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,
+standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.
+
+Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most
+happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
+
+“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming at least
+ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be
+useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”
+
+“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? you would not
+earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”
+
+“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I have been
+assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,
+it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see
+we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to
+be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”
+
+He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently
+employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to
+make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite
+ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately
+ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had
+not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without
+emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and
+Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could
+not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.
+
+At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the
+powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.
+Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined
+her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper
+discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
+
+“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill, with a
+smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of
+Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper
+notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would
+particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his
+friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not
+you think so?”
+
+Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had
+been speaking to her at the same moment.
+
+“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random guess. Do
+not distress her.”
+
+He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
+doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,
+
+“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on
+this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and
+wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s
+coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to
+be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the
+consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have
+sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to
+depend upon contingencies and conveniences?”
+
+He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,
+
+“Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice of
+forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be
+all conjecture.”
+
+“Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one
+conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this
+rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at
+work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their
+tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss
+Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have
+the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,
+healed for the present.”
+
+He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a
+little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss
+Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.
+
+“If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes we
+danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them
+as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we
+danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever
+has to give—for another half-hour.”
+
+She played.
+
+“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one
+happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”
+
+She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played
+something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,
+and turning to Emma, said,
+
+“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here
+are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might
+expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of
+Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music
+here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to
+have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing
+incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”
+
+Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;
+and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the
+remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of
+consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less
+scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to
+her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently
+cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
+
+He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—Emma
+took the opportunity of whispering,
+
+“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
+
+“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least
+ashamed of my meaning.”
+
+“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the
+idea.”
+
+“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now
+a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does
+wrong, she ought to feel it.”
+
+“She is not entirely without it, I think.”
+
+“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this
+moment—_his_ favourite.”
+
+Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.
+Knightley on horse-back not far off.
+
+“Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to
+thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;
+but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in
+when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet
+so!—Our little room so honoured!”
+
+She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
+casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every
+syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others,
+as if it had passed within the same apartment.
+
+“How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you
+for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready
+for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.”
+
+So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in
+his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,
+
+“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but
+particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold
+last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”
+
+And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear
+her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave
+Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
+steady scepticism.
+
+“So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the carriage,”
+resumed Miss Bates.
+
+He cut her short with,
+
+“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”
+
+“Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she
+wanted something from Kingston.”
+
+“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?”
+
+“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?—Miss
+Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new
+pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”
+
+“Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes, perhaps.”
+
+“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—Quite delightful;
+so many friends!”
+
+“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on
+to Kingston as fast as I can.”
+
+“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”
+
+“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear
+the pianoforte.”
+
+“Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last
+night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever see such dancing?—Was not
+it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any
+thing equal to it.”
+
+“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
+Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
+And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should
+not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.
+Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in
+England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say
+something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to
+hear it.”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence—so
+shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”
+
+“What is the matter now?”
+
+“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a
+great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!
+Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You
+should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never
+can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it
+would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to
+the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop.
+He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....”
+
+“Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.”
+
+“Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was
+open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must
+have heard every thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at
+Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must
+you be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”
+
+Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted
+long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to
+be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could
+allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield
+gates, before they set off for Randalls.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been
+known of young people passing many, many months successively, without
+being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
+either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—when the
+felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it
+must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.
+
+Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;
+and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded
+to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young
+people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his
+the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of
+the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and
+appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people
+again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
+danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself
+with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any of
+the wicked aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room
+they were in to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking
+the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in
+spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size,
+that it was a little the largest.
+
+His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s
+should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and
+the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.
+Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
+most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;
+and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly
+who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of
+space to every couple.
+
+“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
+Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will be the
+two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.
+Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and
+Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five
+couple there will be plenty of room.”
+
+But soon it came to be on one side,
+
+“But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think
+there will.”
+
+On another,
+
+“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
+stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
+It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the
+thought of the moment.”
+
+Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and
+must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert
+would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was
+put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one
+family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old
+acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the
+five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation
+in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
+
+The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might not
+they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed the best
+scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a
+better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress
+about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score
+of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be
+persevered in.
+
+“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not
+bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.
+So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would
+be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do
+not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very
+thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite
+the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and
+keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the
+draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
+quite the thing!”
+
+Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it,
+and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now
+closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only
+in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on
+Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour
+before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now
+endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.
+
+“We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary room. Ten
+couple may stand here very well.”
+
+Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could be
+worse than dancing without space to turn in?”
+
+“Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But still he went
+on measuring, and still he ended with,
+
+“I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”
+
+“No, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful
+to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to
+be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!”
+
+“There is no denying it,” he replied. “I agree with you exactly. A
+crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving
+pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!—Still, however,
+having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It
+would be a disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not know
+that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very
+well.”
+
+Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little
+self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of
+dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.
+Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to
+pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,
+and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their
+acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.
+
+Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered
+the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of
+the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.
+
+“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” he almost immediately began, “your inclination
+for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors
+of my father’s little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:—a
+thought of my father’s, which waits only your approbation to be acted
+upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances
+of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the
+Crown Inn?”
+
+“The Crown!”
+
+“Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you
+cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him
+there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less
+grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees
+no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all
+feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the
+Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how
+right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_
+_thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent—I hope
+you consent?”
+
+“It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.
+Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for
+myself, shall be most happy—It seems the only improvement that could
+be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?”
+
+She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
+comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were
+necessary to make it acceptable.
+
+“No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very bad plan—much
+worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;
+never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they
+had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the
+Crown in his life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh!
+no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than
+anywhere.”
+
+“I was going to observe, sir,” said Frank Churchill, “that one of the
+great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of
+any body’s catching cold—so much less danger at the Crown than at
+Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but
+nobody else could.”
+
+“Sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, “you are very much mistaken
+if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is
+extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how
+the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.”
+
+“From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no
+occasion to open the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it
+is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon
+heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.”
+
+“Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of
+opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never
+heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither
+your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer
+it.”
+
+“Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a
+window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I
+have often known it done myself.”
+
+“Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I
+live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,
+this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it
+over—but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One
+cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so
+obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what
+can be done.”
+
+“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”
+
+“Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking every
+thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at
+the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will
+be so near their own stable.”
+
+“So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
+complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could
+be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be
+trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.”
+
+“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
+under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.”
+
+“There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who
+is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many
+years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to
+wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often have I
+heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”
+
+“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor
+little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would
+have been very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times
+a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good
+sort—which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful
+complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the
+measles, she will send for Perry.”
+
+“My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said Frank
+Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there
+and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you
+might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was
+desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them,
+if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing
+satisfactorily without you.”
+
+Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
+engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people
+set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.
+Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and
+very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and
+he, finding every thing perfect.
+
+“Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places
+you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and
+forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”
+
+“My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What does all
+that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
+clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our
+club-nights.”
+
+The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never know
+when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each
+to himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
+cares.”
+
+One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It
+regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built,
+suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was
+the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted
+as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by
+their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable
+supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the
+purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward
+passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.
+Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and
+neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being
+miserably crowded at supper.
+
+Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c.,
+set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched
+suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was
+pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs.
+Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of
+expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,
+
+“I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know.”
+
+And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps
+through the passage, was calling out,
+
+“You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a
+mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.”
+
+“I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement our
+guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally
+pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would be.”
+
+“Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your neighbours’
+opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief
+of them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call
+upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.—And I do not know
+whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of
+the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger
+council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?”
+
+“Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you think
+she will be of any use.”
+
+“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma. “She
+will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She
+will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in
+consulting Miss Bates.”
+
+“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing
+Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.”
+
+Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it
+his decided approbation.
+
+“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at
+once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a
+properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss
+Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of
+how to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.”
+
+“Both sir! Can the old lady?”...
+
+“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a
+great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”
+
+“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.
+Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.”
+And away he ran.
+
+Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving
+aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman
+and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of
+it much less than she had supposed before—indeed very trifling; and
+here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation
+at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and
+chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left
+as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
+Stokes.—Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already
+written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,
+which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to
+be.
+
+Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As
+a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
+character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and
+minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another
+half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different
+rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of
+the future. The party did not break up without Emma’s being positively
+secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor
+without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has asked
+her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he would!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
+satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted term
+of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s
+confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the
+Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
+fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take
+their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were
+entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and
+hoping in uncertainty—at the risk—in her opinion, the great risk, of
+its being all in vain.
+
+Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His
+wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not
+opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one
+solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of
+her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking
+indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or
+because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed
+resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its
+exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
+To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,
+than,
+
+“Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this
+trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say
+against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.—Oh! yes, I
+must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I
+can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s
+week’s account; much rather, I confess.—Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not
+I, indeed—I never look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine dancing, I
+believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by
+are usually thinking of something very different.”
+
+This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was
+not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent,
+or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the
+ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.
+It made her animated—open hearted—she voluntarily said;—
+
+“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
+What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with
+_very_ great pleasure.”
+
+It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have
+preferred the society of William Larkins. No!—she was more and more
+convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There
+was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his
+side—but no love.
+
+Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two
+days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of
+every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s
+instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without
+him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when
+writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual
+unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of
+herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,
+and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.
+
+The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.
+Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone
+within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,
+to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred
+but for her own convenience.
+
+Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
+Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom
+he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be
+expected at Hartfield very soon.”
+
+This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once it had
+been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The
+loss of the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young man
+might be feeling!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening as it
+would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner the
+happiest!—“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.
+
+Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of
+Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and
+as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but
+they would all be safer at home.
+
+Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if
+this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total
+want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going
+away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He
+sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing
+himself, it was only to say,
+
+“Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”
+
+“But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your only visit
+to Randalls.”
+
+“Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may be able to
+return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be the object of all my
+thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring—but
+I am afraid—they did not stir last spring—I am afraid it is a custom
+gone for ever.”
+
+“Our poor ball must be quite given up.”
+
+“Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the
+pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
+foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
+why are you always so right?”
+
+“Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much
+rather have been merry than wise.”
+
+“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends
+on it. Do not forget your engagement.”
+
+Emma looked graciously.
+
+“Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day more
+precious and more delightful than the day before!—every day making me
+less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at
+Highbury!”
+
+“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing, “I will
+venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
+Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure
+you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in
+coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.”
+
+He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma
+was convinced that it had been so.
+
+“And you must be off this very morning?”
+
+“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I
+must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will
+bring him.”
+
+“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
+Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might
+have strengthened yours.”
+
+“Yes—I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It
+was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained
+by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not
+to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_
+laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay
+my visit, then”—
+
+He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
+
+“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think you can hardly be
+quite without suspicion”—
+
+He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew
+what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely
+serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore,
+in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,
+
+“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
+then”—
+
+He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting
+on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard
+him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.
+He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments
+passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,
+
+“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given
+to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”—
+
+He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.—He was more
+in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might
+have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse
+soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.
+
+A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.
+Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of
+procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that
+was doubtful, said, “It was time to go;” and the young man, though he
+might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
+
+“I shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief consolation. I
+shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged
+Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise
+it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
+interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters
+I shall be at dear Highbury again.”
+
+A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-bye,” closed
+the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had
+been the notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so
+sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from
+his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it
+too much.
+
+It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his
+arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the
+last two weeks—indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of
+seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his
+attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy
+fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
+course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he
+had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what
+constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but
+at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,
+a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all
+the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him,
+in spite of every previous determination against it.
+
+“I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness,
+weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ
+myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and insipid about the
+house!— I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world
+if I were not—for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always
+good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not
+for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the
+evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.”
+
+Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not
+say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would
+have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that
+he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with
+considerable kindness added,
+
+“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really
+out of luck; you are very much out of luck!”
+
+It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
+regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was
+odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from
+headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
+taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was
+charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of
+ill-health.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas
+only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good
+deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing
+Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than
+ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
+and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how
+were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his
+coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could
+not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be
+less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and
+cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have
+faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat
+drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress
+and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and
+inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary
+declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection
+was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming
+was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became
+sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in
+love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to
+quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must
+produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.
+
+“I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,” said
+she.—“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is
+there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not
+really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will
+not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love.
+I should be sorry to be more.”
+
+Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his
+feelings.
+
+“_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very much
+in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I
+must be on my guard not to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable
+to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he
+can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed
+me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.
+Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at
+parting would have been different.—Still, however, I must be on my
+guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it
+now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him
+to be quite the sort of man—I do not altogether build upon his
+steadiness or constancy.—His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them
+rather changeable.—Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes
+me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—I shall do
+very well again after a little while—and then, it will be a good thing
+over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I
+shall have been let off easily.”
+
+When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and
+she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at
+first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
+undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving
+the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the
+affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and
+describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed
+attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of
+apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.
+Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
+between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was
+just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much
+more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.—The
+charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more
+than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either
+a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and
+in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by
+any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of
+her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all
+conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these
+words—“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
+Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to
+her.” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was
+remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects
+as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;
+Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own
+imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
+
+Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material
+part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned
+to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she
+could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without
+her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew
+more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent
+consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words
+which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the
+idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it
+impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in
+understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of
+her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the
+probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For
+Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
+
+“I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“I must not think of it. I know
+the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have
+happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it
+will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested
+friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.”
+
+It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it
+might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that
+quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr.
+Elton’s engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest
+interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank
+Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most
+irresistible form.—His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among
+them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over
+the first letter from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride” was in
+every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick
+at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr.
+Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been
+lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there
+had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now
+too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as
+could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and
+all.
+
+Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the
+reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could
+give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet
+had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy
+work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever
+agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet
+listened submissively, and said “it was very true—it was just as Miss
+Woodhouse described—it was not worth while to think about them—and she
+would not think about them any longer” but no change of subject could
+avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the
+Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.
+
+“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
+Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.
+You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It
+was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure
+you.—Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you—and it will be a
+painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of
+forgetting it.”
+
+Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
+exclamation. Emma continued,
+
+“I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
+less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I
+would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than
+my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is
+your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the
+suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your
+tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.
+They are very important—and sorry I am that you cannot feel them
+sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very
+secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain.
+Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what
+was due—or rather what would be kind by me.”
+
+This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
+wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
+loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence
+of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt
+to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.
+
+“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—Want
+gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do for
+you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”
+
+Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
+manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so
+well, nor valued her affection so highly before.
+
+“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards
+to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and
+tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all
+the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.
+It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally
+beloved—which gives Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I
+know how to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the
+charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change
+you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female
+breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a
+hundred such—And for a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I
+mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
+interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and
+it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to
+settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or
+not pretty at all.
+
+Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to
+make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she
+made a point of Harriet’s going with her, that the worst of the
+business might be gone through as soon as possible.
+
+She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
+which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
+lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts
+would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
+not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too;
+but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The
+visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and
+occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself
+entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one,
+beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being “elegantly dressed, and very
+pleasing.”
+
+She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
+but she suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.—
+She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there
+was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;
+but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
+thought at least it would turn out so.
+
+As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not
+permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was
+an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a
+man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
+was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the
+privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
+depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.
+Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just
+married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had
+been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as
+little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
+could be.
+
+“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quitted the house,
+and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “Well, Miss
+Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—Is not she
+very charming?”
+
+There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
+
+“Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”
+
+“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”
+
+“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”
+
+“I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.”
+
+“Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty fortune; and
+she came in his way.”
+
+“I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say she was very
+much attached to him.”
+
+“Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry the woman
+who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought
+this the best offer she was likely to have.”
+
+“Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody could ever
+have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss
+Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
+superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a different
+thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit
+and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not
+thrown himself away, is such a comfort!—She does seem a charming young
+woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta.’
+How delightful!”
+
+When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see
+more and judge better. From Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield,
+and her father’s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter
+of an hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could composedly
+attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs.
+Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and
+thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be
+very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school,
+pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of
+people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant,
+and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
+
+Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
+she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it
+might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of
+her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
+alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
+
+The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, “My brother
+Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The
+grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
+modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by
+the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or
+imagine. “Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the
+likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at
+Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—Mr. Elton was appealed
+to.—“Was not it astonishingly like?—She could really almost fancy
+herself at Maple Grove.”
+
+“And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the
+staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really
+could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very
+delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial
+to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a
+little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body
+who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a
+home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
+understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like
+what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils
+of matrimony.”
+
+Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
+for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
+
+“So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—the
+grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
+The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
+very much in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of
+a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
+mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
+who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing
+in the same style.”
+
+Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
+people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
+extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to
+attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
+
+“When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think
+you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.”
+
+“Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
+know. Surry is the garden of England.”
+
+“Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many
+counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as
+Surry.”
+
+“No, I fancy not,” replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. “I
+never heard any county but Surry called so.”
+
+Emma was silenced.
+
+“My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or
+summer at farthest,” continued Mrs. Elton; “and that will be our time
+for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I
+dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds
+four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_
+carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely
+well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season
+of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly
+recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much
+preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you
+know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as
+possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored
+to King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,
+just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many
+parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”
+
+“No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
+striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and
+we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at
+home than engage in schemes of pleasure.”
+
+“Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
+be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at
+Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to
+Bristol, ‘I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I
+absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the
+barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her
+own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time
+has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I
+think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from
+society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to
+mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too
+much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however,
+Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father’s state of
+health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?—Indeed he
+should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of
+its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.”
+
+“My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
+benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
+does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.”
+
+“Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
+waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath
+life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,
+that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits,
+which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its
+recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell
+on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally
+understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived
+so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best
+society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of
+acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have
+always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
+attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public
+with.”
+
+It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of
+her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
+_introduction_—of her going into public under the auspices of a friend
+of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help
+of a boarder, just made a shift to live!—The dignity of Miss Woodhouse,
+of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
+
+She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could
+have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; “but their going to
+Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced
+that the place might suit her better than her father.” And then, to
+prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
+
+“I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these
+occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes her; and Highbury has
+long known that you are a superior performer.”
+
+“Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
+performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a
+quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of
+music—passionately fond;—and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of
+taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
+_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play
+delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,
+comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got
+into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life
+to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at
+Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I
+honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home,
+and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be
+disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had
+been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
+When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_
+_world_ I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of
+retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was
+not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who
+had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me
+quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used
+to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal
+to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed
+to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages
+were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments.
+‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without
+something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but
+without music, life would be a blank to me.’”
+
+“We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton would hesitate
+to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and
+I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
+pardoned, in consideration of the motive.”
+
+“No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to
+find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little
+concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
+musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
+Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall
+not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be
+particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in
+practice; for married women, you know—there is a sad story against
+them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.”
+
+“But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no danger,
+surely?”
+
+“I should hope not; but really when I look around among my
+acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never
+touches the instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be
+said of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two
+Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can
+enumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to
+be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a
+married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was
+half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper.”
+
+“But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in so regular
+a train—”
+
+“Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”
+
+Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing
+more to say; and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Elton chose another
+subject.
+
+“We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found them both at
+home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
+Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite
+with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good—there is
+something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
+directly. She was your governess, I think?”
+
+Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly
+waited for the affirmative before she went on.
+
+“Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
+lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.”
+
+“Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always particularly good.
+Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
+model for any young woman.”
+
+“And who do you think came in while we were there?”
+
+Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—and
+how could she possibly guess?
+
+“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!—Was not it
+lucky?—for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never
+seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.’s,
+I had a great curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often
+mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
+caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his
+friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much.
+Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.”
+
+Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could
+breathe.
+
+“Insufferable woman!” was her immediate exclamation. “Worse than I had
+supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!—I could not have believed
+it. Knightley!—never seen him in her life before, and call him
+Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,
+vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her
+resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
+Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether
+he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could
+not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to
+form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.
+Weston!—Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a
+gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond
+my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank
+Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he
+would be! Ah! there I am—thinking of him directly. Always the first
+person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes
+as regularly into my mind!”—
+
+All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her
+father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons’ departure,
+and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
+
+“Well, my dear,” he deliberately began, “considering we never saw her
+before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
+was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little
+quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I
+am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and
+poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved
+young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think
+he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
+having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion;
+I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought
+to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it
+shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into
+Vicarage Lane.”
+
+“I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you.”
+
+“Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid my respects to her
+if possible. It was being very deficient.”
+
+“But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
+should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to
+be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you
+make so much of them.”
+
+“No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
+wish to pay every proper attention to a lady—and a bride, especially,
+is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you
+know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
+they may.”
+
+“Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
+is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to
+such vanity-baits for poor young ladies.”
+
+“My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common
+politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
+encouragement to people to marry.”
+
+Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand
+_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton’s offences, and long, very long,
+did they occupy her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
+opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as
+Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared
+whenever they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,
+and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but
+so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior
+knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;
+and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.
+Elton’s consequence only could surpass.
+
+There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently
+from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had
+the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to
+Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part
+of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of
+judging, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or taking it for
+granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she
+professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s
+praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by
+Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked
+with a good grace of her being “very pleasant and very elegantly
+dressed.”
+
+In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at
+first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.—Offended, probably, by the
+little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew
+back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and
+though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was
+necessarily increasing Emma’s dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr.
+Elton’s, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and
+negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s cure; but the
+sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very
+much.—It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been
+an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story,
+under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to
+him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the
+object of their joint dislike.—When they had nothing else to say, it
+must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity
+which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader
+vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
+
+Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not
+merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to
+recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied
+with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration—but without
+solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and
+befriend her.—Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the
+third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry
+on the subject.—
+
+“Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I quite rave
+about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and
+ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you I think she has very
+extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely
+well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she
+is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my word,
+I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.—And her situation is so calculated
+to affect one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to
+do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers
+must not be suffered to remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those
+charming lines of the poet,
+
+‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+    ‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’
+
+
+We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.”
+
+“I cannot think there is any danger of it,” was Emma’s calm answer—“and
+when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax’s situation and
+understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I
+have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.”
+
+“Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
+obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed
+with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.
+I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
+feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must
+confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for
+timidity—and I am sure one does not often meet with it.—But in those
+who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure
+you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more
+than I can express.”
+
+“You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how you or any of
+Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those who have known her
+longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than”—
+
+“My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to
+act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will
+follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_
+have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style
+which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the
+least inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to
+send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_
+than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of
+thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been
+used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the
+other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple
+Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be—for we do not
+at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my
+resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.—I shall certainly have
+her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall
+have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly
+on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very
+extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her
+shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my
+brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her
+extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears
+will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of
+either but what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often
+indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a
+seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.”
+
+“Poor Jane Fairfax!”—thought Emma.—“You have not deserved this. You may
+have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment
+beyond what you can have merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs.
+Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me not suppose
+that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!—But upon my honour,
+there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!”
+
+Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively
+addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated with a “dear Miss
+Woodhouse.” The change on Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared,
+and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular
+friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the very active
+patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general
+way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.
+
+She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s gratitude for Mrs.
+Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless
+simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies—the most
+amiable, affable, delightful woman—just as accomplished and
+condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only
+surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and
+tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with
+the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!
+This was astonishing!—She could not have believed it possible that the
+taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and
+friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.
+
+“She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she.—“To chuse to remain here
+month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the
+mortification of Mrs. Elton’s notice and the penury of her
+conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have
+always loved her with such real, generous affection.”
+
+Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
+were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
+promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
+invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss
+Bates—it all came from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
+Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
+contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
+declined it!
+
+“She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
+this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some sort
+of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is
+great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.—She is _not_ to
+be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must
+she consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.”
+
+Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before
+the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this
+apology for Jane.
+
+“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my
+dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a
+good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We
+must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for
+what she goes to.”
+
+“You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “Miss Fairfax
+is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
+Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen
+her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions
+from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.”
+
+Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she
+was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently
+replied,
+
+“Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, would rather
+disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should
+have imagined any thing but inviting.”
+
+“I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to have
+been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in
+accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very
+likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
+appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in
+spite of the very natural wish of a little change.”
+
+Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
+minutes silence, he said,
+
+“Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs. Elton does not
+talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the
+difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken
+amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common
+civility in our personal intercourse with each other—a something more
+early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we
+may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.
+And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be
+sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind
+and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the
+respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably
+never fell in Mrs. Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can
+prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if
+not in consciousness.”
+
+“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little Henry
+was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
+irresolute what else to say.
+
+“Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think of her.”
+
+“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon
+stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she hurried
+on—“And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
+is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or
+other.”
+
+Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
+leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or
+some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,
+
+“Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me
+a hint of it six weeks ago.”
+
+He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
+herself know what to think. In a moment he went on—
+
+“That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare
+say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall
+never ask her.”
+
+Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and was pleased
+enough to exclaim,
+
+“You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”
+
+He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and in a manner which
+shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,
+
+“So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”
+
+“No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,
+for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just
+now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without
+any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the
+smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You
+would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were
+married.”
+
+Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No,
+Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take
+me by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure
+you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
+woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has
+not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”
+
+Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,” said
+she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
+he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or
+wittier than his neighbours.”
+
+“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
+wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what
+she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough
+in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr.
+Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her
+civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
+weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation
+of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
+Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s
+acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
+being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
+I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
+with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
+continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring
+her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful
+exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”
+
+“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do not accuse her of
+want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her
+temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;
+but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than
+she used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my
+supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax
+and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no
+thought beyond.”
+
+“Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do
+you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”
+
+“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
+idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it
+were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was
+disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and
+evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed
+in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
+never to have a disengaged day.
+
+“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you.
+Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite
+the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very
+formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a
+disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have
+been at a loss.”
+
+No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties
+perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for
+dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at
+the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury
+card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a
+good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon
+shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the
+spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in
+which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and
+unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the
+evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the
+refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
+
+Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at
+Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she
+should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful
+resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
+ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the
+usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,
+with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
+
+The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons,
+it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of
+course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must
+be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with
+equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased
+by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not
+be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able
+to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
+uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would
+rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had
+she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the
+fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to
+give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the
+very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.—
+Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was
+more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often
+been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane
+Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.
+
+“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which
+was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—and
+always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—She will never
+like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater
+attention than I have done.”
+
+Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
+happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
+over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
+Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
+weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and
+staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day
+of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of his being
+put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening
+so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the
+utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma
+apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not
+being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without
+falling in with a dinner-party.
+
+She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by
+representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he
+always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very
+immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to
+have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
+instead of his brother.
+
+The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John
+Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and
+must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the
+evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;
+and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the
+philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the
+chief of even Emma’s vexation.
+
+The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John
+Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being
+agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they
+waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as
+elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in
+silence—wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but
+Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could
+talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a
+walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It
+was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,
+
+“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am
+sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you
+turned directly.”
+
+“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before
+the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters
+when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A
+walk before breakfast does me good.”
+
+“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”
+
+“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”
+
+Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
+
+“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
+yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and
+Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.
+The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you
+have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth
+going through the rain for.”
+
+There was a little blush, and then this answer,
+
+“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
+dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing
+older should make me indifferent about letters.”
+
+“Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent.
+Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
+positive curse.”
+
+“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
+friendship.”
+
+“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly.
+“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”
+
+“Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am
+very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I
+can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than
+to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes
+the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body
+dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and
+therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I
+think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than
+to-day.”
+
+“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of
+years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation
+which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time
+will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the
+daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an
+old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years
+hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
+
+It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank
+you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear
+in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was
+now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on
+such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his
+particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all
+his mildest urbanity, said,
+
+“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning
+in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies
+are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their
+complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
+solicitude about me.”
+
+“My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.—I
+hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very
+old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You
+do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are
+both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest
+satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.”
+
+The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he
+had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
+
+By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her
+remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
+
+“My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office in the
+rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl, how could you do
+such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”
+
+Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
+
+“Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know
+how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,
+did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our
+authority.”
+
+“My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I certainly do
+feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.—Liable
+as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly
+careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think
+requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even
+half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your
+cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are
+much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing
+again.”
+
+“Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined Mrs.
+Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing again:”—and nodding
+significantly—“there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.
+I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning
+(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and
+bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and
+from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to
+accept such an accommodation.”
+
+“You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my early
+walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk
+somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have
+scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”
+
+“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is
+(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing
+without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,
+you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter
+myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I
+meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as
+settled.”
+
+“Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent to
+such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the
+errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is
+when I am not here, by my grandmama’s.”
+
+“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a kindness to
+employ our men.”
+
+Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of
+answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.
+
+“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.—“The
+regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,
+and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”
+
+“It is certainly very well regulated.”
+
+“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a
+letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the
+kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose,
+actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
+hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”
+
+“The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some quickness
+of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther
+explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the
+key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served
+well.”
+
+The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
+observations made.
+
+“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same sort of
+handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master
+teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine
+the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have
+very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand
+they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I
+have not always known their writing apart.”
+
+“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what
+you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”
+
+“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and
+always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh and half a
+smile at her.
+
+“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also at
+Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending
+to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I
+going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once
+before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout
+phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that
+would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce
+his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and
+better.—Now for it.”
+
+Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill
+writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”
+
+“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants
+strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”
+
+This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against
+the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a
+large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston
+any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very
+lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
+
+“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk, I
+am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.—Do not you
+remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”
+
+“He chose to say he was employed”—
+
+“Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince
+Mr. Knightley.”
+
+“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr.
+Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will,
+of course, put forth his best.”
+
+Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was
+ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be
+allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—
+
+“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”
+
+Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
+She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether
+the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it
+_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in
+full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had
+not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness
+than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.
+
+She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the
+expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—but she
+abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should
+hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of
+the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming
+to the beauty and grace of each.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found
+it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—with
+so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross
+Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be
+almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton
+left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon
+began again; and though much that passed between them was in a
+half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no avoiding a
+knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office—catching
+cold—fetching letters—and friendship, were long under discussion; and
+to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to
+Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to
+suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated activity.
+
+“Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about you. June
+will soon be here.”
+
+“But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely looked
+forward to the summer in general.”
+
+“But have you really heard of nothing?”
+
+“I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.”
+
+“Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the
+difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”
+
+“I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton, who can
+have thought of it as I have done?”
+
+“But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know
+how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw
+a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of
+Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every
+body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first
+circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable!
+Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish
+to see you in.”
+
+“Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,” said
+Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want
+it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would
+not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”
+
+“Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me
+trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be
+more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in
+a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out
+for any thing eligible.”
+
+“Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;
+till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body
+trouble.”
+
+“But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,
+or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before
+us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you
+deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday
+occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we
+must begin inquiring directly.”
+
+“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no
+inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.
+When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of
+being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry
+would soon produce something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human
+flesh—but of human intellect.”
+
+“Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at
+the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend
+to the abolition.”
+
+“I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied Jane;
+“governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely
+different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to
+the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I
+only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by
+applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with
+something that would do.”
+
+“Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, _that_ may suit
+your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are;
+but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any
+thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
+not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
+life.”
+
+“You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it
+would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I
+think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
+A gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”
+
+“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall
+be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite
+on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the
+first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name
+your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family
+as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you
+might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I
+really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you
+chose;—and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and
+comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.”
+
+“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a
+situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;
+however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at
+present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am
+obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing
+nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I
+shall remain where I am, and as I am.”
+
+“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
+“in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to
+watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”
+
+In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till
+Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of
+object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
+
+“Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of his
+gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he
+is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,
+old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
+modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish
+you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I
+began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am
+rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like
+it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is
+not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being
+over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments
+now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like
+a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of
+dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the
+minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show
+and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a
+trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will
+look well?”
+
+The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.
+Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late
+dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too
+much expected by the best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy.
+Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been
+sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute
+astonishment.—That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at
+home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk
+half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed
+company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility
+and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A
+man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and
+might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have
+been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been
+alone!—Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own
+fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again
+into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken
+back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would
+probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked
+at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I could
+not have believed it even of _him_.”
+
+Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was
+exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being
+principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was
+making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the
+inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
+her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
+abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family
+communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he
+had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
+the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he
+had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
+
+“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a few
+lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”
+
+The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking
+to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible
+to every body.
+
+“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say
+to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—Anne,
+my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In
+town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as
+impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most
+likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all
+nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us
+again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
+and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.
+Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read
+it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some
+other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the
+circumstance to the others in a common way.”
+
+Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and
+words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was
+happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm
+and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little
+occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the
+degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
+
+Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative
+to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,
+and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
+communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.
+
+It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might not
+have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly
+delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to
+be made happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but
+she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have
+been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.
+Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the
+subject with her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+“I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,”
+said Mr. Weston.
+
+Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended
+her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.
+
+“You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” he
+continued—“and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.”
+
+“Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.
+Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
+pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.”
+
+“You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.— He
+is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a
+letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my
+son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—it was
+to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I
+hardly ever get a letter.”
+
+“And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.
+Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most
+dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours
+follow your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we
+married women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could
+not have believed it of you!”
+
+“Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
+Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a hurry,
+merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to
+town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the
+whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to
+move southward without loss of time.”
+
+“Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”
+
+“Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a
+considerable journey.”
+
+“Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than
+from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people
+of large fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.
+Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice
+in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four
+horses.”
+
+“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, “is, that
+Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the
+sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she complained, he
+said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having
+both his arm and his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
+weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to
+sleep only two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly,
+delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You
+must grant me that.”
+
+“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my
+own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable
+antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you,
+if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you
+would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to
+avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have
+caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;
+an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”
+
+“Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
+lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the
+land for”—
+
+Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
+
+“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure
+you. Do not run away with such an idea.”
+
+“Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough
+a fine lady as any body ever beheld.”
+
+Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
+It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was
+_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of
+it;—and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
+Weston went on.
+
+“Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect—but
+this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and
+therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health
+now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I
+would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith
+in Mrs. Churchill’s illness.”
+
+“If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or to
+Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for
+her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now
+been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she
+begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very
+retired.”
+
+“Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from
+the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You
+seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete retirement.—And
+Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy
+that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough
+in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman
+cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so
+many myself as to be quite independent of society.”
+
+“Frank was here in February for a fortnight.”
+
+“So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society
+of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call
+myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being
+such a creature in the world.”
+
+This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.
+Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,
+
+“My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing
+possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have
+been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”
+
+He had done his duty and could return to his son.
+
+“When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain when we
+might see him again, which makes this day’s news doubly welcome. It has
+been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion
+he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn
+up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully
+desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And how could it be
+supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so forth—I
+always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has,
+you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if
+things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.”
+
+“Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say
+to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when,
+because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the
+rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and
+exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen’s
+saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to
+dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The
+carriage—we had disappointments about the carriage;—one morning, I
+remember, he came to me quite in despair.”
+
+She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
+seized the opportunity of going on.
+
+“You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is
+ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than
+Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable
+prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely the
+season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at
+the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and
+never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best
+of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there
+always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we
+intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I
+do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the
+sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or
+to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than
+having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the
+state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be
+pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally
+thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s
+partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most
+gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.”
+
+“And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion
+will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.
+Frank Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one
+of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means
+implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son,
+so I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.”
+
+Mr. Weston was musing.
+
+“I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.
+Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but
+there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me
+to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be
+ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the
+treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of
+it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank’s mother would
+never have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has
+pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet,
+indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only
+make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance
+and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair
+pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely
+the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a
+Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims:
+but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.”
+
+“Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a
+horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to
+people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who
+are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give
+themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them
+directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and
+encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense
+airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established
+families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived
+at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came
+from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr.
+Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is
+something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of
+the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and
+yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my
+brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest
+neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven
+years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him—I
+believe, at least—I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed
+the purchase before his death.”
+
+They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having
+said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.
+
+After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.
+Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,
+and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed
+little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which
+nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of
+spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.
+
+Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to
+leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—
+
+“Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the
+boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at
+full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise
+than her’s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have
+to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic
+them.”
+
+“I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall do all in
+my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
+happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”
+
+“And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.”
+
+“That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”
+
+“I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or even
+may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue
+to increase as much as they have done lately.”
+
+“Increase!”
+
+“Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a
+great difference in your way of life.”
+
+“Difference! No indeed I am not.”
+
+“There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company
+than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for
+only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!—When did it
+happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing,
+and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella
+brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls
+at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in
+your goings-on, is very great.”
+
+“Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it all.”
+
+“Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
+influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma,
+that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I
+only beg you to send them home.”
+
+“No,” cried Mr. Knightley, “that need not be the consequence. Let them
+be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.”
+
+“Upon my word,” exclaimed Emma, “you amuse me! I should like to know
+how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being
+of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure
+to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what
+have they been? Dining once with the Coles—and having a ball talked of,
+which never took place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John
+Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at
+once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning
+to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours
+from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for
+me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that
+if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much
+better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours
+where she is absent one—and who, when he is at home, is either reading
+to himself or settling his accounts.”
+
+Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without
+difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to talk to him.
+
+
+
+
+VOLUME III
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the
+nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She
+was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all
+apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had
+really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;—but
+if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the
+two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he
+had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two
+months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before
+her:—caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not
+mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be
+incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
+
+She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
+That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present
+acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something
+decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a
+crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and
+tranquil state.
+
+It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had
+foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank
+Churchill’s feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so
+soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.
+He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he
+came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise
+all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was
+influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost
+friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing
+her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he
+had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She
+watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had
+been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had
+produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
+
+He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
+delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and
+he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read
+his comparative indifference. He was not calm; his spirits were
+evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he
+was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what
+decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an
+hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. “He had seen a
+group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed—he had not
+stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he had the vanity
+to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he
+wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.” She had no
+doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits,
+nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather
+inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a
+discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.
+
+This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
+He was often hoping, intending to come—but was always prevented. His
+aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at
+Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was
+to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had been of no
+service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was
+really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it,
+at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he
+looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been
+half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that
+care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have
+many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on,
+by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely
+imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
+
+It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not
+endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and
+suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her nephew’s letter to Randalls
+communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to
+Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of
+an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A
+ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit
+expected from the change.
+
+Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,
+and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months
+before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the
+house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with
+the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he
+could even wish.
+
+Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was
+considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She
+hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.
+
+Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It
+was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be
+really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a
+young man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The
+difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make
+the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen
+miles—nay, eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—was a
+serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent
+in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London;
+he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for
+easy intercourse. Better than nearer!
+
+One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this
+removal,—the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but
+it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,
+however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and
+very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines
+from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the
+change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for
+twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a
+day as possible.
+
+Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood
+between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
+
+Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.
+May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to
+spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely
+hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have
+any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,
+the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank
+Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls
+before dinner, and every thing was safe.
+
+No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at
+the Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a common
+meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
+entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,
+for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort
+of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse
+him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s
+company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good
+time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
+
+Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not
+say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
+They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it
+should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of
+another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first,
+without great surprize. “So unreasonably early!” she was going to
+exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends,
+who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr.
+Weston’s judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another
+carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same
+distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if
+half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of
+preparatory inspection.
+
+Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.
+Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a
+man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
+distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a
+little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher
+character.—General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man
+what he ought to be.—She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked
+about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to
+do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their
+various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a
+fire in the evening was still very pleasant.
+
+Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the number of privy
+councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door
+to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be
+brought by the Eltons.
+
+Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
+which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to
+the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,—impatient
+to begin, or afraid of being always near her.
+
+Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” said he. “I
+have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
+It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.”
+
+A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,
+said,
+
+“I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
+either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.”
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
+passed.
+
+“But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, looking about. “We
+thought you were to bring them.”
+
+The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma
+longed to know what Frank’s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how
+he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
+graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,
+by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
+
+In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of rain.—“I
+will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank to his father:
+“Miss Bates must not be forgotten:” and away he went. Mr. Weston was
+following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion
+of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,
+though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
+
+“A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you
+I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely
+pleased with him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a
+very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and
+approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
+You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies—quite a horror of them.
+They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me
+had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very
+cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them
+much better.”
+
+While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was chained; but
+when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies
+just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
+
+Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its being our
+carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so
+extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.—What a
+pleasure it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!—I understand you
+were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite
+unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.”
+
+Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into
+the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.
+Weston’s to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be
+understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every
+body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates,
+who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes
+after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door
+opened she was heard,
+
+“So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not
+care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares—Well!—(as soon as
+she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is
+admirable!—Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could
+not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane, look!—did you
+ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin’s
+lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
+I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs. Stokes,’ said
+I—but I had not time for more.” She was now met by Mrs. Weston.—“Very
+well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear
+it. So afraid you might have a headache!—seeing you pass by so often,
+and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it
+indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the
+carriage!—excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the
+horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and I am sure our
+thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most
+kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But two such offers in
+one day!—Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my
+word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr.
+Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—for the evenings are not
+warm—her large new shawl— Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So kind of her
+to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice.
+There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some
+time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you
+sure you did not wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so
+afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to
+step upon—I shall never forget his extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank
+Churchill, I must tell you my mother’s spectacles have never been in
+fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of
+your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank
+Churchill?—Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you
+do?—Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in
+fairy-land!—Such a transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing
+Emma most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss
+Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s hair?—You are a
+judge.—She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her
+hair!—No hairdresser from London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I
+declare—and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a
+moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you. This is
+delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—Oh! there he is. Don’t
+disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do
+you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the other day as you rode through the
+town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss
+Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!—How do
+you do? How do you all do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never
+better.—Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the
+worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among
+such friends! And such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I
+thank you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir,
+by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!”
+
+Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss
+Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the
+discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little
+way behind her.—He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she
+could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress
+and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was
+evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it was, “How do you
+like my gown?—How do you like my trimming?—How has Wright done my
+hair?”—with many other relative questions, all answered with patient
+politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, “Nobody can think less of dress in
+general than I do—but upon such an occasion as this, when every body’s
+eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons—who I have
+no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour—I would not wish
+to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except
+mine.—So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.—We shall
+see if our styles suit.—A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
+I like him very well.”
+
+At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not
+but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
+more;—and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till
+another suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly
+forward.—Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
+
+“Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?—I was
+this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
+tidings of us.”
+
+“Jane!”—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
+displeasure.—“That is easy—but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I
+suppose.”
+
+“How do you like Mrs. Elton?” said Emma in a whisper.
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“You are ungrateful.”
+
+“Ungrateful!—What do you mean?” Then changing from a frown to a
+smile—“No, do not tell me—I do not want to know what you mean.—Where is
+my father?—When are we to begin dancing?”
+
+Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked
+off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and
+Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be
+laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton
+must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which
+interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.—Emma
+heard the sad truth with fortitude.
+
+“And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said Mr. Weston.
+“She will think Frank ought to ask her.”
+
+Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and
+boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most
+perfect approbation of—and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was
+wanting _him_ to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business
+was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr.
+Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
+Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton,
+though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was
+almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly
+the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though
+she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by
+the change. Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of this
+little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see
+the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that
+she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.—She was more
+disturbed by Mr. Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There
+he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be
+dancing,—not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and
+whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance
+till their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—He could not
+have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had
+placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms
+and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must
+draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not
+one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him.—He
+moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in
+how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must have
+danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his eye, she
+forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished he
+could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.—He
+seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that he
+thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she
+did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and
+her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.
+That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was
+indubitable.
+
+The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant
+attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed
+happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom
+bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in
+the very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very
+recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings
+usually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something
+of.—The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no
+partner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been
+hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one
+disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon afterwards,
+on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance
+if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she
+was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.
+
+Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room
+where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in
+front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of
+maintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss
+Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.—Emma saw it. She was
+not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had
+therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little
+she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were
+exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch;
+but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue
+which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she
+perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was
+not only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant
+glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join
+him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to which his prompt reply
+was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”
+
+“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no
+dancer.”
+
+“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great
+pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old
+married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
+great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
+Gilbert.”
+
+“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
+disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.” “Miss
+Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging—and if I were
+not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You
+will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
+command—but my dancing days are over.”
+
+Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
+mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton!
+the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round for a moment;
+he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging
+himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed
+between him and his wife.
+
+She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
+face might be as hot.
+
+In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley leading
+Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
+delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,
+both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
+too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
+catch his eye again.
+
+His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;
+and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for
+the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment
+and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
+announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,
+flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
+
+Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
+foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
+growing very like her;—_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing
+audibly to her partner,
+
+“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very good-natured,
+I declare.”
+
+Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard
+from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table
+and taking up her spoon.
+
+“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs.
+Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there
+will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One
+door nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.
+Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so
+gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I
+said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
+missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
+Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
+vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits
+and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of
+her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were
+amused, and who were your partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not
+forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love
+to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.
+Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’
+My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would not
+rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane
+on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little
+back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she
+looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen
+of the evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take
+care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded
+there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there
+is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and
+style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama,
+Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The baked apples and biscuits,
+excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of
+sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr.
+Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all
+out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread
+and asparagus—so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would
+not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss
+Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!—Well, this is
+brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such
+elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since—Well, where
+shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a
+draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this
+side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as
+you please. What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane,
+how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too!
+Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent,
+and I cannot help beginning.”
+
+Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;
+but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him
+irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his
+reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
+and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of censure.
+
+“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma, why is it
+that they are your enemies?”
+
+He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
+“_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
+be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
+that you did want him to marry Harriet.”
+
+“I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”
+
+He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
+only said,
+
+“I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”
+
+“Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever tell
+me I am wrong?”
+
+“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you wrong,
+I am sure the other tells you of it.”
+
+“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There
+is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not:
+and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was
+through a series of strange blunders!”
+
+“And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
+justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
+chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
+Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
+girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a
+woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”
+
+Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle of
+Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
+
+“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
+doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
+Every body is asleep!”
+
+“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”
+
+“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.
+
+She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask
+me.”
+
+“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.
+
+“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
+not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
+
+“Brother and sister! no, indeed.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable
+pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which
+she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely
+glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the
+Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much
+alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was
+peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few
+minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
+occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward
+to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.—From
+Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted
+the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were
+suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the
+superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma
+could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by
+injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for
+supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther
+requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and
+Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer
+must be before her!
+
+She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that
+he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he
+was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.
+
+Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them
+all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened
+up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their
+grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons
+entered whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank
+Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment
+sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.
+Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer
+her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards
+asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately
+sinking into a chair fainted away.
+
+A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,
+and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the
+suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted
+with the whole.
+
+Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.
+Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and
+taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough
+for safety, had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury,
+making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became
+for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had
+advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small
+distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a
+party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and
+Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and
+calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight
+hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to
+Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much
+from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank
+brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in
+this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
+
+How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more
+courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could
+not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen
+children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and
+impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more
+frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her
+purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to
+use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was
+moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was
+followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
+
+In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and
+conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his
+leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance
+at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced
+him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,
+a mile or two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of
+scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to
+restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a
+few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on
+foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The
+terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
+their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet
+eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength
+enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It
+was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other
+place.
+
+This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of
+Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He dared
+not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not
+another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her
+safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people
+in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the
+grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.
+
+Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman
+thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain
+ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at
+least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician
+have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and
+heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been
+at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How much
+more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and
+foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her
+mind had already made.
+
+It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever
+occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no
+rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very
+person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing
+to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And
+knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this
+period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his
+attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr.
+Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most
+interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence
+should not be strongly recommending each to the other.
+
+In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while
+Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her
+naïveté, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
+sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own
+account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
+abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing
+was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
+She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of
+interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive
+scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account
+proceed.
+
+Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of
+what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but
+she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour
+it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those
+who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in
+the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last
+night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as
+he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without
+their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some
+comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse
+(for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well
+as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had
+the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very
+indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,
+and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had
+an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for
+she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent
+illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.
+
+The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
+themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have
+walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history
+dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her
+nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and
+John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the
+gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the
+slightest particular from the original recital.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one
+morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down
+and hesitating, thus began:
+
+“Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I should
+like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you know, it
+will be over.”
+
+Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
+seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as
+her words, for something more than ordinary.
+
+“It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued, “to have
+no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered
+creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the
+satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
+necessary—I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and
+I dare say you understand me.”
+
+“Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”
+
+“How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...” cried Harriet,
+warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary
+in him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the
+two I had rather not see him—and indeed I would go any distance round
+to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire
+her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and
+all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall
+never forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you, Miss
+Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together,
+it will not give me another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I
+have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to
+have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept—I know that
+very well (blushing as she spoke).—However, now I will destroy it
+all—and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you
+may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
+holds?” said she, with a conscious look.
+
+“Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”
+
+“No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
+very much.”
+
+She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_
+_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
+Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within
+abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which
+Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,
+excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
+
+“Now,” said Harriet, “you _must_ recollect.”
+
+“No, indeed I do not.”
+
+“Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
+passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
+times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my
+sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the
+very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
+penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had none
+about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
+mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he
+cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before
+he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help
+making a treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used, and looked at
+it now and then as a great treat.”
+
+“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and
+jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
+Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
+relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the
+finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about
+me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my
+pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual
+blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go on—what
+else?”
+
+“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
+it, you did it so naturally.”
+
+“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!”
+said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
+between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord
+bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
+piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
+never was equal to this.”
+
+“Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is something
+still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because
+this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister
+never did.”
+
+Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of
+an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
+
+“This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one
+morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly
+the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_
+_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was
+about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
+brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out
+his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
+it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the
+table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I
+dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.”
+
+“I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember it.—Talking about
+spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and
+Mr. Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly
+remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I
+have an idea he was standing just here.”
+
+“Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I cannot
+recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I
+am now.”—
+
+“Well, go on.”
+
+“Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say—except that
+I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to
+see me do it.”
+
+“My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
+treasuring up these things?”
+
+“Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I
+could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you
+know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but
+had not resolution enough to part with them.”
+
+“But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I have not a
+word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be
+useful.”
+
+“I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a
+disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes,
+and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”
+
+“And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?”
+
+She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was
+already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had
+_told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a
+fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and
+quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which
+made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in
+the course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I
+would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after
+a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I
+shall never marry.”
+
+Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
+moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not,
+replied,
+
+“Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”
+
+“It is one that I shall never change, however.”
+
+After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I hope
+it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”
+
+“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and Emma could
+just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”
+
+She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no
+farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—Perhaps
+Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she
+were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to
+hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had
+been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she
+was perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say
+and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was
+always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed,
+on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have
+the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was
+decided, and thus spoke—
+
+“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
+resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
+an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly
+your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?”
+
+“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose—
+Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a
+distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of
+the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
+proper, in me especially.”
+
+“I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
+was enough to warm your heart.”
+
+“Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very
+recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him
+coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one
+moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”
+
+“It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes,
+honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it
+will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not
+advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for
+its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
+wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not
+let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be
+observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I
+give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
+the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I
+know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were
+very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no
+doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious
+nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there
+have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I
+would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured
+your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I
+shall always know how to value.”
+
+Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was
+very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her
+friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must
+be saving her from the danger of degradation.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
+Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The
+Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use
+to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
+grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was
+again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was
+likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she
+were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save
+herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her
+will.
+
+Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had
+certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing
+to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in
+his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
+Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his
+mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,
+discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many
+were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,
+Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with
+Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of
+intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration
+on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself
+to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any
+of Emma’s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the
+suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and
+Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look,
+at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed
+somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not
+help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations
+which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
+
+“Myself creating what I saw,”
+
+
+brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of
+private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill
+and Jane.
+
+He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
+his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he
+joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,
+like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the
+weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates
+and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on
+reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of
+visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
+and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;
+and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons
+listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s
+most obliging invitation.
+
+As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on
+horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
+
+“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what
+became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”
+
+Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever
+had any such plan.”
+
+“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”
+
+“Me! impossible!”
+
+“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was
+certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was
+extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she
+thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You
+must remember it now?”
+
+“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”
+
+“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must have
+dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you
+were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”
+
+“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about Perry and a
+carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he
+can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”
+
+“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it from
+nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston’s having
+mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with
+all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of
+it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I
+dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone
+through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
+Perry.”
+
+“It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should have had such
+a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
+should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and
+his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what
+will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little
+premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
+And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your
+dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are
+absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”
+
+Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to
+prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of
+Mr. Weston’s hint.
+
+“Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
+to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject,
+there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean
+to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
+dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge
+that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself
+mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as
+ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only
+thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should
+have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning
+because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember
+grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had
+been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to
+Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I
+do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;
+she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go
+beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that
+I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having
+never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing
+before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and
+now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not
+like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the
+least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly
+remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, indeed!”
+
+They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss
+Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he
+thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had
+involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy
+with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen
+waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank
+Churchill the determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her
+intently—in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between them into
+the hall, and looked at neither.
+
+There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be
+borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round
+the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,
+and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and
+persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on
+which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea
+passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
+
+“Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind
+him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away
+their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is
+it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated
+rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters
+one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”
+
+Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was
+quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much
+disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words
+for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The
+quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,
+who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.
+Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in
+lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the “poor
+little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter
+near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.
+
+Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight
+glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to
+Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them
+all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little
+apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile
+pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and
+buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of
+looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after
+every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell
+to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.
+The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there
+was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise
+ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could
+all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion
+of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must
+be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed
+to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for
+gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper
+game on Frank Churchill’s part.
+
+With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm
+and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a
+short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and
+demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly
+entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to
+appear to censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank
+Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it to
+her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing
+warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”
+
+It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without
+feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed
+over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate
+civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity
+to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment
+for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to
+be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his; her
+comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the
+superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was
+evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed
+more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, “I did not
+know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away the letters with even
+an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word
+that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the
+attack, and turned towards her aunt.
+
+“Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken
+a word—“I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be
+going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking
+for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
+night.”
+
+Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had
+preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table;
+but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr.
+Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed
+towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was
+afterwards looking for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it
+was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted,
+Mr. Knightley could not tell.
+
+He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what
+he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his
+observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious
+friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her
+in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was
+his duty.
+
+“Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the
+poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw
+the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining
+to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”
+
+Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true
+explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she
+was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.
+
+“Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant nothing; a mere
+joke among ourselves.”
+
+“The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and Mr.
+Churchill.”
+
+He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather
+busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in
+doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless
+interference. Emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed
+to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to
+her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome
+interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather
+than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
+
+“My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do you think
+you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the
+gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”
+
+“Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.—Why
+do you make a doubt of it?”
+
+“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or
+that she admired him?”
+
+“Never, never!” she cried with a most open eagerness—“Never, for the
+twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could
+it possibly come into your head?”
+
+“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between
+them—certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be
+public.”
+
+“Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can
+vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry
+to check you in your first essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no
+admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
+have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings
+rather of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to
+explain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is
+capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far
+from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in
+the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I
+can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s
+indifference.”
+
+She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which
+silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have
+prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his
+suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a
+circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet
+hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much
+irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute
+fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost
+every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty
+leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.
+Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
+of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such
+importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at
+present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again
+restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’
+coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
+whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the
+situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might
+eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of
+all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
+
+Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal
+of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all
+wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought
+at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing
+need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the
+Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the
+autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was
+to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the
+idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see
+what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had
+agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more
+of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be
+done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the
+bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic
+parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
+
+This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but
+feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.
+Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and
+sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go
+together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it
+was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing
+but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must
+already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it
+could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain
+to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an
+arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an
+arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of
+being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and
+the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of
+secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr.
+Weston’s temper.
+
+“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably.
+“But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without
+numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its
+own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not
+leave her out.”
+
+Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
+
+It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was
+growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
+pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
+into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
+before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
+on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were
+inadequate to such an attack.
+
+“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather
+for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What
+are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
+Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful
+exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”
+
+“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may
+be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are
+ripening fast.”
+
+If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
+for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like
+it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was
+famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
+but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt
+the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again
+and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely
+gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment
+as she chose to consider it.
+
+“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your
+day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”
+
+“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom
+I would wish to meet you.”
+
+“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady
+Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”
+
+“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to
+give any other invitations.”
+
+“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid
+of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.
+Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.
+Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”
+
+“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in the world
+whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and
+that one is—”
+
+“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.
+
+“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such
+matters myself.”
+
+“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one
+preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
+Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her
+aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting
+the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”
+
+“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on
+Miss Bates in my way home.”
+
+“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is
+to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I
+shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging
+on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be
+more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be
+no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your
+gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
+trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out
+of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural
+and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”
+
+“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the
+table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
+gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is
+best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
+strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”
+
+“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the bye,
+can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be
+sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to
+inspect anything—”
+
+“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
+
+“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely
+clever.”
+
+“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and
+would spurn any body’s assistance.”
+
+“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
+donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I
+really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I
+conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so
+many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
+home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in
+winter there is dirt.”
+
+“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane
+is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however,
+if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing
+to be as much to your taste as possible.”
+
+“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
+Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
+warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes,
+believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
+the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please
+me.”
+
+Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He
+wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
+and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat
+would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
+specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
+Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
+
+He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him
+for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for
+two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go
+very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear
+girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp
+now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house
+again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton,
+and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all
+to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning.
+He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind
+and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining
+out.”
+
+Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The
+invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like
+Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment
+to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of
+pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over
+to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which
+could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say
+that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no
+time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.
+
+In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
+Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
+settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing
+exactly right.
+
+Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was
+safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of
+this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the
+Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was
+happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what
+had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
+to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on
+purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all
+the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
+sympathiser.
+
+It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
+was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and
+look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more
+particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds
+which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
+
+She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
+the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed
+the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
+characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens
+stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with
+all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance
+of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance
+had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike
+it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many
+comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought
+to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect
+for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
+in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had;
+but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them
+neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These
+were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it
+was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the
+strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank
+Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,
+in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was
+very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
+talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
+spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always
+wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather
+for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly
+the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely
+superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very
+scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of
+strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple
+Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly
+different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their
+way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to
+cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering
+strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no
+longer—must go and sit in the shade.”
+
+Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by
+Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to
+inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears
+of his horse.
+
+Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to
+overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation,
+a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received
+notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs.
+Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it
+fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an
+acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful,
+charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every
+thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
+immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she
+positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax
+continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any
+thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge
+before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an
+acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was
+astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at
+last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a
+removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the
+gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The
+pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
+
+It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a
+scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly
+followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of
+limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the
+river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing;
+nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,
+which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an
+approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,
+as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a
+charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The
+considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,
+gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a
+mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well
+clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
+and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the
+river making a close and handsome curve around it.
+
+It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
+English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without
+being oppressive.
+
+In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
+towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
+distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and
+Harriet!—It was an odd tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There
+had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and
+turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
+conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been
+sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;
+but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its
+appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading
+flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She
+joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in
+looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of
+agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These
+are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without
+being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him.
+It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of
+Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was
+most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
+
+The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they
+were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.
+Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself
+uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing
+that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
+coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better,
+that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s
+state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such
+sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable
+dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,
+that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented
+coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;
+she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
+
+The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see
+what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as
+far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
+any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.
+Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
+of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by
+him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,
+that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
+and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
+
+Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s
+entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
+shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
+prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the
+kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly
+well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he
+would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance
+to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was
+slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was
+begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few
+moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the
+house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly
+in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet
+Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse
+was the very person she was in quest of.
+
+“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am
+gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is,
+nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and
+I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any
+body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to
+the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not
+be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I
+am gone?”
+
+“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury
+alone?”
+
+“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty
+minutes.”
+
+“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
+father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be
+round in five minutes.”
+
+“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for
+_me_ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard
+others!”
+
+She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That
+can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
+carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”
+
+“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of
+fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all know at
+times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are
+exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me
+have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
+
+Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into
+her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched
+her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was
+grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
+being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and
+to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,
+even towards some of those who loved her best.
+
+“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into
+the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of
+their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”
+
+Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
+accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank
+Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had
+forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
+would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who
+had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a
+temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had
+lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming,
+till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how
+late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have
+come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing
+like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like
+heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
+intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
+slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.
+
+“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
+
+“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
+spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be
+going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I
+came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”
+
+Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s
+state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
+humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be
+his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
+the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some
+refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
+dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.
+
+“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
+hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
+muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all
+her attention to her father, saying in secret—
+
+“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
+who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy
+temper will not mind it.”
+
+He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
+back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like
+himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
+employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
+He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
+at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking
+over views in Swisserland.
+
+“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall
+never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my
+sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem.
+I shall do something to expose myself.”
+
+“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to
+Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave
+England.”
+
+“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for
+her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I
+assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I
+shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I
+want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating
+eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I
+could.”
+
+“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
+hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
+
+“_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
+not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in
+every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
+person.”
+
+“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and
+eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice
+of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you
+nearly on a par with the rest of us.”
+
+“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”
+
+“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not
+Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want
+of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”
+
+“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”
+
+“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”
+
+“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”
+
+“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
+
+“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of
+you all there without me.”
+
+“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
+own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”
+
+The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
+With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
+took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and
+disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it
+was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short
+final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank
+Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,
+that his last words to Emma were,
+
+“Well;—if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
+
+She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
+Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
+circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in
+favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating
+safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
+time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with
+the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.
+Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
+Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body
+had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount
+of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of
+spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated
+too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took
+charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank
+Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise
+better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never
+materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness
+to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole
+hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of
+separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine
+prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to
+remove.
+
+At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
+Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked
+without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing
+what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
+should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
+
+When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
+for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first
+object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to
+her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
+cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,
+was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the
+admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most
+animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own
+estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people
+looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but
+flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
+Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves
+open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple
+Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and
+thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less
+happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;
+and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all,
+whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious,
+they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her
+friend.
+
+“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come
+to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
+the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”
+
+“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that
+you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than
+you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to
+come.”
+
+“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”
+
+“It is hotter to-day.”
+
+“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
+
+“You are comfortable because you are under command.”
+
+“Your command?—Yes.”
+
+“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
+somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
+management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
+with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command
+rather than mine.”
+
+“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a
+motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always
+with me. You are always with me.”
+
+“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not
+begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour
+before.”
+
+“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
+first in February.”
+
+“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody
+speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
+nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”
+
+“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively
+impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill
+hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and
+Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then
+whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to
+rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and
+gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,
+presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking
+of?”
+
+Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
+deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr.
+Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.
+
+“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
+thinking of?”
+
+“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no
+account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt
+of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all
+thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,
+(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be
+afraid of knowing.”
+
+“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which _I_
+should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,
+perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party—_I_ never was in any
+circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”
+
+Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,
+
+“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but
+some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body
+knows what is due to _you_.”
+
+“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them
+affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I
+am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
+knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
+something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here
+are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
+entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
+thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two
+things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she
+engages to laugh heartily at them all.”
+
+“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy.
+‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I
+shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
+shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on
+every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”
+
+Emma could not resist.
+
+“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be
+limited as to number—only three at once.”
+
+Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
+immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
+anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
+
+“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
+Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
+disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old
+friend.”
+
+“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my
+best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”
+
+“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be
+indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”
+
+“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.
+Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me
+hear it.”
+
+“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too
+much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet
+are there, that express perfection?”
+
+“What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not know.”
+
+“Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
+guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”
+
+Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
+indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and
+enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the
+rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
+Knightley gravely said,
+
+“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
+has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
+else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.”
+
+“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton; “_I_
+really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had
+an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all
+pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know
+who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well
+at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of
+place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in
+summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have
+witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I
+have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be
+allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if
+you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We
+have nothing clever to say—not one of us.
+
+“Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering
+consciousness; “_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
+Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for
+nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”
+
+“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
+Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
+
+Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy
+couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
+hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they
+did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew
+each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to
+any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public
+place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is
+only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as
+they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it
+is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man
+has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest
+of his life!”
+
+Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
+confederates, spoke now.
+
+“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank
+Churchill turned towards her to listen.
+
+“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.
+
+“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate
+circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot
+imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may
+arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I
+would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute
+characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
+who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an
+oppression for ever.”
+
+He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
+afterwards said, in a lively tone,
+
+“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
+marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning
+to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any
+body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a
+smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt
+her, educate her.”
+
+“And make her like myself.”
+
+“By all means, if you can.”
+
+“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming
+wife.”
+
+“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.
+I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come
+to you for my wife. Remember.”
+
+Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
+favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
+Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
+He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could
+say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
+
+“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”
+
+“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was
+ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall
+soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of
+the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I
+declare—”
+
+They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr.
+Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s
+spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at
+last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking
+quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
+quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views
+beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to
+give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of
+collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to
+have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the
+quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of
+this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many
+ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
+
+While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He
+looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
+
+“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
+privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use
+it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could
+you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your
+wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not
+thought it possible.”
+
+Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
+
+“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it.
+It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”
+
+“I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it
+since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what
+candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
+forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for
+ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
+so irksome.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world:
+but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
+unfortunately blended in her.”
+
+“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
+I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
+the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
+absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
+liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma,
+consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk
+from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must
+probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was
+badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she
+had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have
+you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at
+her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of
+whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment
+of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from
+pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can;
+satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
+trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than
+you can do now.”
+
+While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
+ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had
+misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her
+tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
+mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,
+on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then
+reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no
+acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with
+voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He
+had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look
+back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they
+were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was
+vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she
+could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at
+any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth
+of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.
+How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could
+she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And
+how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of
+concurrence, of common kindness!
+
+Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel
+it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
+to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
+fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running
+down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble
+to check them, extraordinary as they were.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the
+evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could
+not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
+might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a
+morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational
+satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
+any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her
+father, was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for
+there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his
+comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond
+affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct,
+be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not
+without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How could
+you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths
+while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If attention, in
+future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had
+been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in
+thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.
+In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next
+morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,
+equal, kindly intercourse.
+
+She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
+nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
+might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while
+she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
+ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
+Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
+
+“The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound
+before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,
+with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of
+deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
+
+There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
+She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the
+maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait
+a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed
+both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse
+of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she
+heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid
+down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”
+
+Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did
+not quite understand what was going on.
+
+“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they
+_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,
+Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I
+am very little able—Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like?
+I am sure she will be here presently.”
+
+Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates
+keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—“Very happy and
+obliged”—but Emma’s conscience told her that there was not the same
+cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very
+friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
+return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.
+
+“Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have heard—and are
+come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in
+me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to
+part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful
+headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you
+know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’
+said I, ‘you will blind yourself’—for tears were in her eyes
+perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great
+change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I
+suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do
+not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good
+fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were
+to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one
+cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as
+possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy
+she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming
+to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie
+down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down
+upon the bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room.
+But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be
+well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,
+but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I
+was quite ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so
+happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the
+stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’
+said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said
+she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.’
+But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss
+Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’
+said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us
+keep you waiting—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must
+go, my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon
+the bed.’”
+
+Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
+kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
+as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing
+but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle
+sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very
+naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when
+she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest
+regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that the circumstances which
+she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might
+be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. “It
+must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be
+delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”
+
+“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always kind.”
+
+There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her
+dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—
+
+“Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”
+
+“To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have the charge
+of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible that any
+situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,
+Mrs. Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is
+intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four
+miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.”
+
+“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes—”
+
+“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She
+would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, ‘No;’ for when
+Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very
+morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite
+decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention;
+exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till
+Colonel Campbell’s return, and nothing should induce her to enter into
+any engagement at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
+again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her
+mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw
+farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in
+such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she
+positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as
+Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yesterday evening it
+was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not
+the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that
+upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge’s situation, she
+had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I did not know a word of it
+till it was all settled.”
+
+“You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”
+
+“Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon
+the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. ‘You _must_
+_all_ spend your evening with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you
+_all_ come.’”
+
+“Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”
+
+“No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
+thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let
+him off, he did not;—but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there,
+and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss
+Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed
+rather fagged after the morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is
+fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have
+enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,
+and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.”
+
+“Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
+making up her mind the whole day?”
+
+“I dare say she had.”
+
+“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
+friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
+possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”
+
+“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in
+the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and
+Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal
+and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most
+delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as
+to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there
+are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with
+such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of
+pleasure.—And her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary to
+you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would
+hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like
+Jane.”
+
+“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I
+remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
+what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
+earned.”
+
+“You are so noble in your ideas!”
+
+“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”
+
+“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a
+fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not
+know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and
+say, Come ma’am, do not let us think about it any more.”
+
+“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
+Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before
+their return?”
+
+“Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a
+situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so
+astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs.
+Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me
+upon it! It was before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because
+we were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea, because I
+remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something
+happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room
+before tea, old John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old
+John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father
+twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very
+poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—I must go and see him
+to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor
+John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he
+is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown,
+ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his
+father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us
+what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the
+chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to
+Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane
+spoke to Mrs. Elton.”
+
+Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
+circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she
+could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s
+going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
+
+What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
+accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
+servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
+soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger,
+however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
+sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable
+account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming
+back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
+resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse
+seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the
+Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy
+going a good pace, and driving very steady.
+
+There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it
+caught Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which
+already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s
+importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every
+thing, the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of
+woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,
+till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,
+
+“Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
+of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.—‘You
+must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business
+here.—Let it stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel
+Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for
+me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—And to this day, I do
+believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”
+
+Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of
+all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,
+that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long
+enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to
+say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;
+but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.
+Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting
+with her father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner
+decidedly graver than usual, said,
+
+“I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
+and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend
+a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,
+besides the ‘love,’ which nobody carries?”
+
+“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”
+
+“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.”
+
+Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,
+however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends
+again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father
+began his inquiries.
+
+“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did you find my
+worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say they must have been very
+much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and
+Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so
+attentive to them!”
+
+Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,
+and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.
+Knightley.—It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in
+her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that
+had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.—
+He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in
+another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common
+friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;—whether she had not herself
+made the first motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, have
+rather offered it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was
+on the point of carrying it to his lips—when, from some fancy or other,
+he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should
+change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.—He
+would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—The
+intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his
+manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it
+happened, but she thought nothing became him more.—It was with him, of
+so simple, yet so dignified a nature.—She could not but recall the
+attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He left
+them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the
+alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but
+now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
+
+Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she
+had left her ten minutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure
+to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.—Neither would
+she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew
+how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a
+better time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have been
+pleasanter.—They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be
+deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished
+gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered
+his good opinion.—He had been sitting with them half an hour, she
+found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
+
+In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the
+disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and going so
+suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad;
+Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the
+effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,—interested,
+without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s
+going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr.
+Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpected blow.
+
+“I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably
+settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say
+her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry
+situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to
+be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me.
+You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
+was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be
+induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”
+
+The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else
+into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the
+death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason
+to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty
+hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any
+thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short
+struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
+
+It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of
+gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
+surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where
+she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
+to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be
+disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
+Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was
+now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
+justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The
+event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of
+imaginary complaints.
+
+“Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
+more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the
+temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what
+would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be
+dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr.
+Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman,
+who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be
+as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over
+her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.
+How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It
+was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.
+Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both
+with awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on how
+Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw
+in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith
+would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his
+wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into
+any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the
+nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the
+cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.
+
+Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great
+self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed
+nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of
+strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might
+endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s
+death with mutual forbearance.
+
+Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all
+that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill
+was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the
+departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a
+very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a
+visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for
+Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible
+on Emma’s side.
+
+It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose
+prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements
+now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
+kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely
+a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she
+had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she
+would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted
+to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and
+testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to
+spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation
+was refused, and by a verbal message. “Miss Fairfax was not well enough
+to write;” and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it
+appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,
+though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering
+under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him
+doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time
+proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite
+quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms,
+nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing
+apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought
+she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so
+herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her
+present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous
+disorder:—confined always to one room;—he could have wished it
+otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must
+acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that
+description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,
+in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived
+more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;
+grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some
+way of being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her
+aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
+conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
+following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language
+she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any
+hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s decided
+opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was
+only in this short note:
+
+“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
+exercise.”
+
+Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
+impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
+indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
+counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the
+answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s,
+in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not
+do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing
+with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
+service—and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in
+vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite
+unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
+worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;
+but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear
+that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
+“Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any
+body—any body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs.
+Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except
+them, Jane would really see nobody.”
+
+Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
+and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
+she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and
+only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet,
+which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
+was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any
+thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they
+could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
+distasteful.
+
+Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
+examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
+was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In
+half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
+Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being
+sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she
+insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”
+
+When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
+about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of
+the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
+exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,
+she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was
+resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.
+Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
+from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
+inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little
+credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:
+but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good,
+and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been
+privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have
+seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any
+thing to reprove.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease, Emma was
+called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and
+wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the parlour-door,
+and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice,
+sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
+
+“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be
+possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”
+
+“Is she unwell?”
+
+“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the
+carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you
+know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”
+
+“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what
+you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not
+ill?”
+
+“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
+time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”
+
+To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something
+really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was
+well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her
+father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon
+out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for
+Randalls.
+
+“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—“now
+Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”
+
+“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask me. I promised my wife to
+leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not
+be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”
+
+“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good
+God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick
+Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what
+it is.”
+
+“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
+
+“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest
+friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you
+by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
+
+“Upon my word, Emma.”—
+
+“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it
+has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be
+_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”
+
+“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in
+the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
+Knightley.”
+
+Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
+
+“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I
+should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern
+you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear
+Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that
+it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we
+walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”
+
+Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She
+asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
+that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
+concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
+circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond
+had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural
+children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, though very
+undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little
+more than an animating curiosity.
+
+“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they
+proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,
+than with any other view.
+
+“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not Frank, I assure
+you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.”
+
+“Has your son been with you, then?”
+
+“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”
+
+For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded
+and demure,
+
+“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”
+
+They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said
+he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you
+will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in
+delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly
+heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have
+been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”
+
+Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
+that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she
+eagerly said,
+
+“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
+find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been
+walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do
+not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your
+distress, whatever it may be.”
+
+“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
+“Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to
+hear?”
+
+“So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”
+
+“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;”
+(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) “He has
+been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is
+impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
+subject,—to announce an attachment—”
+
+She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of
+Harriet.
+
+“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an
+engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any
+body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
+engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”
+
+Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,
+
+“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”
+
+“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her
+eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to
+recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a
+solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth,
+and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but
+themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so
+wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet
+almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew
+him.”
+
+Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two
+ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
+poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
+confirmation, repeated confirmation.
+
+“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a
+circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at
+all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of
+them came to Highbury?”
+
+“Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me, Emma, very
+much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we
+cannot excuse.”
+
+Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend _not_ to
+understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured
+that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are
+apprehensive of.”
+
+Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as
+steady as her words.
+
+“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
+present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you,
+that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I
+did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,
+was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
+Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,
+for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may
+believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”
+
+Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
+utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good
+than any thing else in the world could do.
+
+“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On
+this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
+might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.—
+Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”
+
+“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
+wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;
+and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to
+come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
+_very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he
+certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering
+attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How
+could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that
+he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong
+indeed.”
+
+“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”
+
+“And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to
+look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
+before her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity,
+which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”
+
+“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
+He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a
+quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the
+full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been
+misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed
+to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very
+possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”
+
+“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much
+beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him
+in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright
+integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain
+of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every
+transaction of his life.”
+
+“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
+in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
+many, very many, good qualities; and—”
+
+“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge, too!
+Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by
+such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her
+even to think of such a measure!”
+
+“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
+him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at
+least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I
+know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I
+do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery
+of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined
+him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on
+his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
+concealment that had been carrying on so long.”
+
+Emma began to listen better.
+
+“I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told me at
+parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
+seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let
+us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It
+may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be
+understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry to
+condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am
+satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
+for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must
+both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and
+concealment.”
+
+“_His_ sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to have done him
+much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”
+
+“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a
+difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that
+family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have
+been a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at
+rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly
+opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when
+undue influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent with
+very little persuasion.”
+
+“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for Harriet.”
+
+“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
+morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some time—and
+then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,
+to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,
+he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much
+agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a
+different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In
+addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so
+very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was
+every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”
+
+“And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with
+such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know
+of the engagement?”
+
+Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
+
+“None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being
+in the world but their two selves.”
+
+“Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the
+idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very
+abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of
+hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us with
+professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to
+judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,
+completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth
+and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been
+carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and
+words that were never meant for both to hear.—They must take the
+consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
+perfectly agreeable!”
+
+“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am very sure
+that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might
+not have heard.”
+
+“You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you
+imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”
+
+“True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
+Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and
+as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.”
+
+At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the
+window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited
+him in; and, while he was coming round, added, “Now, dearest Emma, let
+me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at
+ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the
+best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her
+favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not
+feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance
+for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a
+girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always
+given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her credit for, in
+spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And
+how much may be said in her situation for even that error!”
+
+“Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can ever be excused
+for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane
+Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is not their’s,
+nor the world’s law.’”
+
+She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,
+exclaiming,
+
+“A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a
+device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent
+of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half
+your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of
+condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate
+you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of
+the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your
+daughter.”
+
+A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as
+right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits
+was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he
+shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the
+subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and
+persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions
+suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections;
+and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked
+it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was
+become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best
+thing that Frank could possibly have done.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+“Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the
+tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
+the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved
+very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much _his_
+behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the
+scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the
+deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe
+of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken
+prophetically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to
+Harriet Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but
+disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this
+instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of
+the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise
+never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged
+her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever
+given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of
+having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have
+prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence
+would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought
+to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her friend’s
+happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have
+directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think
+of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his
+ever caring for her.—“But, with common sense,” she added, “I am afraid
+I have had little to do.”
+
+She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry
+with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for Jane
+Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present
+solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no
+longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health
+having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her
+days of insignificance and evil were over.—She would soon be well, and
+happy, and prosperous.—Emma could now imagine why her own attentions
+had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No
+doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival;
+and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be
+repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,
+and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She
+understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from
+the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that
+Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her
+desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was
+little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful
+that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
+Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and
+judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing
+reserve and self-command, it would.—She must communicate the painful
+truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had
+been among Mr. Weston’s parting words. “For the present, the whole
+affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of
+it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and
+every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—Emma had
+promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.
+
+In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost
+ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate
+office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through
+by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to
+her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat
+quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had
+poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the
+event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—But of that,
+unfortunately, there could be no chance.
+
+“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—“is
+not this the oddest news that ever was?”
+
+“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or
+voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
+
+“About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!—you
+need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me
+himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;
+and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but
+you, but he said you knew it.”
+
+“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.
+
+“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill
+are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one
+another this long while. How very odd!”
+
+It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that
+Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared
+absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
+disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at
+her, quite unable to speak.
+
+“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with her?—You,
+perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every
+body’s heart; but nobody else—”
+
+“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
+Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to
+another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not
+openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had
+the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
+Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
+sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”
+
+“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should you caution
+me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”
+
+“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied
+Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—and
+not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand that you
+did care about him?”
+
+“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?”
+turning away distressed.
+
+“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—“What do you mean?—Good
+Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”
+
+She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat down,
+waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
+
+Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from
+her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was
+in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.
+
+“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could
+have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but
+considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should
+not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other
+person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look
+at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than
+to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And
+that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for
+believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my
+attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a
+presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not
+told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been
+matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should not
+have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible—But if
+_you_, who had been always acquainted with him—”
+
+“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—“Let us understand
+each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you
+speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”
+
+“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I
+thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as
+possible.”
+
+“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you
+then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could
+almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the
+service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from
+the gipsies, was spoken of.”
+
+“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”
+
+“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on
+the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that
+considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely
+natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to
+your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations
+had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of
+it is strong on my memory.”
+
+“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was
+thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the
+gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some
+elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr.
+Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not
+stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That
+was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity;
+that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to
+every other being upon earth.”
+
+“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—most
+deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”
+
+“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At
+least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the
+other had been the person; and now—it _is_ possible—”
+
+She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
+
+“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a
+great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must
+think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But
+I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
+appear—. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful
+things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place
+than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if
+such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be
+so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should
+really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
+Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put
+difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”
+
+Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look
+at her in consternation, and hastily said,
+
+“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that I
+have.”
+
+Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
+in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient
+for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once
+opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she
+acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet
+should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why
+was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a
+return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr.
+Knightley must marry no one but herself!
+
+Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same
+few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed
+her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How
+inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been
+her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck
+her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in
+the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of
+all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance, and a strong
+sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of _compassion_ to
+the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice
+required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave
+Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even
+apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the
+utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet
+had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so
+voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the
+person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from
+reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet
+again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as
+to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of
+Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but
+of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
+
+Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad
+to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,
+and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to
+give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling
+delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were
+better concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was
+not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a
+development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion
+of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She listened with much
+inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet’s
+detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could
+not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the
+feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her
+spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own
+memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of
+Harriet.
+
+Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
+those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
+found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at
+least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of
+him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more
+than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different
+manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she
+had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking
+together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very
+delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it
+to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to
+almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and
+praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with
+what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being
+without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
+feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had
+dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s
+memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from
+him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a
+compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because
+unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s
+relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had
+passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest
+occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet,
+were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The first,
+was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at
+Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he
+had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to
+himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way
+than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet
+could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking
+her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss
+Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and
+began talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talking
+with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the
+very last morning of his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came
+in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his having told
+her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it
+was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which
+was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The
+superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article
+marked, gave her severe pain.
+
+On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a
+little reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is
+not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of
+your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr.
+Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
+spirit.
+
+“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I
+know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of
+it.”
+
+When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss
+Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
+
+“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she, “but
+for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be
+the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may
+deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
+very wonderful.”
+
+The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter
+feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable
+her to say on reply,
+
+“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the
+last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea
+of his feeling for her more than he really does.”
+
+Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so
+satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which
+at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
+father’s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too
+much agitated to encounter him. “She could not compose herself— Mr.
+Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready
+encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through
+another door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous
+burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”
+
+The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her
+thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had
+rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a
+fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to
+her.—How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had
+been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the
+blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about,
+she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every
+posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had
+been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had
+been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was
+wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of
+wretchedness.
+
+To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first
+endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father’s
+claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
+
+How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
+declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?—
+When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
+Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she
+compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her
+estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as
+they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by
+any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She
+saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.
+Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had
+not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,
+in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a
+delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart—and, in short, that she had
+never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!
+
+This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the
+knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she
+reached; and without being long in reaching it.—She was most
+sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed
+to her—her affection for Mr. Knightley.—Every other part of her mind
+was disgusting.
+
+With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of
+every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange
+every body’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken;
+and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had
+brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
+Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on
+her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his
+attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
+Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would never have known
+Harriet at all but for her folly.
+
+Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every
+wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax
+became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no
+surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
+thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her
+side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it
+must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the
+sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification
+and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to
+himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very
+far, from impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate
+abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one,
+perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek
+him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal,
+inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as second
+causes) to direct the human fate?
+
+Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she
+ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly
+which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the
+unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable
+in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would have been
+safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
+
+How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts
+to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of
+such a man till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less humble,
+had fewer scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or
+situation, seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr.
+Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
+Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at
+pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but
+herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
+and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If
+Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known
+how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,
+first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling
+it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
+dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had
+been.—Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no
+female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims
+could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far
+he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for
+many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent
+or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,
+insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he
+would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own—but
+still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of
+mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an
+endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no
+other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew
+she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?—When the suggestions
+of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she
+could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself
+not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by
+Mr. Knightley. _She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any
+idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very
+recent proof of its impartiality.—How shocked had he been by her
+behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed
+himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but
+far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright
+justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no hope, nothing to deserve
+the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself
+which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one,
+at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and
+be overrating his regard for _her_.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be
+the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his
+life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at
+all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let him but
+continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr.
+Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of
+their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace
+would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It
+would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what
+she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She
+would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
+
+It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she
+hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be
+able to ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them
+henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
+hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know
+how to admit that she could be blinded here.—He was expected back every
+day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it
+appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she
+resolved against seeing Harriet.—It would do neither of them good, it
+would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was
+resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had
+no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk would be only
+to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to
+beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it
+to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_
+topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were
+allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of
+others—she objected only to a tête-à-tête—they might be able to act as
+if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted,
+and approved, and was grateful.
+
+This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s
+thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,
+sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had
+been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her
+way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to
+relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.
+
+Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through his
+share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then
+induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with
+much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a
+quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the
+encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
+
+A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her
+friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal
+of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at
+all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead,
+and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and
+Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known;
+as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid
+without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he
+was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her
+family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;
+or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for “such things,”
+he observed, “always got about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston
+had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very
+great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had
+hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn
+how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
+satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
+daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a
+gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly
+respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;
+thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of
+themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss
+Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to
+invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,
+on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs.
+Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her
+embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.
+Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first
+reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always
+feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the
+cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good
+deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.
+Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief
+to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so
+long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the
+subject.
+
+“On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so
+many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was one
+of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into the
+engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I
+have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering
+lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my
+heart.”
+
+“Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
+consented to a private engagement?”
+
+“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to
+blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of
+perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the
+punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
+Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting
+contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every
+thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my
+conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she
+continued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on
+the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error
+has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that
+present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the
+story known to Colonel Campbell.’”
+
+“Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then excessively, I
+suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led
+to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her
+judgment.”
+
+“Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.”
+
+“I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often have
+contributed to make her unhappy.”
+
+“On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably
+had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the
+misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural
+consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was
+that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done
+amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious
+and irritable to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for
+him to bear. ‘I did not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought
+to have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and
+that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other
+circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to
+me, as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of the
+great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush
+which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an
+opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you too much—for every wish
+and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never
+received any proper acknowledgment from herself.”
+
+“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seriously, “which,
+in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she
+must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there
+were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss
+Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is
+all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting
+particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is
+very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune
+should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.”
+
+Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought
+well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved
+him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with
+a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too
+much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square
+or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston
+ended with, “We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you
+know, but I hope it will soon come,” she was obliged to pause before
+she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could
+at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
+
+“Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.
+
+“Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me
+intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”
+
+Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more food for
+unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her
+sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted
+not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
+envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.
+Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention
+to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her
+better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to
+find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all
+probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her
+now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as
+an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what
+was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;
+that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this
+important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she
+ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the
+abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she
+had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so
+unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a
+subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by the
+levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil
+surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded
+that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a
+perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without
+her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a thousand instances; and on
+Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no
+more.
+
+The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
+The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in,
+and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the
+wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such
+cruel sights the longer visible.
+
+The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably
+comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and
+by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded
+her of their first forlorn tête-à-tête, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s
+wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and
+dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of
+Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly
+be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
+approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,
+no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings she feared
+would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,
+was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that
+might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might
+take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be
+comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the
+spirits only of ruined happiness.
+
+The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than
+herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would be occupied by it. They
+should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband
+also.—Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
+Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to
+Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near
+Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these
+losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of
+cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be
+no longer coming there for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at
+all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How
+was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s
+sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s
+society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the
+first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the
+best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma’s
+wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that
+it had been all her own work?
+
+When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from
+a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few
+seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation or
+composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
+conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might
+be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it
+would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and
+leave her less to regret when it were gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the
+same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at
+Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a
+softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was
+summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,
+Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the
+exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and
+brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for
+the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming
+in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she
+lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits
+freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,
+when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming
+towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from
+London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as
+unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for the
+quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a
+minute they were together. The “How d’ye do’s” were quiet and
+constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they
+were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have
+had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just
+looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
+being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke
+cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her
+fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his
+brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.
+
+They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking
+at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to
+give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to
+speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for
+encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the
+way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not
+bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She
+considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—
+
+“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
+surprize you.”
+
+“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”
+
+“Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.”
+
+After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,
+he replied,
+
+“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
+already.”
+
+“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards
+him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called
+at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.
+
+“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and
+at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”
+
+Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
+composure,
+
+“_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have
+had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
+me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and
+a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”
+
+For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of
+having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn
+within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,
+in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
+
+“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent
+sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know you will not allow
+yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken
+and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest
+friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”—And in a louder, steadier
+tone, he concluded with, “He will soon be gone. They will soon be in
+Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.”
+
+Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter
+of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
+
+“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am
+not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going
+on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
+and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may
+well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason
+to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”
+
+“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—but
+checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that
+you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it
+will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment
+of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not
+farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure
+myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that
+there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to
+deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded
+with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable
+creature.”
+
+“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—“I
+am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your
+error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I
+have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been
+at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be
+natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I
+never have.”
+
+He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would
+not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his
+clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself
+in his opinion. She went on, however.
+
+“I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his
+attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,
+probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my
+sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up
+as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.
+He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him
+very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the
+causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity
+was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some
+time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought
+them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.
+He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been
+attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He
+never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real
+situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and
+no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except
+that I was _not_ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I
+was somehow or other safe from him.”
+
+She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her
+conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as
+she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual
+tone, he said,
+
+“I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose,
+however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has
+been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he
+may yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no
+motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be
+involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him
+well.”
+
+“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma; “I believe
+them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”
+
+“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So
+early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a
+wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a
+prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has
+before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love,
+for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every
+thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards
+society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in
+every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not
+to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his
+to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to
+give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who
+can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must, I think, be
+the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of
+fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young
+woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her
+by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the
+world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her
+superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to
+speak.—His friends are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used
+every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a
+fortunate man indeed!”
+
+“You speak as if you envied him.”
+
+“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”
+
+Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of
+Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if
+possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally
+different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for
+breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
+
+“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I
+see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma, I
+must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the
+next moment.”
+
+“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a
+little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”
+
+“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
+another syllable followed.
+
+Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in
+her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen.
+She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give
+just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own
+independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be
+more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had
+reached the house.
+
+“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.
+
+“No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he
+still spoke—“I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not
+gone.” And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—“I stopped you
+ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you
+pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to
+ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a
+friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I
+will tell you exactly what I think.”
+
+“As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma, that I fear is a word—No,
+I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far
+already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it
+may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me,
+then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”
+
+He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression
+of his eyes overpowered her.
+
+“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever
+the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved
+Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.”—She could really
+say nothing.—“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation;
+“absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”
+
+Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The
+dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most
+prominent feeling.
+
+“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such
+sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
+convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it
+more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I
+have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
+woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell
+you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner,
+perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a
+very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you
+understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I
+ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”
+
+While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
+velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to
+catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
+Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as
+complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that
+she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to
+Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and
+that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had
+been all received as discouragement from herself.—And not only was
+there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant
+happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not
+escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was
+all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of
+that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him
+to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the
+most worthy of the two—or even the more simple sublimity of resolving
+to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,
+because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for
+Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run
+mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her
+brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her
+for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong
+as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him,
+as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite
+smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just
+what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew
+there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He
+_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to
+caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun
+by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
+sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the
+conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little
+extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so
+obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
+
+Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human
+disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little
+disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the
+conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very
+material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart
+than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.
+
+He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had
+followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,
+in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with
+no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed
+him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work
+of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.
+The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
+Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had
+given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection
+himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momentary
+conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
+not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which
+gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, which
+he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already
+his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed
+state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could
+bear no other name.
+
+_Her_ change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same
+precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same
+degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been
+a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,
+of Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank
+Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably
+enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill
+that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him
+on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such
+permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be
+indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much
+domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a
+form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in those
+striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy
+before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been
+longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this
+very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then,
+with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to
+feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving
+Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her,
+that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and
+had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best
+of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the
+discovery.
+
+He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was a villain.— He
+heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
+character was not desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
+when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of
+Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of
+fellow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from
+what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a
+little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of
+happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be
+greater when the flutter should have passed away.
+
+They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table—how often it
+had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
+shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the
+western sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing
+like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
+usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive
+daughter.
+
+Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in
+the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so
+anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have
+seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but
+without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the
+slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of
+either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news
+he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much
+self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him
+in return.
+
+As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued;
+but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and
+subdued—and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for
+such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to
+consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
+alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling
+the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort
+of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it
+was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley
+would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most
+solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She even wept over the
+idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an
+engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger
+of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.—How
+to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;—how to spare
+her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;
+how to appear least her enemy?—On these subjects, her perplexity and
+distress were very great—and her mind had to pass again and again
+through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever
+surrounded it.—She could only resolve at last, that she would still
+avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by
+letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed
+just now for a time from Highbury, and—indulging in one scheme
+more—nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation
+for her to Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;
+and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.—She did
+not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape being benefited by novelty
+and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.—At any rate,
+it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom
+every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the
+evil day, when they must all be together again.
+
+She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which
+left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking
+up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half
+an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,
+literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a
+proper share of the happiness of the evening before.
+
+He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the
+slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was
+brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must
+contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.—She was now in
+perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she
+wanted only to have her thoughts to herself—and as for understanding
+any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be
+waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a
+note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to
+Mrs. Weston.
+
+“I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
+enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have
+scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I think we shall never materially
+disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long
+preface.—We are quite well.—This letter has been the cure of all the
+little nervousness I have been feeling lately.—I did not quite like
+your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you
+will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a
+north-east wind.—I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of
+Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing
+last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.
+
+“Yours ever,
+“A. W.”
+
+
+[_To Mrs. Weston_.]
+
+
+Windsor—July.
+
+
+MY DEAR MADAM,
+
+
+“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected;
+but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and
+indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of
+even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.—But
+I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage
+rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be
+humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for
+pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,
+and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.—You
+must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when
+I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret
+which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to
+place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another
+question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it
+a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below,
+and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my
+difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to
+require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we
+parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the
+creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.—Had she refused, I
+should have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say, what was your hope
+in doing this?—What did you look forward to?—To any thing, every
+thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,
+perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of
+good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining
+her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther
+explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s
+son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good,
+which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value
+of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit
+to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might
+have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come
+till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person
+slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s
+compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from
+his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour,
+during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I
+hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I
+come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while
+belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very
+solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest
+friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I
+ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—A few words which dropped
+from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge
+myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe,
+more than it ought.—In order to assist a concealment so essential to
+me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of
+intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss
+Woodhouse was my ostensible object—but I am sure you will believe the
+declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would
+not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—Amiable and
+delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young
+woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any
+tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my
+wish.—She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured
+playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each
+other. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and
+were felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand
+me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;—when I called
+to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of
+confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion;
+but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some
+degree.—She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must
+have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the
+subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take
+her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember
+her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her
+attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I hope this history of my conduct towards
+her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what
+you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma
+Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and
+procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of
+that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly
+affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as
+myself.—Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,
+you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to
+get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
+If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.—Of
+the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that
+its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never
+have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—The delicacy
+of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much
+beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope,
+know her thoroughly yourself.—No description can describe her. She must
+tell you herself what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a
+human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I
+began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard
+from her.—She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never
+complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks.
+I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit.
+Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am
+impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at
+Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much
+better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think
+of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and
+patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I
+recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve
+to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again!—But
+I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to
+encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all
+that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail
+yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness
+with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the
+event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me
+the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early
+measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not
+an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty,
+and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength
+and refinement.—But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had
+entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to
+leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I have been
+walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make
+the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most
+mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can
+admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were
+highly blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been
+enough.—My plea of concealing the truth she did not think
+sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought
+her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I
+thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her
+judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed
+proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever
+known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember the morning spent at
+Donwell?—_There_ every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before
+came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and
+wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely
+refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now,
+however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree
+of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was
+behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,
+was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made
+every previous caution useless?—Had we been met walking together
+between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.—I was
+mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her affection. I doubted it
+more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my
+side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent
+devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of
+sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly
+intelligible to me.—In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless
+on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to
+Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning,
+merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I
+was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was
+the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined
+that she should make the first advances.—I shall always congratulate
+myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my
+behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well
+of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it
+produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she
+closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of
+whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation
+and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has
+been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly
+protest against the share of it which that woman has known.—‘Jane,’
+indeed!—You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling
+her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in
+hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of
+needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.
+Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—She closed with this
+offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to
+tell me that we never were to meet again.—_She_ _felt_ _the_
+_engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_ _repentance_ _and_ _misery_
+_to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.—This letter reached me on the very
+morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from
+the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on
+me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other
+letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting
+that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her,
+remained without any uneasiness.—I was rather disappointed that I did
+not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was
+too busy, and—may I add?—too cheerful in my views to be captious.—We
+removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from
+her, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines at the same time by
+the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest
+reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could
+not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to
+have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she
+now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that
+if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury
+within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at—: in
+short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me
+in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and
+instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with
+that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the
+secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter,
+was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would
+not she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how,
+till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of
+the post.—What was to be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my
+uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—I
+spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened
+away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,
+wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with
+a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the
+marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different
+sort.—Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in
+opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No;
+do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her.
+Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached Highbury at
+the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I
+was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not
+disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object
+of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I
+had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much
+dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us
+again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude
+before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have
+ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will
+dictate towards her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than I
+deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good
+fortune. I hope she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is
+undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,
+
+Your obliged and affectionate Son,
+
+F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged, in
+spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the
+justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,
+it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,
+and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the
+subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her
+former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any
+picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till
+she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to
+feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had
+supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and he was so grateful
+to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so
+happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have
+entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as
+ever.
+
+She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,
+she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to
+be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen
+so much to blame in his conduct.
+
+“I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it seems long. I
+will take it home with me at night.”
+
+But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she
+must return it by him.
+
+“I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it seems a
+matter of justice, it shall be done.”
+
+He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say, “Had I been offered
+the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-law a few
+months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.”
+
+He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a
+smile, observed, “Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his
+way. One man’s style must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be
+severe.”
+
+“It will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to speak my
+opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
+It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it—”
+
+“Not at all. I should wish it.”
+
+Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.
+
+“He trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. He knows he is
+wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He ought not to have
+formed the engagement.—‘His father’s disposition:’—he is unjust,
+however, to his father. Mr. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on
+all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every
+present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—Very true; he did not
+come till Miss Fairfax was here.”
+
+“And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you were that he might
+have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely—but you
+were perfectly right.”
+
+“I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but yet, I think—had
+_you_ not been in the case—I should still have distrusted him.”
+
+When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
+aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the
+head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as
+the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
+reflection, thus—
+
+“Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a most dangerous
+game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.—No judge of his
+own manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and
+regardless of little besides his own convenience.—Fancying you to have
+fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of intrigue,
+that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they pervert
+the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more
+and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with
+each other?”
+
+Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet’s
+account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.
+
+“You had better go on,” said she.
+
+He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! Ah! That
+was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider
+whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the
+pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing
+to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather
+dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the
+instrument’s coming if she could.”
+
+After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill’s
+confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for
+more than a word in passing.
+
+“I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark. “You did behave
+very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.” And having gone through
+what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
+persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of
+right, he made a fuller pause to say, “This is very bad.—He had induced
+her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme
+difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to
+prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must have had much more
+to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He
+should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;
+but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and
+remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the
+engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of
+punishment.”
+
+Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
+uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was
+deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,
+however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
+excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear
+of giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
+
+“There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
+Eltons,” was his next observation.—“His feelings are natural.—What!
+actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She felt the engagement to
+be a source of repentance and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a
+view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most
+extraordinary—”
+
+“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers.”
+
+“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the
+letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is all this?”
+
+“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s children—a
+dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the
+bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?”
+
+“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read—not even of
+Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter
+the man writes!”
+
+“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”
+
+“Well, there _is_ feeling here.—He does seem to have suffered in
+finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of
+her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he may long continue to
+feel all the value of such a reconciliation.—He is a very liberal
+thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I
+deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me the
+child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?—
+And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!
+That was your name for him, was it?”
+
+“You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still
+you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I
+hope it does him some service with you.”
+
+“Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
+inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
+in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he
+is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it
+may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am
+very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
+the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me
+talk to you of something else. I have another person’s interest at
+present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank
+Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been
+hard at work on one subject.”
+
+The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike
+English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love
+with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
+happiness of her father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word.
+“While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be
+impossible for her. She could never quit him.” Part only of this
+answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her
+father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the
+inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been
+thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to
+induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to
+believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not
+suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his
+persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s
+comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.
+Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought not to be
+attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he
+trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable;
+it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her
+father’s happiness—in other words, his life—required Hartfield to
+continue her home, it should be his likewise.
+
+Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing
+thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such
+an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all
+the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must
+be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that
+in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there
+would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of
+it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced,
+that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the
+subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm
+consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole
+morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
+
+“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am sure
+William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you
+ask mine.”
+
+She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
+moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good
+scheme.
+
+It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in
+which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck
+with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
+heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she
+must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she
+only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement
+in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s
+marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
+wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
+
+This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
+Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
+His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their
+mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in
+the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner in
+all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of
+melancholy!
+
+She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing
+of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,
+who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family
+party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere
+charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in
+every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction
+from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead
+weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a
+peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state
+of unmerited punishment.
+
+In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,
+supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.
+Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like
+Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly
+considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
+than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she
+could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as
+herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by
+letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
+
+Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without
+reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there
+was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her
+style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It
+might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only
+could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
+
+She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was
+fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without
+resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,
+and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
+delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to
+her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was
+quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on
+her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very
+persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a
+fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was
+all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick
+Square.
+
+Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could
+talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense
+of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted
+her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much
+might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the
+feelings which she had led astray herself.
+
+The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps
+an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not
+think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,
+which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
+
+She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place
+in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication
+before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the
+confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing
+to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till
+Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be
+thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act
+on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at
+least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more
+agitating, delight, should be hers.
+
+She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an
+hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought
+to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
+situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
+_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of
+prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should
+attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
+
+She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not
+been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane
+had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all
+the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being
+still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,
+to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty
+announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had
+before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the
+instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was
+met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no
+other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her
+look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness,
+animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or
+manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an offered hand;
+and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,
+
+“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to
+express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely without
+words.”
+
+Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the
+sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,
+and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her
+congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
+
+Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which
+accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.
+Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every
+body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped
+the rencontre would do them no harm.
+
+She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and
+understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in
+Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what
+was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately
+in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to
+Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she
+saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which
+she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it
+into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant
+nods,
+
+“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want
+opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.
+I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is
+not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet
+creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word
+more. Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You
+remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:
+
+“For when a lady’s in the case,
+“You know all other things give place.”
+
+
+Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read——mum! a word to the
+wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I want to set your
+heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—_My_ representation, you see, has quite
+appeased her.”
+
+And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates’s
+knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
+
+“I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.—Oh! no; cautious as a
+minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”
+
+Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every
+possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony
+of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed
+with,
+
+“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is
+charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest
+credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my
+word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had
+seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was
+saying something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a word of
+any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young
+physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.”
+
+“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she
+shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant
+party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not
+seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So
+it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think
+it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to
+our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while
+the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the
+same party, not _one_ exception.”
+
+Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being
+diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,
+she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say
+every thing.
+
+“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is impossible
+to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest Jane’s prospects—that
+is, I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—How is Mr.
+Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little
+circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so
+very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to Jane!”—And from
+her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton
+for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of
+resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now
+graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it
+beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,
+
+“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
+anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth
+is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me
+here, and pay his respects to you.”
+
+“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That will
+be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits,
+and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”
+
+“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning to
+night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some pretence or
+other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always
+wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without
+him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—I do not
+know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half
+so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them
+both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this
+fortnight.—However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose
+to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her words from
+Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”
+
+Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!
+
+“He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from
+Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep
+consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”
+
+Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton
+gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”
+
+“Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and
+Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who
+lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.”
+
+“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost certain that
+the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at
+Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”
+
+“Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer, which
+denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.—“I do
+believe,” she continued, “this is the most troublesome parish that ever
+was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.”
+
+“Your parish there was small,” said Jane.
+
+“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject
+talked of.”
+
+“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard
+you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge;
+the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.”
+
+“Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain you
+have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if
+we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would
+produce perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that
+_some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.—But hush!—not a
+word, if you please.”
+
+It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,
+not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.
+The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very
+evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
+
+Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her
+sparkling vivacity.
+
+“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an
+encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But
+you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I
+should not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been
+sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal
+obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”
+
+Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
+His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent
+object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and
+the walk he had had for nothing.
+
+“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found. Very
+odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and
+the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.”
+
+“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been to
+Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.”
+
+“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley
+to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I went
+over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made
+it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I
+am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The
+housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very
+extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to
+Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—Miss
+Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?”
+
+Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,
+indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
+
+“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
+ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of
+all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to
+be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am
+sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his
+servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely
+to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often
+observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such
+a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.
+And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She
+promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”
+
+“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house,
+and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not
+believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what
+was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get
+the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it
+really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley
+to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious
+inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”
+
+Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all
+probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.
+Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards
+Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.
+
+She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to
+attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her
+an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,
+
+“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you
+not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to
+introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might
+have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been
+impertinent.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought
+infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual
+composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have been
+of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
+expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
+collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very
+great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those
+of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not
+disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could
+wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for
+myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your
+compassion does not stand my friend—”
+
+“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and
+taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you
+might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
+even—”
+
+“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and
+artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know
+that I must have disgusted you.”
+
+“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
+Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done
+quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you
+have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”
+
+“Very.”
+
+“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as
+I begin to know you.”
+
+“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here
+till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
+
+“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma,
+smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”
+
+The smile was returned as Jane answered,
+
+“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I
+am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill
+at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of
+deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing
+more to wait for.”
+
+“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured of.—Oh!
+if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and
+open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
+satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
+knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
+wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
+any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of
+Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both
+father and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as
+he grew older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years
+hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense,
+the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and
+Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her;
+and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
+teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
+
+“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she
+continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame
+de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little
+Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
+
+“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than
+she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will
+be the only difference.”
+
+“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”
+
+“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in
+infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my
+bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing
+all my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me
+to be severe on them?”
+
+Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your
+endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt
+whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.”
+
+“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss Taylor
+gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite
+as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what
+right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to
+feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did
+you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of
+the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much
+without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many
+errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at
+least.”
+
+“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often
+influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am
+very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be
+spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her
+as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is
+thirteen.”
+
+“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
+saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
+may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did
+not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
+feelings instead of one.”
+
+“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my speeches
+in such affectionate remembrance.”
+
+“‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from
+habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet it is formal. I want
+you to call me something else, but I do not know what.”
+
+“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about
+ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as
+you made no objection, I never did it again.”
+
+“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”
+
+“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will
+not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by
+calling you Mr. K.—But I will promise,” she added presently, laughing
+and blushing—“I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I
+do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in
+which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”
+
+Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
+service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice
+which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly
+follies—her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
+subject.—She could not enter on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned
+between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not
+being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to
+delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship
+were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other
+circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that
+her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on
+Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
+obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior
+to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
+
+Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be
+expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits,
+which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be
+consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear
+to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.—Isabella,
+to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been
+equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her.
+Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s
+being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least.
+Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was
+invited to remain till they could bring her back.
+
+“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is
+his answer, if you like to see it.”
+
+It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma
+accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to
+know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that
+her friend was unmentioned.
+
+“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr.
+Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to
+have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from
+making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather
+cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
+
+“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read the
+letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the
+good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not
+without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as
+you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different
+construction, I should not have believed him.”
+
+“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”
+
+“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”
+interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than
+he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
+subject.”
+
+“Emma, my dear Emma—”
+
+“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother
+does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
+and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from
+doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the
+advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish
+I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion
+towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”
+
+“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced
+as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,
+to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you
+notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly
+by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of
+the kind.”
+
+“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
+thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly
+unprepared for that.”
+
+“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
+feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any
+difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this
+time for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so, I
+suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them
+the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much
+as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems
+always tired now.’”
+
+The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
+persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
+recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that
+her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first
+to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to
+her father at last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of
+Mr. Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart would
+have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to
+come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She
+was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it
+a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.
+She must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits she
+could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,
+in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be
+obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,
+since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—she and Mr.
+Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the
+constant addition of that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next
+to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
+
+Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
+earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of
+having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be
+a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor
+Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about
+him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he
+must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages
+taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but
+she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was
+introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the
+better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier
+for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to
+the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny
+that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business
+but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his
+letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so
+attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?—Yes.
+That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he
+should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day as
+it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?
+
+Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,
+the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.—To
+Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose fond
+praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon
+used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—They had all the
+assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest
+approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to
+consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled,
+and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance
+of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon,
+as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided
+assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some
+feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some
+time or other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very
+bad if the marriage did take place.
+
+Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
+said to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized,
+never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she
+saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in
+urging him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as
+to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect
+so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one
+respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,
+so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely
+have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself
+been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it
+long ago.—How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma
+would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.
+Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an
+arrangement desirable!—The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
+Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for
+a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe
+and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr.
+Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able to finish the
+subject better than by saying—“Those matters will take care of
+themselves; the young people will find a way.” But here there was
+nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was
+all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the
+name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and
+without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
+
+Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
+as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing
+could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon
+have outgrown its first set of caps.
+
+The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston
+had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to
+familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—He saw the advantages of
+the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but
+the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he
+was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.
+
+“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are always
+a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me
+be told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.”
+
+He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that
+point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest
+daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of
+course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately
+afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
+had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon
+it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the
+evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.
+
+In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him,
+and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend
+their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John
+Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their
+servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection
+raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was
+not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it,
+compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride would now
+be contented;” and supposed “she had always meant to catch Knightley if
+she could;” and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly
+exclaim, “Rather he than I!”—But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed
+indeed.—“Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for him.”—She was
+extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good
+qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in
+love—not in the least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all
+pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine
+with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.—Poor
+fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no;
+there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every
+thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she
+had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan, living
+together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had
+tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
+quarter.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would
+be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one
+morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,
+when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After
+the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone,
+began with,
+
+“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”
+
+“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
+
+“I do not know which it ought to be called.”
+
+“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying not
+to smile.”
+
+“I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very much afraid,
+my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.”
+
+“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases
+or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”
+
+“There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which we do not
+think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on
+her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—Do not you recollect?—Harriet
+Smith.”
+
+Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,
+though she knew not what.
+
+“Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he. “You have, I
+believe, and know the whole.”
+
+“No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”
+
+“You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet
+Smith marries Robert Martin.”
+
+Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her eyes,
+in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impossible!” but her lips were
+closed.
+
+“It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from Robert
+Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”
+
+She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
+
+“You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions were
+the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one
+or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need
+not talk much on the subject.”
+
+“You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exerting herself.
+“It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I
+cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say,
+that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he
+has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it.”
+
+“I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but
+determined decision, “and been accepted.”
+
+“Good God!” she cried.—“Well!”—Then having recourse to her workbasket,
+in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite
+feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be
+expressing, she added, “Well, now tell me every thing; make this
+intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was
+more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.—How—how
+has it been possible?”
+
+“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,
+and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send
+to John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was
+asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s. They
+were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to be
+our brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert
+could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely
+amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which
+he did—and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an
+opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in
+vain.—She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is
+deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me this
+morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first
+on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of
+the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer
+history when you see her.—She will give you all the minute particulars,
+which only woman’s language can make interesting.—In our communications
+we deal only in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s
+heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did
+mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their
+box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and
+little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one
+time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”
+
+He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she
+was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
+She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence
+disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,
+
+“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you
+unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His
+situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your
+friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
+you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight
+you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in
+better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is
+saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William
+Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”
+
+He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not
+to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,
+
+“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
+Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than
+_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they
+are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You
+cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly
+unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more
+determined against him, much more, than she was before.”
+
+“You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley; “but I
+should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be
+very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”
+
+Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my word, I believe
+you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr. Knightley, are you
+perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I
+could suppose she might in time—but can she already?—Did not you
+misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other things; of business,
+shows of cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of
+so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was
+certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.”
+
+The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and
+Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma’s feelings, and so
+strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on
+Harriet’s side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such
+emphasis, “No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,”
+that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some
+measure, premature. It could not be otherwise.
+
+“Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare to suppose me
+so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?—What do
+you deserve?”
+
+“Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with
+any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are
+you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and
+Harriet now are?”
+
+“I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that he told
+me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing
+doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that
+it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew
+of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of
+her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be
+done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then,
+he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.”
+
+“I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,
+“and most sincerely wish them happy.”
+
+“You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.”
+
+“I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”
+
+“And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
+Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and
+for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as
+much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have
+often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.
+Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of
+pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all
+my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl,
+with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her
+happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this,
+I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”
+
+“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor Harriet!”
+
+She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
+praise than she deserved.
+
+Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her
+father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a
+state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be
+collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till
+she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected,
+she could be fit for nothing rational.
+
+Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put the
+horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she
+had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
+
+The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
+imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
+Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
+security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of
+him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her
+own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her
+humility and circumspection in future.
+
+Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her
+resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the
+very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the
+doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
+
+Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a
+pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
+
+High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
+reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would
+soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
+practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him
+that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready
+to welcome as a duty.
+
+In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
+always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
+speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being
+obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
+disappointed.
+
+They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had
+they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for
+coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
+blind, of two figures passing near the window.
+
+“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just going to
+tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
+He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend
+the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”
+
+In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see
+him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing
+recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
+consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all
+sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,
+that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had
+long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with
+Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined
+the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer
+a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank
+Churchill to draw near her and say,
+
+“I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message
+in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you less
+willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”
+
+“No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. I am
+particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy
+in person.”
+
+He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak
+with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
+
+“Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
+“Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston
+doat upon her.”
+
+But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
+mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
+Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
+
+“I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”
+
+“The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But is it
+possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you
+had none.”
+
+“I never had the smallest, I assure you.”
+
+“That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I had—it
+would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things,
+they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It
+would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of
+secrecy and told you every thing.”
+
+“It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma.
+
+“I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being persuaded to pay a
+visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells
+are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I
+trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a
+distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we
+have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?”
+
+Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay
+thought, he cried,
+
+“Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the
+moment—“I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He paused.—She coloured and
+laughed.—“I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish
+in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I
+have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a
+man whom I cannot presume to praise.”
+
+Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but
+his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,
+and his next words were,
+
+“Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet
+without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most
+uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most
+distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour
+enough for beauty.”
+
+“I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma, archly; “but do
+not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
+pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?”
+
+“Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—”
+
+But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not
+help saying,
+
+“I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you
+had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I am
+sure it was a consolation to you.”
+
+“Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most
+miserable wretch!”
+
+“Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was
+a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us
+all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the
+truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same
+situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.”
+
+He bowed.
+
+“If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of true
+sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which
+bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our
+own.”
+
+“True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your side. You can
+have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look
+at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her
+throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will
+be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my
+uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set. I
+am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be
+beautiful in her dark hair?”
+
+“Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that
+he gratefully burst out,
+
+“How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent
+looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should
+certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.”
+
+The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account
+of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the
+infant’s appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,
+but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of
+sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston
+had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the
+child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and
+particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her
+very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that
+she had not done it. “She should always send for Perry, if the child
+appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment.
+She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was
+a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child
+seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been
+better if Perry had seen it.”
+
+Frank Churchill caught the name.
+
+“Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss
+Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.
+Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has
+he set up his carriage?”
+
+Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the
+laugh, it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was really
+hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
+
+“Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can never think of
+it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see
+it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do
+not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
+which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole
+blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else,
+though pretending to listen to the others?”
+
+Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly
+remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet
+steady voice,
+
+“How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They _will_
+sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!”
+
+He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but
+Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving
+Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she
+felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really
+regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more
+sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of character. The
+happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the
+animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a
+momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her
+attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from
+unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
+recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party
+from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour
+alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable
+as it was!—that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,
+and was now forming all her views of happiness.
+
+Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at first: but
+having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and
+self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with
+the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the
+fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s
+approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by
+meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.—Harriet was most
+happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the
+dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
+But what did such particulars explain?—The fact was, as Emma could now
+acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his
+continuing to love her had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever
+be unintelligible to Emma.
+
+The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh
+reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage became known. She proved to
+be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the
+comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to
+have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility
+which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It was likely to be
+as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a
+connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the
+Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached
+by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
+
+No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man was treated
+liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted
+with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully
+acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could
+bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s
+happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he
+offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and
+improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,
+and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and
+occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into
+temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable
+and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the
+world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a
+man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
+
+Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,
+was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—The
+intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change
+into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and
+must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural
+manner.
+
+Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw
+her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as
+no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,
+could impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,
+but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on
+herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of
+the three, were the first to be married.
+
+Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the
+comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills
+were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.
+
+The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by
+Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage ought
+to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to
+allow them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was
+the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in
+approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to
+consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a
+distant event.
+
+When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were
+almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—He began to
+think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising
+step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not
+happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage
+failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying
+himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in
+the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were
+over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not
+proceed.
+
+In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden
+illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any wonderful change of his
+nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another
+way.—Mrs. Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
+turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the
+neighbourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.
+Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his
+son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every
+night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of
+the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of
+them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.—But Mr. John Knightley
+must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.
+
+The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,
+cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the
+moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called
+on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to
+join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
+
+The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have
+no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars
+detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very
+inferior to her own.—“Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a
+most pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heard of it.”—But,
+in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,
+the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the
+ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
+
+FINIS
\ No newline at end of file
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+
+LADY SUSAN
+
+by Jane Austen
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. VERNON
+
+
+Langford, Dec.
+
+MY DEAR BROTHER,--I can no longer refuse myself the pleasure of
+profiting by your kind invitation when we last parted of spending some
+weeks with you at Churchhill, and, therefore, if quite convenient to you
+and Mrs. Vernon to receive me at present, I shall hope within a few
+days to be introduced to a sister whom I have so long desired to be
+acquainted with. My kind friends here are most affectionately
+urgent with me to prolong my stay, but their hospitable and cheerful
+dispositions lead them too much into society for my present situation
+and state of mind; and I impatiently look forward to the hour when I
+shall be admitted into your delightful retirement.
+
+I long to be made known to your dear little children, in whose hearts I
+shall be very eager to secure an interest I shall soon have need for all
+my fortitude, as I am on the point of separation from my own daughter.
+The long illness of her dear father prevented my paying her that
+attention which duty and affection equally dictated, and I have too
+much reason to fear that the governess to whose care I consigned her was
+unequal to the charge. I have therefore resolved on placing her at one
+of the best private schools in town, where I shall have an opportunity
+of leaving her myself in my way to you. I am determined, you see, not to
+be denied admittance at Churchhill. It would indeed give me most painful
+sensations to know that it were not in your power to receive me.
+
+Your most obliged and affectionate sister,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Langford.
+
+
+You were mistaken, my dear Alicia, in supposing me fixed at this place
+for the rest of the winter: it grieves me to say how greatly you were
+mistaken, for I have seldom spent three months more agreeably than
+those which have just flown away. At present, nothing goes smoothly; the
+females of the family are united against me. You foretold how it would
+be when I first came to Langford, and Mainwaring is so uncommonly
+pleasing that I was not without apprehensions for myself. I remember
+saying to myself, as I drove to the house, "I like this man, pray Heaven
+no harm come of it!" But I was determined to be discreet, to bear in
+mind my being only four months a widow, and to be as quiet as possible:
+and I have been so, my dear creature; I have admitted no one's
+attentions but Mainwaring's. I have avoided all general flirtation
+whatever; I have distinguished no creature besides, of all the numbers
+resorting hither, except Sir James Martin, on whom I bestowed a little
+notice, in order to detach him from Miss Mainwaring; but, if the world
+could know my motive THERE they would honour me. I have been called an
+unkind mother, but it was the sacred impulse of maternal affection, it
+was the advantage of my daughter that led me on; and if that daughter
+were not the greatest simpleton on earth, I might have been rewarded for
+my exertions as I ought.
+
+Sir James did make proposals to me for Frederica; but Frederica, who
+was born to be the torment of my life, chose to set herself so violently
+against the match that I thought it better to lay aside the scheme for
+the present. I have more than once repented that I did not marry him
+myself; and were he but one degree less contemptibly weak I certainly
+should: but I must own myself rather romantic in that respect, and
+that riches only will not satisfy me. The event of all this is very
+provoking: Sir James is gone, Maria highly incensed, and Mrs. Mainwaring
+insupportably jealous; so jealous, in short, and so enraged against
+me, that, in the fury of her temper, I should not be surprized at her
+appealing to her guardian, if she had the liberty of addressing him:
+but there your husband stands my friend; and the kindest, most amiable
+action of his life was his throwing her off for ever on her marriage.
+Keep up his resentment, therefore, I charge you. We are now in a sad
+state; no house was ever more altered; the whole party are at war, and
+Mainwaring scarcely dares speak to me. It is time for me to be gone; I
+have therefore determined on leaving them, and shall spend, I hope, a
+comfortable day with you in town within this week. If I am as little
+in favour with Mr. Johnson as ever, you must come to me at 10 Wigmore
+street; but I hope this may not be the case, for as Mr. Johnson, with
+all his faults, is a man to whom that great word "respectable" is always
+given, and I am known to be so intimate with his wife, his slighting me
+has an awkward look.
+
+I take London in my way to that insupportable spot, a country village;
+for I am really going to Churchhill. Forgive me, my dear friend, it is
+my last resource. Were there another place in England open to me I would
+prefer it. Charles Vernon is my aversion; and I am afraid of his wife.
+At Churchhill, however, I must remain till I have something better in
+view. My young lady accompanies me to town, where I shall deposit her
+under the care of Miss Summers, in Wigmore street, till she becomes a
+little more reasonable. She will made good connections there, as the
+girls are all of the best families. The price is immense, and much
+beyond what I can ever attempt to pay.
+
+Adieu, I will send you a line as soon as I arrive in town.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Mother,--I am very sorry to tell you that it will not be in our
+power to keep our promise of spending our Christmas with you; and we are
+prevented that happiness by a circumstance which is not likely to
+make us any amends. Lady Susan, in a letter to her brother-in-law, has
+declared her intention of visiting us almost immediately; and as such
+a visit is in all probability merely an affair of convenience, it is
+impossible to conjecture its length. I was by no means prepared for such
+an event, nor can I now account for her ladyship's conduct; Langford
+appeared so exactly the place for her in every respect, as well from
+the elegant and expensive style of living there, as from her particular
+attachment to Mr. Mainwaring, that I was very far from expecting so
+speedy a distinction, though I always imagined from her increasing
+friendship for us since her husband's death that we should, at some
+future period, be obliged to receive her. Mr. Vernon, I think, was a
+great deal too kind to her when he was in Staffordshire; her behaviour
+to him, independent of her general character, has been so inexcusably
+artful and ungenerous since our marriage was first in agitation that no
+one less amiable and mild than himself could have overlooked it all;
+and though, as his brother's widow, and in narrow circumstances, it was
+proper to render her pecuniary assistance, I cannot help thinking
+his pressing invitation to her to visit us at Churchhill perfectly
+unnecessary. Disposed, however, as he always is to think the best of
+everyone, her display of grief, and professions of regret, and general
+resolutions of prudence, were sufficient to soften his heart and make
+him really confide in her sincerity; but, as for myself, I am still
+unconvinced, and plausibly as her ladyship has now written, I cannot
+make up my mind till I better understand her real meaning in coming to
+us. You may guess, therefore, my dear madam, with what feelings I look
+forward to her arrival. She will have occasion for all those attractive
+powers for which she is celebrated to gain any share of my regard; and
+I shall certainly endeavour to guard myself against their influence,
+if not accompanied by something more substantial. She expresses a
+most eager desire of being acquainted with me, and makes very gracious
+mention of my children but I am not quite weak enough to suppose a woman
+who has behaved with inattention, if not with unkindness, to her own
+child, should be attached to any of mine. Miss Vernon is to be placed at
+a school in London before her mother comes to us which I am glad of, for
+her sake and my own. It must be to her advantage to be separated from
+her mother, and a girl of sixteen who has received so wretched an
+education, could not be a very desirable companion here. Reginald has
+long wished, I know, to see the captivating Lady Susan, and we shall
+depend on his joining our party soon. I am glad to hear that my father
+continues so well; and am, with best love, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+MR. DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON
+
+
+Parklands.
+
+
+My dear Sister,--I congratulate you and Mr. Vernon on being about to
+receive into your family the most accomplished coquette in England. As a
+very distinguished flirt I have always been taught to consider her, but
+it has lately fallen in my way to hear some particulars of her conduct
+at Langford: which prove that she does not confine herself to that sort
+of honest flirtation which satisfies most people, but aspires to the
+more delicious gratification of making a whole family miserable. By her
+behaviour to Mr. Mainwaring she gave jealousy and wretchedness to his
+wife, and by her attentions to a young man previously attached to Mr.
+Mainwaring's sister deprived an amiable girl of her lover.
+
+I learnt all this from Mr. Smith, now in this neighbourhood (I have
+dined with him, at Hurst and Wilford), who is just come from Langford
+where he was a fortnight with her ladyship, and who is therefore well
+qualified to make the communication.
+
+What a woman she must be! I long to see her, and shall certainly accept
+your kind invitation, that I may form some idea of those bewitching
+powers which can do so much--engaging at the same time, and in the same
+house, the affections of two men, who were neither of them at liberty to
+bestow them--and all this without the charm of youth! I am glad to find
+Miss Vernon does not accompany her mother to Churchhill, as she has not
+even manners to recommend her; and, according to Mr. Smith's account, is
+equally dull and proud. Where pride and stupidity unite there can be
+no dissimulation worthy notice, and Miss Vernon shall be consigned to
+unrelenting contempt; but by all that I can gather Lady Susan possesses
+a degree of captivating deceit which it must be pleasing to witness and
+detect. I shall be with you very soon, and am ever,
+
+Your affectionate brother,
+
+R. DE COURCY.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+I received your note, my dear Alicia, just before I left town, and
+rejoice to be assured that Mr. Johnson suspected nothing of your
+engagement the evening before. It is undoubtedly better to deceive him
+entirely, and since he will be stubborn he must be tricked. I arrived
+here in safety, and have no reason to complain of my reception from Mr.
+Vernon; but I confess myself not equally satisfied with the behaviour of
+his lady. She is perfectly well-bred, indeed, and has the air of a woman
+of fashion, but her manners are not such as can persuade me of her being
+prepossessed in my favour. I wanted her to be delighted at seeing me.
+I was as amiable as possible on the occasion, but all in vain. She does
+not like me. To be sure when we consider that I DID take some pains to
+prevent my brother-in-law's marrying her, this want of cordiality is not
+very surprizing, and yet it shows an illiberal and vindictive spirit
+to resent a project which influenced me six years ago, and which never
+succeeded at last.
+
+I am sometimes disposed to repent that I did not let Charles buy
+Vernon Castle, when we were obliged to sell it; but it was a trying
+circumstance, especially as the sale took place exactly at the time
+of his marriage; and everybody ought to respect the delicacy of those
+feelings which could not endure that my husband's dignity should be
+lessened by his younger brother's having possession of the family
+estate. Could matters have been so arranged as to prevent the necessity
+of our leaving the castle, could we have lived with Charles and kept
+him single, I should have been very far from persuading my husband to
+dispose of it elsewhere; but Charles was on the point of marrying
+Miss De Courcy, and the event has justified me. Here are children in
+abundance, and what benefit could have accrued to me from his purchasing
+Vernon? My having prevented it may perhaps have given his wife an
+unfavourable impression, but where there is a disposition to dislike,
+a motive will never be wanting; and as to money matters it has not
+withheld him from being very useful to me. I really have a regard
+for him, he is so easily imposed upon! The house is a good one, the
+furniture fashionable, and everything announces plenty and elegance.
+Charles is very rich I am sure; when a man has once got his name in a
+banking-house he rolls in money; but they do not know what to do with
+it, keep very little company, and never go to London but on business. We
+shall be as stupid as possible. I mean to win my sister-in-law's heart
+through the children; I know all their names already, and am going to
+attach myself with the greatest sensibility to one in particular, a
+young Frederic, whom I take on my lap and sigh over for his dear uncle's
+sake.
+
+Poor Mainwaring! I need not tell you how much I miss him, how
+perpetually he is in my thoughts. I found a dismal letter from him on
+my arrival here, full of complaints of his wife and sister, and
+lamentations on the cruelty of his fate. I passed off the letter as his
+wife's, to the Vernons, and when I write to him it must be under cover
+to you.
+
+Ever yours, S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+Well, my dear Reginald, I have seen this dangerous creature, and must
+give you some description of her, though I hope you will soon be able to
+form your own judgment. She is really excessively pretty; however you may
+choose to question the allurements of a lady no longer young, I must,
+for my own part, declare that I have seldom seen so lovely a woman
+as Lady Susan. She is delicately fair, with fine grey eyes and dark
+eyelashes; and from her appearance one would not suppose her more than
+five and twenty, though she must in fact be ten years older, I was
+certainly not disposed to admire her, though always hearing she was
+beautiful; but I cannot help feeling that she possesses an uncommon
+union of symmetry, brilliancy, and grace. Her address to me was so
+gentle, frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not known how much
+she has always disliked me for marrying Mr. Vernon, and that we had
+never met before, I should have imagined her an attached friend. One
+is apt, I believe, to connect assurance of manner with coquetry, and to
+expect that an impudent address will naturally attend an impudent mind;
+at least I was myself prepared for an improper degree of confidence in
+Lady Susan; but her countenance is absolutely sweet, and her voice and
+manner winningly mild. I am sorry it is so, for what is this but deceit?
+Unfortunately, one knows her too well. She is clever and agreeable, has
+all that knowledge of the world which makes conversation easy, and talks
+very well, with a happy command of language, which is too often used, I
+believe, to make black appear white. She has already almost persuaded me
+of her being warmly attached to her daughter, though I have been so long
+convinced to the contrary. She speaks of her with so much tenderness and
+anxiety, lamenting so bitterly the neglect of her education, which she
+represents however as wholly unavoidable, that I am forced to recollect
+how many successive springs her ladyship spent in town, while her
+daughter was left in Staffordshire to the care of servants, or a
+governess very little better, to prevent my believing what she says.
+
+If her manners have so great an influence on my resentful heart, you
+may judge how much more strongly they operate on Mr. Vernon's generous
+temper. I wish I could be as well satisfied as he is, that it was really
+her choice to leave Langford for Churchhill; and if she had not stayed
+there for months before she discovered that her friend's manner of
+living did not suit her situation or feelings, I might have believed
+that concern for the loss of such a husband as Mr. Vernon, to whom her
+own behaviour was far from unexceptionable, might for a time make her
+wish for retirement. But I cannot forget the length of her visit to the
+Mainwarings, and when I reflect on the different mode of life which she
+led with them from that to which she must now submit, I can only suppose
+that the wish of establishing her reputation by following though late
+the path of propriety, occasioned her removal from a family where she
+must in reality have been particularly happy. Your friend Mr. Smith's
+story, however, cannot be quite correct, as she corresponds regularly
+with Mrs. Mainwaring. At any rate it must be exaggerated. It is scarcely
+possible that two men should be so grossly deceived by her at once.
+
+Yours, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Alicia,--You are very good in taking notice of Frederica, and
+I am grateful for it as a mark of your friendship; but as I cannot have
+any doubt of the warmth of your affection, I am far from exacting so
+heavy a sacrifice. She is a stupid girl, and has nothing to recommend
+her. I would not, therefore, on my account, have you encumber one moment
+of your precious time by sending for her to Edward Street, especially
+as every visit is so much deducted from the grand affair of education,
+which I really wish to have attended to while she remains at Miss
+Summers's. I want her to play and sing with some portion of taste and
+a good deal of assurance, as she has my hand and arm and a tolerable
+voice. I was so much indulged in my infant years that I was never
+obliged to attend to anything, and consequently am without the
+accomplishments which are now necessary to finish a pretty woman. Not
+that I am an advocate for the prevailing fashion of acquiring a perfect
+knowledge of all languages, arts, and sciences. It is throwing time
+away to be mistress of French, Italian, and German: music, singing,
+and drawing, &c., will gain a woman some applause, but will not add
+one lover to her list--grace and manner, after all, are of the greatest
+importance. I do not mean, therefore, that Frederica's acquirements
+should be more than superficial, and I flatter myself that she will not
+remain long enough at school to understand anything thoroughly. I hope
+to see her the wife of Sir James within a twelvemonth. You know on what
+I ground my hope, and it is certainly a good foundation, for school must
+be very humiliating to a girl of Frederica's age. And, by-the-by, you
+had better not invite her any more on that account, as I wish her to
+find her situation as unpleasant as possible. I am sure of Sir James at
+any time, and could make him renew his application by a line. I shall
+trouble you meanwhile to prevent his forming any other attachment when
+he comes to town. Ask him to your house occasionally, and talk to him of
+Frederica, that he may not forget her. Upon the whole, I commend my own
+conduct in this affair extremely, and regard it as a very happy instance
+of circumspection and tenderness. Some mothers would have insisted on
+their daughter's accepting so good an offer on the first overture; but I
+could not reconcile it to myself to force Frederica into a marriage from
+which her heart revolted, and instead of adopting so harsh a measure
+merely propose to make it her own choice, by rendering her thoroughly
+uncomfortable till she does accept him--but enough of this tiresome
+girl. You may well wonder how I contrive to pass my time here, and for
+the first week it was insufferably dull. Now, however, we begin to mend,
+our party is enlarged by Mrs. Vernon's brother, a handsome young man,
+who promises me some amusement. There is something about him which
+rather interests me, a sort of sauciness and familiarity which I shall
+teach him to correct. He is lively, and seems clever, and when I have
+inspired him with greater respect for me than his sister's kind offices
+have implanted, he may be an agreeable flirt. There is exquisite
+pleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, in making a person
+predetermined to dislike acknowledge one's superiority. I have
+disconcerted him already by my calm reserve, and it shall be my
+endeavour to humble the pride of these self important De Courcys still
+lower, to convince Mrs. Vernon that her sisterly cautions have been
+bestowed in vain, and to persuade Reginald that she has scandalously
+belied me. This project will serve at least to amuse me, and prevent
+my feeling so acutely this dreadful separation from you and all whom I
+love.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Mother,--You must not expect Reginald back again for some time.
+He desires me to tell you that the present open weather induces him to
+accept Mr. Vernon's invitation to prolong his stay in Sussex, that
+they may have some hunting together. He means to send for his horses
+immediately, and it is impossible to say when you may see him in Kent. I
+will not disguise my sentiments on this change from you, my dear mother,
+though I think you had better not communicate them to my father, whose
+excessive anxiety about Reginald would subject him to an alarm which
+might seriously affect his health and spirits. Lady Susan has certainly
+contrived, in the space of a fortnight, to make my brother like her.
+In short, I am persuaded that his continuing here beyond the time
+originally fixed for his return is occasioned as much by a degree of
+fascination towards her, as by the wish of hunting with Mr. Vernon, and
+of course I cannot receive that pleasure from the length of his visit
+which my brother's company would otherwise give me. I am, indeed,
+provoked at the artifice of this unprincipled woman; what stronger
+proof of her dangerous abilities can be given than this perversion of
+Reginald's judgment, which when he entered the house was so decidedly
+against her! In his last letter he actually gave me some particulars of
+her behaviour at Langford, such as he received from a gentleman who knew
+her perfectly well, which, if true, must raise abhorrence against her,
+and which Reginald himself was entirely disposed to credit. His opinion
+of her, I am sure, was as low as of any woman in England; and when he
+first came it was evident that he considered her as one entitled neither
+to delicacy nor respect, and that he felt she would be delighted with
+the attentions of any man inclined to flirt with her. Her behaviour, I
+confess, has been calculated to do away with such an idea; I have
+not detected the smallest impropriety in it--nothing of vanity, of
+pretension, of levity; and she is altogether so attractive that I should
+not wonder at his being delighted with her, had he known nothing of her
+previous to this personal acquaintance; but, against reason, against
+conviction, to be so well pleased with her, as I am sure he is, does
+really astonish me. His admiration was at first very strong, but no more
+than was natural, and I did not wonder at his being much struck by the
+gentleness and delicacy of her manners; but when he has mentioned her of
+late it has been in terms of more extraordinary praise; and yesterday he
+actually said that he could not be surprised at any effect produced
+on the heart of man by such loveliness and such abilities; and when I
+lamented, in reply, the badness of her disposition, he observed that
+whatever might have been her errors they were to be imputed to her
+neglected education and early marriage, and that she was altogether a
+wonderful woman. This tendency to excuse her conduct or to forget it, in
+the warmth of admiration, vexes me; and if I did not know that Reginald
+is too much at home at Churchhill to need an invitation for lengthening
+his visit, I should regret Mr. Vernon's giving him any. Lady Susan's
+intentions are of course those of absolute coquetry, or a desire
+of universal admiration; I cannot for a moment imagine that she has
+anything more serious in view; but it mortifies me to see a young man of
+Reginald's sense duped by her at all.
+
+I am, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+
+MRS. JOHNSON TO LADY S. VERNON
+
+
+Edward Street.
+
+
+My dearest Friend,--I congratulate you on Mr. De Courcy's arrival, and
+I advise you by all means to marry him; his father's estate is, we know,
+considerable, and I believe certainly entailed. Sir Reginald is very
+infirm, and not likely to stand in your way long. I hear the young man
+well spoken of; and though no one can really deserve you, my dearest
+Susan, Mr. De Courcy may be worth having. Mainwaring will storm of
+course, but you easily pacify him; besides, the most scrupulous point of
+honour could not require you to wait for HIS emancipation. I have seen
+Sir James; he came to town for a few days last week, and called several
+times in Edward Street. I talked to him about you and your daughter, and
+he is so far from having forgotten you, that I am sure he would marry
+either of you with pleasure. I gave him hopes of Frederica's relenting,
+and told him a great deal of her improvements. I scolded him for making
+love to Maria Mainwaring; he protested that he had been only in joke,
+and we both laughed heartily at her disappointment; and, in short, were
+very agreeable. He is as silly as ever.
+
+Yours faithfully,
+
+ALICIA.
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+I am much obliged to you, my dear Friend, for your advice respecting
+Mr. De Courcy, which I know was given with the full conviction of its
+expediency, though I am not quite determined on following it. I cannot
+easily resolve on anything so serious as marriage; especially as I
+am not at present in want of money, and might perhaps, till the old
+gentleman's death, be very little benefited by the match. It is true
+that I am vain enough to believe it within my reach. I have made him
+sensible of my power, and can now enjoy the pleasure of triumphing
+over a mind prepared to dislike me, and prejudiced against all my
+past actions. His sister, too, is, I hope, convinced how little the
+ungenerous representations of anyone to the disadvantage of another will
+avail when opposed by the immediate influence of intellect and manner. I
+see plainly that she is uneasy at my progress in the good opinion of
+her brother, and conclude that nothing will be wanting on her part to
+counteract me; but having once made him doubt the justice of her opinion
+of me, I think I may defy her. It has been delightful to me to watch
+his advances towards intimacy, especially to observe his altered manner
+in consequence of my repressing by the cool dignity of my deportment
+his insolent approach to direct familiarity. My conduct has been equally
+guarded from the first, and I never behaved less like a coquette in the
+whole course of my life, though perhaps my desire of dominion was never
+more decided. I have subdued him entirely by sentiment and serious
+conversation, and made him, I may venture to say, at least half in love
+with me, without the semblance of the most commonplace flirtation. Mrs.
+Vernon's consciousness of deserving every sort of revenge that it can
+be in my power to inflict for her ill-offices could alone enable her
+to perceive that I am actuated by any design in behaviour so gentle
+and unpretending. Let her think and act as she chooses, however. I have
+never yet found that the advice of a sister could prevent a young
+man's being in love if he chose. We are advancing now to some kind of
+confidence, and in short are likely to be engaged in a sort of platonic
+friendship. On my side you may be sure of its never being more, for if
+I were not attached to another person as much as I can be to anyone, I
+should make a point of not bestowing my affection on a man who had dared
+to think so meanly of me. Reginald has a good figure and is not unworthy
+the praise you have heard given him, but is still greatly inferior
+to our friend at Langford. He is less polished, less insinuating than
+Mainwaring, and is comparatively deficient in the power of saying those
+delightful things which put one in good humour with oneself and all the
+world. He is quite agreeable enough, however, to afford me amusement,
+and to make many of those hours pass very pleasantly which would
+otherwise be spent in endeavouring to overcome my sister-in-law's
+reserve, and listening to the insipid talk of her husband. Your account
+of Sir James is most satisfactory, and I mean to give Miss Frederica a
+hint of my intentions very soon.
+
+Yours, &c.,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill
+
+
+I really grow quite uneasy, my dearest mother, about Reginald, from
+witnessing the very rapid increase of Lady Susan's influence. They are
+now on terms of the most particular friendship, frequently engaged in
+long conversations together; and she has contrived by the most artful
+coquetry to subdue his judgment to her own purposes. It is impossible
+to see the intimacy between them so very soon established without some
+alarm, though I can hardly suppose that Lady Susan's plans extend to
+marriage. I wish you could get Reginald home again on any plausible
+pretence; he is not at all disposed to leave us, and I have given him as
+many hints of my father's precarious state of health as common decency
+will allow me to do in my own house. Her power over him must now be
+boundless, as she has entirely effaced all his former ill-opinion,
+and persuaded him not merely to forget but to justify her conduct. Mr.
+Smith's account of her proceedings at Langford, where he accused her of
+having made Mr. Mainwaring and a young man engaged to Miss Mainwaring
+distractedly in love with her, which Reginald firmly believed when he
+came here, is now, he is persuaded, only a scandalous invention. He
+has told me so with a warmth of manner which spoke his regret at having
+believed the contrary himself. How sincerely do I grieve that she
+ever entered this house! I always looked forward to her coming with
+uneasiness; but very far was it from originating in anxiety for
+Reginald. I expected a most disagreeable companion for myself, but could
+not imagine that my brother would be in the smallest danger of being
+captivated by a woman with whose principles he was so well acquainted,
+and whose character he so heartily despised. If you can get him away it
+will be a good thing.
+
+Yours, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+
+SIR REGINALD DE COURCY TO HIS SON
+
+
+Parklands.
+
+
+I know that young men in general do not admit of any enquiry even from
+their nearest relations into affairs of the heart, but I hope, my dear
+Reginald, that you will be superior to such as allow nothing for a
+father's anxiety, and think themselves privileged to refuse him their
+confidence and slight his advice. You must be sensible that as an only
+son, and the representative of an ancient family, your conduct in life
+is most interesting to your connections; and in the very important
+concern of marriage especially, there is everything at stake--your own
+happiness, that of your parents, and the credit of your name. I do not
+suppose that you would deliberately form an absolute engagement of that
+nature without acquainting your mother and myself, or at least, without
+being convinced that we should approve of your choice; but I cannot help
+fearing that you may be drawn in, by the lady who has lately attached
+you, to a marriage which the whole of your family, far and near, must
+highly reprobate. Lady Susan's age is itself a material objection, but
+her want of character is one so much more serious, that the difference
+of even twelve years becomes in comparison of small amount. Were you not
+blinded by a sort of fascination, it would be ridiculous in me to repeat
+the instances of great misconduct on her side so very generally known.
+
+Her neglect of her husband, her encouragement of other men, her
+extravagance and dissipation, were so gross and notorious that no one
+could be ignorant of them at the time, nor can now have forgotten them.
+To our family she has always been represented in softened colours by
+the benevolence of Mr. Charles Vernon, and yet, in spite of his generous
+endeavours to excuse her, we know that she did, from the most selfish
+motives, take all possible pains to prevent his marriage with Catherine.
+
+My years and increasing infirmities make me very desirous of seeing you
+settled in the world. To the fortune of a wife, the goodness of my own
+will make me indifferent, but her family and character must be equally
+unexceptionable. When your choice is fixed so that no objection can be
+made to it, then I can promise you a ready and cheerful consent; but it
+is my duty to oppose a match which deep art only could render possible,
+and must in the end make wretched. It is possible her behaviour may
+arise only from vanity, or the wish of gaining the admiration of a man
+whom she must imagine to be particularly prejudiced against her; but it
+is more likely that she should aim at something further. She is poor,
+and may naturally seek an alliance which must be advantageous to
+herself; you know your own rights, and that it is out of my power to
+prevent your inheriting the family estate. My ability of distressing
+you during my life would be a species of revenge to which I could hardly
+stoop under any circumstances.
+
+I honestly tell you my sentiments and intentions: I do not wish to work
+on your fears, but on your sense and affection. It would destroy every
+comfort of my life to know that you were married to Lady Susan Vernon;
+it would be the death of that honest pride with which I have hitherto
+considered my son; I should blush to see him, to hear of him, to think
+of him. I may perhaps do no good but that of relieving my own mind by
+this letter, but I felt it my duty to tell you that your partiality for
+Lady Susan is no secret to your friends, and to warn you against her.
+I should be glad to hear your reasons for disbelieving Mr. Smith's
+intelligence; you had no doubt of its authenticity a month ago. If
+you can give me your assurance of having no design beyond enjoying
+the conversation of a clever woman for a short period, and of yielding
+admiration only to her beauty and abilities, without being blinded by
+them to her faults, you will restore me to happiness; but, if you cannot
+do this, explain to me, at least, what has occasioned so great an
+alteration in your opinion of her.
+
+I am, &c., &c,
+
+REGINALD DE COURCY
+
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+
+LADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON
+
+
+Parklands.
+
+
+My dear Catherine,--Unluckily I was confined to my room when your last
+letter came, by a cold which affected my eyes so much as to prevent my
+reading it myself, so I could not refuse your father when he offered
+to read it to me, by which means he became acquainted, to my great
+vexation, with all your fears about your brother. I had intended to
+write to Reginald myself as soon as my eyes would let me, to point out,
+as well as I could, the danger of an intimate acquaintance, with so
+artful a woman as Lady Susan, to a young man of his age, and high
+expectations. I meant, moreover, to have reminded him of our being quite
+alone now, and very much in need of him to keep up our spirits these
+long winter evenings. Whether it would have done any good can never be
+settled now, but I am excessively vexed that Sir Reginald should know
+anything of a matter which we foresaw would make him so uneasy. He
+caught all your fears the moment he had read your letter, and I am sure
+he has not had the business out of his head since. He wrote by the same
+post to Reginald a long letter full of it all, and particularly asking
+an explanation of what he may have heard from Lady Susan to contradict
+the late shocking reports. His answer came this morning, which I shall
+enclose to you, as I think you will like to see it. I wish it was more
+satisfactory; but it seems written with such a determination to think
+well of Lady Susan, that his assurances as to marriage, &c., do not set
+my heart at ease. I say all I can, however, to satisfy your father, and
+he is certainly less uneasy since Reginald's letter. How provoking it
+is, my dear Catherine, that this unwelcome guest of yours should not
+only prevent our meeting this Christmas, but be the occasion of so much
+vexation and trouble! Kiss the dear children for me.
+
+Your affectionate mother,
+
+C. DE COURCY.
+
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+
+MR. DE COURCY TO SIR REGINALD
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Sir,--I have this moment received your letter, which has given
+me more astonishment than I ever felt before. I am to thank my sister,
+I suppose, for having represented me in such a light as to injure me
+in your opinion, and give you all this alarm. I know not why she should
+choose to make herself and her family uneasy by apprehending an
+event which no one but herself, I can affirm, would ever have thought
+possible. To impute such a design to Lady Susan would be taking from her
+every claim to that excellent understanding which her bitterest enemies
+have never denied her; and equally low must sink my pretensions to
+common sense if I am suspected of matrimonial views in my behaviour
+to her. Our difference of age must be an insuperable objection, and I
+entreat you, my dear father, to quiet your mind, and no longer harbour
+a suspicion which cannot be more injurious to your own peace than to our
+understandings. I can have no other view in remaining with Lady Susan,
+than to enjoy for a short time (as you have yourself expressed it) the
+conversation of a woman of high intellectual powers. If Mrs. Vernon
+would allow something to my affection for herself and her husband in the
+length of my visit, she would do more justice to us all; but my sister
+is unhappily prejudiced beyond the hope of conviction against Lady
+Susan. From an attachment to her husband, which in itself does honour to
+both, she cannot forgive the endeavours at preventing their union, which
+have been attributed to selfishness in Lady Susan; but in this case, as
+well as in many others, the world has most grossly injured that lady, by
+supposing the worst where the motives of her conduct have been doubtful.
+Lady Susan had heard something so materially to the disadvantage of my
+sister as to persuade her that the happiness of Mr. Vernon, to whom she
+was always much attached, would be wholly destroyed by the marriage. And
+this circumstance, while it explains the true motives of Lady Susan's
+conduct, and removes all the blame which has been so lavished on her,
+may also convince us how little the general report of anyone ought to
+be credited; since no character, however upright, can escape the
+malevolence of slander. If my sister, in the security of retirement,
+with as little opportunity as inclination to do evil, could not avoid
+censure, we must not rashly condemn those who, living in the world and
+surrounded with temptations, should be accused of errors which they are
+known to have the power of committing.
+
+I blame myself severely for having so easily believed the slanderous
+tales invented by Charles Smith to the prejudice of Lady Susan, as I
+am now convinced how greatly they have traduced her. As to Mrs.
+Mainwaring's jealousy it was totally his own invention, and his account
+of her attaching Miss Mainwaring's lover was scarcely better founded.
+Sir James Martin had been drawn in by that young lady to pay her some
+attention; and as he is a man of fortune, it was easy to see HER views
+extended to marriage. It is well known that Miss M. is absolutely on the
+catch for a husband, and no one therefore can pity her for losing, by
+the superior attractions of another woman, the chance of being able to
+make a worthy man completely wretched. Lady Susan was far from intending
+such a conquest, and on finding how warmly Miss Mainwaring resented her
+lover's defection, determined, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Mainwaring's
+most urgent entreaties, to leave the family. I have reason to imagine
+she did receive serious proposals from Sir James, but her removing to
+Langford immediately on the discovery of his attachment, must acquit her
+on that article with any mind of common candour. You will, I am sure, my
+dear Sir, feel the truth of this, and will hereby learn to do justice to
+the character of a very injured woman. I know that Lady Susan in coming
+to Churchhill was governed only by the most honourable and amiable
+intentions; her prudence and economy are exemplary, her regard for Mr.
+Vernon equal even to HIS deserts; and her wish of obtaining my sister's
+good opinion merits a better return than it has received. As a mother
+she is unexceptionable; her solid affection for her child is shown by
+placing her in hands where her education will be properly attended to;
+but because she has not the blind and weak partiality of most mothers,
+she is accused of wanting maternal tenderness. Every person of sense,
+however, will know how to value and commend her well-directed affection,
+and will join me in wishing that Frederica Vernon may prove more worthy
+than she has yet done of her mother's tender care. I have now, my dear
+father, written my real sentiments of Lady Susan; you will know from
+this letter how highly I admire her abilities, and esteem her character;
+but if you are not equally convinced by my full and solemn assurance
+that your fears have been most idly created, you will deeply mortify and
+distress me.
+
+I am, &c., &c.,
+
+R. DE COURCY.
+
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill
+
+
+My dear Mother,--I return you Reginald's letter, and rejoice with all
+my heart that my father is made easy by it: tell him so, with my
+congratulations; but, between ourselves, I must own it has only
+convinced ME of my brother's having no PRESENT intention of marrying
+Lady Susan, not that he is in no danger of doing so three months hence.
+He gives a very plausible account of her behaviour at Langford; I wish
+it may be true, but his intelligence must come from herself, and I
+am less disposed to believe it than to lament the degree of intimacy
+subsisting between them, implied by the discussion of such a subject. I
+am sorry to have incurred his displeasure, but can expect nothing better
+while he is so very eager in Lady Susan's justification. He is very
+severe against me indeed, and yet I hope I have not been hasty in
+my judgment of her. Poor woman! though I have reasons enough for
+my dislike, I cannot help pitying her at present, as she is in real
+distress, and with too much cause. She had this morning a letter from
+the lady with whom she has placed her daughter, to request that Miss
+Vernon might be immediately removed, as she had been detected in an
+attempt to run away. Why, or whither she intended to go, does not
+appear; but, as her situation seems to have been unexceptionable, it is
+a sad thing, and of course highly distressing to Lady Susan. Frederica
+must be as much as sixteen, and ought to know better; but from what
+her mother insinuates, I am afraid she is a perverse girl. She has
+been sadly neglected, however, and her mother ought to remember it. Mr.
+Vernon set off for London as soon as she had determined what should be
+done. He is, if possible, to prevail on Miss Summers to let Frederica
+continue with her; and if he cannot succeed, to bring her to Churchhill
+for the present, till some other situation can be found for her.
+Her ladyship is comforting herself meanwhile by strolling along the
+shrubbery with Reginald, calling forth all his tender feelings, I
+suppose, on this distressing occasion. She has been talking a great deal
+about it to me. She talks vastly well; I am afraid of being ungenerous,
+or I should say, TOO well to feel so very deeply; but I will not look
+for her faults; she may be Reginald's wife! Heaven forbid it! but why
+should I be quicker-sighted than anyone else? Mr. Vernon declares that
+he never saw deeper distress than hers, on the receipt of the letter;
+and is his judgment inferior to mine? She was very unwilling that
+Frederica should be allowed to come to Churchhill, and justly enough, as
+it seems a sort of reward to behaviour deserving very differently; but
+it was impossible to take her anywhere else, and she is not to remain
+here long. "It will be absolutely necessary," said she, "as you, my dear
+sister, must be sensible, to treat my daughter with some severity while
+she is here; a most painful necessity, but I will ENDEAVOUR to submit to
+it. I am afraid I have often been too indulgent, but my poor Frederica's
+temper could never bear opposition well: you must support and encourage
+me; you must urge the necessity of reproof if you see me too lenient."
+All this sounds very reasonable. Reginald is so incensed against the
+poor silly girl. Surely it is not to Lady Susan's credit that he should
+be so bitter against her daughter; his idea of her must be drawn from
+the mother's description. Well, whatever may be his fate, we have the
+comfort of knowing that we have done our utmost to save him. We must
+commit the event to a higher power.
+
+Yours ever, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+Never, my dearest Alicia, was I so provoked in my life as by a letter
+this morning from Miss Summers. That horrid girl of mine has been trying
+to run away. I had not a notion of her being such a little devil before,
+she seemed to have all the Vernon milkiness; but on receiving the letter
+in which I declared my intention about Sir James, she actually attempted
+to elope; at least, I cannot otherwise account for her doing it. She
+meant, I suppose, to go to the Clarkes in Staffordshire, for she has no
+other acquaintances. But she shall be punished, she shall have him. I
+have sent Charles to town to make matters up if he can, for I do not
+by any means want her here. If Miss Summers will not keep her, you must
+find me out another school, unless we can get her married immediately.
+Miss S. writes word that she could not get the young lady to assign
+any cause for her extraordinary conduct, which confirms me in my own
+previous explanation of it. Frederica is too shy, I think, and too much
+in awe of me to tell tales, but if the mildness of her uncle should get
+anything out of her, I am not afraid. I trust I shall be able to make my
+story as good as hers. If I am vain of anything, it is of my eloquence.
+Consideration and esteem as surely follow command of language as
+admiration waits on beauty, and here I have opportunity enough for the
+exercise of my talent, as the chief of my time is spent in conversation.
+
+Reginald is never easy unless we are by ourselves, and when the weather
+is tolerable, we pace the shrubbery for hours together. I like him on
+the whole very well; he is clever and has a good deal to say, but he
+is sometimes impertinent and troublesome. There is a sort of ridiculous
+delicacy about him which requires the fullest explanation of whatever he
+may have heard to my disadvantage, and is never satisfied till he thinks
+he has ascertained the beginning and end of everything. This is one sort
+of love, but I confess it does not particularly recommend itself to me.
+I infinitely prefer the tender and liberal spirit of Mainwaring, which,
+impressed with the deepest conviction of my merit, is satisfied that
+whatever I do must be right; and look with a degree of contempt on
+the inquisitive and doubtful fancies of that heart which seems always
+debating on the reasonableness of its emotions. Mainwaring is indeed,
+beyond all compare, superior to Reginald--superior in everything but the
+power of being with me! Poor fellow! he is much distracted by jealousy,
+which I am not sorry for, as I know no better support of love. He has
+been teazing me to allow of his coming into this country, and lodging
+somewhere near INCOG.; but I forbade everything of the kind. Those women
+are inexcusable who forget what is due to themselves, and the opinion of
+the world.
+
+Yours ever, S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Mother,--Mr. Vernon returned on Thursday night, bringing his
+niece with him. Lady Susan had received a line from him by that day's
+post, informing her that Miss Summers had absolutely refused to allow of
+Miss Vernon's continuance in her academy; we were therefore prepared for
+her arrival, and expected them impatiently the whole evening. They came
+while we were at tea, and I never saw any creature look so frightened as
+Frederica when she entered the room. Lady Susan, who had been shedding
+tears before, and showing great agitation at the idea of the meeting,
+received her with perfect self-command, and without betraying the
+least tenderness of spirit. She hardly spoke to her, and on Frederica's
+bursting into tears as soon as we were seated, took her out of the room,
+and did not return for some time. When she did, her eyes looked very red
+and she was as much agitated as before. We saw no more of her daughter.
+Poor Reginald was beyond measure concerned to see his fair friend in
+such distress, and watched her with so much tender solicitude, that I,
+who occasionally caught her observing his countenance with exultation,
+was quite out of patience. This pathetic representation lasted the whole
+evening, and so ostentatious and artful a display has entirely convinced
+me that she did in fact feel nothing. I am more angry with her than ever
+since I have seen her daughter; the poor girl looks so unhappy that my
+heart aches for her. Lady Susan is surely too severe, for Frederica
+does not seem to have the sort of temper to make severity necessary.
+She looks perfectly timid, dejected, and penitent. She is very
+pretty, though not so handsome as her mother, nor at all like her. Her
+complexion is delicate, but neither so fair nor so blooming as Lady
+Susan's, and she has quite the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face
+and mild dark eyes, and there is peculiar sweetness in her look when she
+speaks either to her uncle or me, for as we behave kindly to her we have
+of course engaged her gratitude.
+
+Her mother has insinuated that her temper is intractable, but I never
+saw a face less indicative of any evil disposition than hers; and from
+what I can see of the behaviour of each to the other, the invariable
+severity of Lady Susan and the silent dejection of Frederica, I am
+led to believe as heretofore that the former has no real love for her
+daughter, and has never done her justice or treated her affectionately.
+I have not been able to have any conversation with my niece; she is shy,
+and I think I can see that some pains are taken to prevent her being
+much with me. Nothing satisfactory transpires as to her reason for
+running away. Her kind-hearted uncle, you may be sure, was too fearful
+of distressing her to ask many questions as they travelled. I wish it
+had been possible for me to fetch her instead of him. I think I should
+have discovered the truth in the course of a thirty-mile journey. The
+small pianoforte has been removed within these few days, at Lady Susan's
+request, into her dressing-room, and Frederica spends great part of the
+day there, practising as it is called; but I seldom hear any noise when
+I pass that way; what she does with herself there I do not know. There
+are plenty of books, but it is not every girl who has been running
+wild the first fifteen years of her life, that can or will read. Poor
+creature! the prospect from her window is not very instructive, for that
+room overlooks the lawn, you know, with the shrubbery on one side,
+where she may see her mother walking for an hour together in earnest
+conversation with Reginald. A girl of Frederica's age must be childish
+indeed, if such things do not strike her. Is it not inexcusable to give
+such an example to a daughter? Yet Reginald still thinks Lady Susan the
+best of mothers, and still condemns Frederica as a worthless girl! He
+is convinced that her attempt to run away proceeded from no, justifiable
+cause, and had no provocation. I am sure I cannot say that it HAD,
+but while Miss Summers declares that Miss Vernon showed no signs of
+obstinacy or perverseness during her whole stay in Wigmore Street, till
+she was detected in this scheme, I cannot so readily credit what Lady
+Susan has made him, and wants to make me believe, that it was merely
+an impatience of restraint and a desire of escaping from the tuition of
+masters which brought on the plan of an elopement. O Reginald, how is
+your judgment enslaved! He scarcely dares even allow her to be handsome,
+and when I speak of her beauty, replies only that her eyes have no
+brilliancy! Sometimes he is sure she is deficient in understanding, and
+at others that her temper only is in fault. In short, when a person is
+always to deceive, it is impossible to be consistent. Lady Susan
+finds it necessary that Frederica should be to blame, and probably has
+sometimes judged it expedient to excuse her of ill-nature and sometimes
+to lament her want of sense. Reginald is only repeating after her
+ladyship.
+
+I remain, &c., &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+
+FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Mother,--I am very glad to find that my description of Frederica
+Vernon has interested you, for I do believe her truly deserving of your
+regard; and when I have communicated a notion which has recently struck
+me, your kind impressions in her favour will, I am sure, be heightened.
+I cannot help fancying that she is growing partial to my brother. I so
+very often see her eyes fixed on his face with a remarkable expression
+of pensive admiration. He is certainly very handsome; and yet more,
+there is an openness in his manner that must be highly prepossessing,
+and I am sure she feels it so. Thoughtful and pensive in general, her
+countenance always brightens into a smile when Reginald says anything
+amusing; and, let the subject be ever so serious that he may be
+conversing on, I am much mistaken if a syllable of his uttering escapes
+her. I want to make him sensible of all this, for we know the power
+of gratitude on such a heart as his; and could Frederica's artless
+affection detach him from her mother, we might bless the day which
+brought her to Churchhill. I think, my dear mother, you would not
+disapprove of her as a daughter. She is extremely young, to be sure,
+has had a wretched education, and a dreadful example of levity in her
+mother; but yet I can pronounce her disposition to be excellent, and her
+natural abilities very good. Though totally without accomplishments, she
+is by no means so ignorant as one might expect to find her, being fond
+of books and spending the chief of her time in reading. Her mother
+leaves her more to herself than she did, and I have her with me as much
+as possible, and have taken great pains to overcome her timidity. We
+are very good friends, and though she never opens her lips before her
+mother, she talks enough when alone with me to make it clear that, if
+properly treated by Lady Susan, she would always appear to much greater
+advantage. There cannot be a more gentle, affectionate heart; or more
+obliging manners, when acting without restraint; and her little cousins
+are all very fond of her.
+
+Your affectionate daughter,
+
+C. VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+You will be eager, I know, to hear something further of Frederica, and
+perhaps may think me negligent for not writing before. She arrived with
+her uncle last Thursday fortnight, when, of course, I lost no time in
+demanding the cause of her behaviour; and soon found myself to have been
+perfectly right in attributing it to my own letter. The prospect of
+it frightened her so thoroughly, that, with a mixture of true girlish
+perverseness and folly, she resolved on getting out of the house and
+proceeding directly by the stage to her friends, the Clarkes; and had
+really got as far as the length of two streets in her journey when
+she was fortunately missed, pursued, and overtaken. Such was the first
+distinguished exploit of Miss Frederica Vernon; and, if we consider that
+it was achieved at the tender age of sixteen, we shall have room for
+the most flattering prognostics of her future renown. I am excessively
+provoked, however, at the parade of propriety which prevented Miss
+Summers from keeping the girl; and it seems so extraordinary a piece of
+nicety, considering my daughter's family connections, that I can only
+suppose the lady to be governed by the fear of never getting her money.
+Be that as it may, however, Frederica is returned on my hands; and,
+having nothing else to employ her, is busy in pursuing the plan of
+romance begun at Langford. She is actually falling in love with Reginald
+De Courcy! To disobey her mother by refusing an unexceptionable offer
+is not enough; her affections must also be given without her mother's
+approbation. I never saw a girl of her age bid fairer to be the sport
+of mankind. Her feelings are tolerably acute, and she is so charmingly
+artless in their display as to afford the most reasonable hope of her
+being ridiculous, and despised by every man who sees her.
+
+Artlessness will never do in love matters; and that girl is born a
+simpleton who has it either by nature or affectation. I am not yet
+certain that Reginald sees what she is about, nor is it of much
+consequence. She is now an object of indifference to him, and she would
+be one of contempt were he to understand her emotions. Her beauty is
+much admired by the Vernons, but it has no effect on him. She is in high
+favour with her aunt altogether, because she is so little like myself,
+of course. She is exactly the companion for Mrs. Vernon, who dearly
+loves to be firm, and to have all the sense and all the wit of the
+conversation to herself: Frederica will never eclipse her. When she
+first came I was at some pains to prevent her seeing much of her aunt;
+but I have relaxed, as I believe I may depend on her observing the rules
+I have laid down for their discourse. But do not imagine that with all
+this lenity I have for a moment given up my plan of her marriage. No; I
+am unalterably fixed on this point, though I have not yet quite decided
+on the manner of bringing it about. I should not chuse to have the
+business brought on here, and canvassed by the wise heads of Mr. and
+Mrs. Vernon; and I cannot just now afford to go to town. Miss Frederica
+must therefore wait a little.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill
+
+
+We have a very unexpected guest with us at present, my dear Mother: he
+arrived yesterday. I heard a carriage at the door, as I was sitting with
+my children while they dined; and supposing I should be wanted, left the
+nursery soon afterwards, and was half-way downstairs, when Frederica,
+as pale as ashes, came running up, and rushed by me into her own room.
+I instantly followed, and asked her what was the matter. "Oh!" said
+she, "he is come--Sir James is come, and what shall I do?" This was no
+explanation; I begged her to tell me what she meant. At that moment we
+were interrupted by a knock at the door: it was Reginald, who came, by
+Lady Susan's direction, to call Frederica down. "It is Mr. De Courcy!"
+said she, colouring violently. "Mamma has sent for me; I must go."
+We all three went down together; and I saw my brother examining the
+terrified face of Frederica with surprize. In the breakfast-room we
+found Lady Susan, and a young man of gentlemanlike appearance, whom she
+introduced by the name of Sir James Martin--the very person, as you may
+remember, whom it was said she had been at pains to detach from Miss
+Mainwaring; but the conquest, it seems, was not designed for herself,
+or she has since transferred it to her daughter; for Sir James is now
+desperately in love with Frederica, and with full encouragement from
+mamma. The poor girl, however, I am sure, dislikes him; and though his
+person and address are very well, he appears, both to Mr. Vernon and
+me, a very weak young man. Frederica looked so shy, so confused, when
+we entered the room, that I felt for her exceedingly. Lady Susan behaved
+with great attention to her visitor; and yet I thought I could perceive
+that she had no particular pleasure in seeing him. Sir James talked a
+great deal, and made many civil excuses to me for the liberty he had
+taken in coming to Churchhill--mixing more frequent laughter with his
+discourse than the subject required--said many things over and over
+again, and told Lady Susan three times that he had seen Mrs. Johnson
+a few evenings before. He now and then addressed Frederica, but more
+frequently her mother. The poor girl sat all this time without opening
+her lips--her eyes cast down, and her colour varying every instant;
+while Reginald observed all that passed in perfect silence. At length
+Lady Susan, weary, I believe, of her situation, proposed walking; and
+we left the two gentlemen together, to put on our pelisses. As we went
+upstairs Lady Susan begged permission to attend me for a few moments in
+my dressing-room, as she was anxious to speak with me in private. I led
+her thither accordingly, and as soon as the door was closed, she said:
+"I was never more surprized in my life than by Sir James's arrival,
+and the suddenness of it requires some apology to you, my dear sister;
+though to ME, as a mother, it is highly flattering. He is so extremely
+attached to my daughter that he could not exist longer without seeing
+her. Sir James is a young man of an amiable disposition and excellent
+character; a little too much of the rattle, perhaps, but a year or two
+will rectify THAT: and he is in other respects so very eligible a match
+for Frederica, that I have always observed his attachment with the
+greatest pleasure; and am persuaded that you and my brother will give
+the alliance your hearty approbation. I have never before mentioned the
+likelihood of its taking place to anyone, because I thought that whilst
+Frederica continued at school it had better not be known to exist;
+but now, as I am convinced that Frederica is too old ever to submit to
+school confinement, and have, therefore, begun to consider her union
+with Sir James as not very distant, I had intended within a few days to
+acquaint yourself and Mr. Vernon with the whole business. I am sure, my
+dear sister, you will excuse my remaining silent so long, and agree
+with me that such circumstances, while they continue from any cause
+in suspense, cannot be too cautiously concealed. When you have the
+happiness of bestowing your sweet little Catherine, some years hence, on
+a man who in connection and character is alike unexceptionable, you
+will know what I feel now; though, thank Heaven, you cannot have all my
+reasons for rejoicing in such an event. Catherine will be amply provided
+for, and not, like my Frederica, indebted to a fortunate
+establishment for the comforts of life." She concluded by demanding
+my congratulations. I gave them somewhat awkwardly, I believe; for, in
+fact, the sudden disclosure of so important a matter took from me the
+power of speaking with any clearness. She thanked me, however, most
+affectionately, for my kind concern in the welfare of herself and
+daughter; and then said: "I am not apt to deal in professions, my
+dear Mrs. Vernon, and I never had the convenient talent of affecting
+sensations foreign to my heart; and therefore I trust you will believe
+me when I declare, that much as I had heard in your praise before I knew
+you, I had no idea that I should ever love you as I now do; and I
+must further say that your friendship towards me is more particularly
+gratifying because I have reason to believe that some attempts were made
+to prejudice you against me. I only wish that they, whoever they are,
+to whom I am indebted for such kind intentions, could see the terms on
+which we now are together, and understand the real affection we feel
+for each other; but I will not detain you any longer. God bless you, for
+your goodness to me and my girl, and continue to you all your present
+happiness." What can one say of such a woman, my dear mother? Such
+earnestness such solemnity of expression! and yet I cannot help
+suspecting the truth of everything she says. As for Reginald, I believe
+he does not know what to make of the matter. When Sir James came, he
+appeared all astonishment and perplexity; the folly of the young man and
+the confusion of Frederica entirely engrossed him; and though a little
+private discourse with Lady Susan has since had its effect, he is still
+hurt, I am sure, at her allowing of such a man's attentions to her
+daughter. Sir James invited himself with great composure to remain here
+a few days--hoped we would not think it odd, was aware of its being very
+impertinent, but he took the liberty of a relation; and concluded by
+wishing, with a laugh, that he might be really one very soon. Even Lady
+Susan seemed a little disconcerted by this forwardness; in her heart I
+am persuaded she sincerely wished him gone. But something must be done
+for this poor girl, if her feelings are such as both I and her uncle
+believe them to be. She must not be sacrificed to policy or ambition,
+and she must not be left to suffer from the dread of it. The girl whose
+heart can distinguish Reginald De Courcy, deserves, however he may
+slight her, a better fate than to be Sir James Martin's wife. As soon
+as I can get her alone, I will discover the real truth; but she seems to
+wish to avoid me. I hope this does not proceed from anything wrong, and
+that I shall not find out I have thought too well of her. Her
+behaviour to Sir James certainly speaks the greatest consciousness and
+embarrassment, but I see nothing in it more like encouragement. Adieu,
+my dear mother.
+
+Yours, &c.,
+
+C. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+
+MISS VERNON TO MR DE COURCY
+
+
+Sir,--I hope you will excuse this liberty; I am forced upon it by the
+greatest distress, or I should be ashamed to trouble you. I am very
+miserable about Sir James Martin, and have no other way in the world of
+helping myself but by writing to you, for I am forbidden even speaking
+to my uncle and aunt on the subject; and this being the case, I am
+afraid my applying to you will appear no better than equivocation, and
+as if I attended to the letter and not the spirit of mamma's commands.
+But if you do not take my part and persuade her to break it off, I shall
+be half distracted, for I cannot bear him. No human being but YOU could
+have any chance of prevailing with her. If you will, therefore, have the
+unspeakably great kindness of taking my part with her, and persuading
+her to send Sir James away, I shall be more obliged to you than it is
+possible for me to express. I always disliked him from the first: it is
+not a sudden fancy, I assure you, sir; I always thought him silly and
+impertinent and disagreeable, and now he is grown worse than ever. I
+would rather work for my bread than marry him. I do not know how
+to apologize enough for this letter; I know it is taking so great a
+liberty. I am aware how dreadfully angry it will make mamma, but I
+remember the risk.
+
+I am, Sir, your most humble servant,
+
+F. S. V.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+This is insufferable! My dearest friend, I was never so enraged before,
+and must relieve myself by writing to you, who I know will enter into
+all my feelings. Who should come on Tuesday but Sir James Martin! Guess
+my astonishment, and vexation--for, as you well know, I never wished him
+to be seen at Churchhill. What a pity that you should not have known
+his intentions! Not content with coming, he actually invited himself to
+remain here a few days. I could have poisoned him! I made the best of
+it, however, and told my story with great success to Mrs. Vernon, who,
+whatever might be her real sentiments, said nothing in opposition to
+mine. I made a point also of Frederica's behaving civilly to Sir James,
+and gave her to understand that I was absolutely determined on her
+marrying him. She said something of her misery, but that was all. I have
+for some time been more particularly resolved on the match from seeing
+the rapid increase of her affection for Reginald, and from not feeling
+secure that a knowledge of such affection might not in the end awaken
+a return. Contemptible as a regard founded only on compassion must make
+them both in my eyes, I felt by no means assured that such might not be
+the consequence. It is true that Reginald had not in any degree grown
+cool towards me; but yet he has lately mentioned Frederica spontaneously
+and unnecessarily, and once said something in praise of her person.
+HE was all astonishment at the appearance of my visitor, and at first
+observed Sir James with an attention which I was pleased to see not
+unmixed with jealousy; but unluckily it was impossible for me really
+to torment him, as Sir James, though extremely gallant to me, very
+soon made the whole party understand that his heart was devoted to my
+daughter. I had no great difficulty in convincing De Courcy, when we
+were alone, that I was perfectly justified, all things considered,
+in desiring the match; and the whole business seemed most comfortably
+arranged. They could none of them help perceiving that Sir James was no
+Solomon; but I had positively forbidden Frederica complaining to Charles
+Vernon or his wife, and they had therefore no pretence for interference;
+though my impertinent sister, I believe, wanted only opportunity for
+doing so. Everything, however, was going on calmly and quietly; and,
+though I counted the hours of Sir James's stay, my mind was entirely
+satisfied with the posture of affairs. Guess, then, what I must feel at
+the sudden disturbance of all my schemes; and that, too, from a quarter
+where I had least reason to expect it. Reginald came this morning into
+my dressing-room with a very unusual solemnity of countenance, and after
+some preface informed me in so many words that he wished to reason with
+me on the impropriety and unkindness of allowing Sir James Martin to
+address my daughter contrary to her inclinations. I was all amazement.
+When I found that he was not to be laughed out of his design, I calmly
+begged an explanation, and desired to know by what he was impelled, and
+by whom commissioned, to reprimand me. He then told me, mixing in
+his speech a few insolent compliments and ill-timed expressions of
+tenderness, to which I listened with perfect indifference, that my
+daughter had acquainted him with some circumstances concerning herself,
+Sir James, and me which had given him great uneasiness. In short, I
+found that she had in the first place actually written to him to request
+his interference, and that, on receiving her letter, he had conversed
+with her on the subject of it, in order to understand the particulars,
+and to assure himself of her real wishes. I have not a doubt but that
+the girl took this opportunity of making downright love to him. I am
+convinced of it by the manner in which he spoke of her. Much good may
+such love do him! I shall ever despise the man who can be gratified by
+the passion which he never wished to inspire, nor solicited the avowal
+of. I shall always detest them both. He can have no true regard for
+me, or he would not have listened to her; and SHE, with her little
+rebellious heart and indelicate feelings, to throw herself into the
+protection of a young man with whom she has scarcely ever exchanged
+two words before! I am equally confounded at HER impudence and HIS
+credulity. How dared he believe what she told him in my disfavour! Ought
+he not to have felt assured that I must have unanswerable motives for
+all that I had done? Where was his reliance on my sense and goodness
+then? Where the resentment which true love would have dictated against
+the person defaming me--that person, too, a chit, a child, without
+talent or education, whom he had been always taught to despise? I
+was calm for some time; but the greatest degree of forbearance may be
+overcome, and I hope I was afterwards sufficiently keen. He endeavoured,
+long endeavoured, to soften my resentment; but that woman is a
+fool indeed who, while insulted by accusation, can be worked on by
+compliments. At length he left me, as deeply provoked as myself; and
+he showed his anger more. I was quite cool, but he gave way to the most
+violent indignation; I may therefore expect it will the sooner subside,
+and perhaps his may be vanished for ever, while mine will be found still
+fresh and implacable. He is now shut up in his apartment, whither I
+heard him go on leaving mine. How unpleasant, one would think, must be
+his reflections! but some people's feelings are incomprehensible. I have
+not yet tranquillised myself enough to see Frederica. SHE shall not soon
+forget the occurrences of this day; she shall find that she has poured
+forth her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed herself for ever
+to the contempt of the whole world, and the severest resentment of her
+injured mother.
+
+Your affectionate
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+Let me congratulate you, my dearest Mother! The affair which has given
+us so much anxiety is drawing to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is
+most delightful, and since matters have now taken so favourable a turn,
+I am quite sorry that I ever imparted my apprehensions to you; for the
+pleasure of learning that the danger is over is perhaps dearly purchased
+by all that you have previously suffered. I am so much agitated by
+delight that I can scarcely hold a pen; but am determined to send you
+a few short lines by James, that you may have some explanation of what
+must so greatly astonish you, as that Reginald should be returning to
+Parklands. I was sitting about half an hour ago with Sir James in
+the breakfast parlour, when my brother called me out of the room. I
+instantly saw that something was the matter; his complexion was raised,
+and he spoke with great emotion; you know his eager manner, my dear
+mother, when his mind is interested. "Catherine," said he, "I am going
+home to-day; I am sorry to leave you, but I must go: it is a great while
+since I have seen my father and mother. I am going to send James forward
+with my hunters immediately; if you have any letter, therefore, he can
+take it. I shall not be at home myself till Wednesday or Thursday, as I
+shall go through London, where I have business; but before I leave you,"
+he continued, speaking in a lower tone, and with still greater energy,
+"I must warn you of one thing--do not let Frederica Vernon be made
+unhappy by that Martin. He wants to marry her; her mother promotes the
+match, but she cannot endure the idea of it. Be assured that I speak
+from the fullest conviction of the truth of what I say; I know that
+Frederica is made wretched by Sir James's continuing here. She is a
+sweet girl, and deserves a better fate. Send him away immediately; he is
+only a fool: but what her mother can mean, Heaven only knows! Good bye,"
+he added, shaking my hand with earnestness; "I do not know when you will
+see me again; but remember what I tell you of Frederica; you MUST make
+it your business to see justice done her. She is an amiable girl, and
+has a very superior mind to what we have given her credit for." He then
+left me, and ran upstairs. I would not try to stop him, for I know what
+his feelings must be. The nature of mine, as I listened to him, I need
+not attempt to describe; for a minute or two I remained in the same
+spot, overpowered by wonder of a most agreeable sort indeed; yet it
+required some consideration to be tranquilly happy. In about ten minutes
+after my return to the parlour Lady Susan entered the room. I concluded,
+of course, that she and Reginald had been quarrelling; and looked with
+anxious curiosity for a confirmation of my belief in her face. Mistress
+of deceit, however, she appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after
+chatting on indifferent subjects for a short time, said to me, "I find
+from Wilson that we are going to lose Mr. De Courcy--is it true that
+he leaves Churchhill this morning?" I replied that it was. "He told
+us nothing of all this last night," said she, laughing, "or even this
+morning at breakfast; but perhaps he did not know it himself. Young men
+are often hasty in their resolutions, and not more sudden in forming
+than unsteady in keeping them. I should not be surprised if he were to
+change his mind at last, and not go." She soon afterwards left the room.
+I trust, however, my dear mother, that we have no reason to fear an
+alteration of his present plan; things have gone too far. They must have
+quarrelled, and about Frederica, too. Her calmness astonishes me. What
+delight will be yours in seeing him again; in seeing him still worthy
+your esteem, still capable of forming your happiness! When I next
+write I shall be able to tell you that Sir James is gone, Lady Susan
+vanquished, and Frederica at peace. We have much to do, but it shall
+be done. I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing change was
+effected. I finish as I began, with the warmest congratulations.
+
+Yours ever, &c.,
+
+CATH. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+
+FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+Little did I imagine, my dear Mother, when I sent off my last letter,
+that the delightful perturbation of spirits I was then in would undergo
+so speedy, so melancholy a reverse. I never can sufficiently regret that
+I wrote to you at all. Yet who could have foreseen what has happened?
+My dear mother, every hope which made me so happy only two hours ago has
+vanished. The quarrel between Lady Susan and Reginald is made up, and we
+are all as we were before. One point only is gained. Sir James Martin is
+dismissed. What are we now to look forward to? I am indeed disappointed;
+Reginald was all but gone, his horse was ordered and all but brought
+to the door; who would not have felt safe? For half an hour I was in
+momentary expectation of his departure. After I had sent off my letter
+to you, I went to Mr. Vernon, and sat with him in his room talking over
+the whole matter, and then determined to look for Frederica, whom I had
+not seen since breakfast. I met her on the stairs, and saw that she was
+crying. "My dear aunt," said she, "he is going--Mr. De Courcy is going,
+and it is all my fault. I am afraid you will be very angry with me, but
+indeed I had no idea it would end so." "My love," I replied, "do not
+think it necessary to apologize to me on that account. I shall feel
+myself under an obligation to anyone who is the means of sending my
+brother home, because," recollecting myself, "I know my father wants
+very much to see him. But what is it you have done to occasion all
+this?" She blushed deeply as she answered: "I was so unhappy about Sir
+James that I could not help--I have done something very wrong, I know;
+but you have not an idea of the misery I have been in: and mamma had
+ordered me never to speak to you or my uncle about it, and--" "You
+therefore spoke to my brother to engage his interference," said I, to
+save her the explanation. "No, but I wrote to him--I did indeed, I got
+up this morning before it was light, and was two hours about it; and
+when my letter was done I thought I never should have courage to give
+it. After breakfast however, as I was going to my room, I met him in the
+passage, and then, as I knew that everything must depend on that moment,
+I forced myself to give it. He was so good as to take it immediately. I
+dared not look at him, and ran away directly. I was in such a fright I
+could hardly breathe. My dear aunt, you do not know how miserable I
+have been." "Frederica" said I, "you ought to have told me all your
+distresses. You would have found in me a friend always ready to assist
+you. Do you think that your uncle or I should not have espoused your
+cause as warmly as my brother?" "Indeed, I did not doubt your kindness,"
+said she, colouring again, "but I thought Mr. De Courcy could do
+anything with my mother; but I was mistaken: they have had a dreadful
+quarrel about it, and he is going away. Mamma will never forgive me,
+and I shall be worse off than ever." "No, you shall not," I replied;
+"in such a point as this your mother's prohibition ought not to have
+prevented your speaking to me on the subject. She has no right to
+make you unhappy, and she shall NOT do it. Your applying, however, to
+Reginald can be productive only of good to all parties. I believe it
+is best as it is. Depend upon it that you shall not be made unhappy any
+longer." At that moment how great was my astonishment at seeing Reginald
+come out of Lady Susan's dressing-room. My heart misgave me instantly.
+His confusion at seeing me was very evident. Frederica immediately
+disappeared. "Are you going?" I said; "you will find Mr. Vernon in his
+own room." "No, Catherine," he replied, "I am not going. Will you let
+me speak to you a moment?" We went into my room. "I find," he continued,
+his confusion increasing as he spoke, "that I have been acting with my
+usual foolish impetuosity. I have entirely misunderstood Lady Susan, and
+was on the point of leaving the house under a false impression of
+her conduct. There has been some very great mistake; we have been all
+mistaken, I fancy. Frederica does not know her mother. Lady Susan means
+nothing but her good, but she will not make a friend of her. Lady Susan
+does not always know, therefore, what will make her daughter happy.
+Besides, I could have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mistaken in
+applying to me. In short, Catherine, everything has gone wrong, but it
+is now all happily settled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to speak to
+you about it, if you are at leisure." "Certainly," I replied, deeply
+sighing at the recital of so lame a story. I made no comments, however,
+for words would have been vain.
+
+Reginald was glad to get away, and I went to Lady Susan, curious,
+indeed, to hear her account of it. "Did I not tell you," said she with
+a smile, "that your brother would not leave us after all?" "You did,
+indeed," replied I very gravely; "but I flattered myself you would be
+mistaken." "I should not have hazarded such an opinion," returned she,
+"if it had not at that moment occurred to me that his resolution of
+going might be occasioned by a conversation in which we had been this
+morning engaged, and which had ended very much to his dissatisfaction,
+from our not rightly understanding each other's meaning. This idea
+struck me at the moment, and I instantly determined that an accidental
+dispute, in which I might probably be as much to blame as himself,
+should not deprive you of your brother. If you remember, I left the room
+almost immediately. I was resolved to lose no time in clearing up those
+mistakes as far as I could. The case was this--Frederica had set herself
+violently against marrying Sir James." "And can your ladyship wonder
+that she should?" cried I with some warmth; "Frederica has an excellent
+understanding, and Sir James has none." "I am at least very far from
+regretting it, my dear sister," said she; "on the contrary, I am
+grateful for so favourable a sign of my daughter's sense. Sir James is
+certainly below par (his boyish manners make him appear worse); and had
+Frederica possessed the penetration and the abilities which I could have
+wished in my daughter, or had I even known her to possess as much as she
+does, I should not have been anxious for the match." "It is odd that
+you should alone be ignorant of your daughter's sense!" "Frederica never
+does justice to herself; her manners are shy and childish, and besides
+she is afraid of me. During her poor father's life she was a spoilt
+child; the severity which it has since been necessary for me to show
+has alienated her affection; neither has she any of that brilliancy
+of intellect, that genius or vigour of mind which will force itself
+forward." "Say rather that she has been unfortunate in her education!"
+"Heaven knows, my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am aware of that; but
+I would wish to forget every circumstance that might throw blame on the
+memory of one whose name is sacred with me." Here she pretended to cry;
+I was out of patience with her. "But what," said I, "was your ladyship
+going to tell me about your disagreement with my brother?" "It
+originated in an action of my daughter's, which equally marks her want
+of judgment and the unfortunate dread of me I have been mentioning--she
+wrote to Mr. De Courcy." "I know she did; you had forbidden her speaking
+to Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause of her distress; what could she do,
+therefore, but apply to my brother?" "Good God!" she exclaimed, "what an
+opinion you must have of me! Can you possibly suppose that I was
+aware of her unhappiness! that it was my object to make my own child
+miserable, and that I had forbidden her speaking to you on the subject
+from a fear of your interrupting the diabolical scheme? Do you think
+me destitute of every honest, every natural feeling? Am I capable of
+consigning HER to everlasting misery whose welfare it is my first
+earthly duty to promote? The idea is horrible!" "What, then, was your
+intention when you insisted on her silence?" "Of what use, my dear
+sister, could be any application to you, however the affair might stand?
+Why should I subject you to entreaties which I refused to attend to
+myself? Neither for your sake nor for hers, nor for my own, could such
+a thing be desirable. When my own resolution was taken I could not
+wish for the interference, however friendly, of another person. I was
+mistaken, it is true, but I believed myself right." "But what was this
+mistake to which your ladyship so often alludes! from whence arose so
+astonishing a misconception of your daughter's feelings! Did you not
+know that she disliked Sir James?" "I knew that he was not absolutely
+the man she would have chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections
+to him did not arise from any perception of his deficiency. You must
+not question me, however, my dear sister, too minutely on this point,"
+continued she, taking me affectionately by the hand; "I honestly own
+that there is something to conceal. Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her
+applying to Mr. De Courcy hurt me particularly." "What is it you mean
+to infer," said I, "by this appearance of mystery? If you think your
+daughter at all attached to Reginald, her objecting to Sir James could
+not less deserve to be attended to than if the cause of her objecting
+had been a consciousness of his folly; and why should your ladyship,
+at any rate, quarrel with my brother for an interference which, you must
+know, it is not in his nature to refuse when urged in such a manner?"
+
+"His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came to expostulate with
+me; his compassion all alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in
+distress! We misunderstood each other: he believed me more to blame than
+I really was; I considered his interference less excusable than I
+now find it. I have a real regard for him, and was beyond expression
+mortified to find it, as I thought, so ill bestowed. We were both warm,
+and of course both to blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is
+consistent with his general eagerness. When I understood his intention,
+however, and at the same time began to think that we had been perhaps
+equally mistaken in each other's meaning, I resolved to have an
+explanation before it was too late. For any member of your family I must
+always feel a degree of affection, and I own it would have sensibly hurt
+me if my acquaintance with Mr. De Courcy had ended so gloomily. I have
+now only to say further, that as I am convinced of Frederica's having
+a reasonable dislike to Sir James, I shall instantly inform him that he
+must give up all hope of her. I reproach myself for having, even though
+innocently, made her unhappy on that score. She shall have all the
+retribution in my power to make; if she value her own happiness as much
+as I do, if she judge wisely, and command herself as she ought, she may
+now be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for thus trespassing on your
+time, but I owe it to my own character; and after this explanation I
+trust I am in no danger of sinking in your opinion." I could have
+said, "Not much, indeed!" but I left her almost in silence. It was
+the greatest stretch of forbearance I could practise. I could not have
+stopped myself had I begun. Her assurance! her deceit! but I will not
+allow myself to dwell on them; they will strike you sufficiently. My
+heart sickens within me. As soon as I was tolerably composed I returned
+to the parlour. Sir James's carriage was at the door, and he, merry
+as usual, soon afterwards took his leave. How easily does her ladyship
+encourage or dismiss a lover! In spite of this release, Frederica still
+looks unhappy: still fearful, perhaps, of her mother's anger; and though
+dreading my brother's departure, jealous, it may be, of his staying. I
+see how closely she observes him and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have now
+no hope for her. There is not a chance of her affection being returned.
+He thinks very differently of her from what he used to do; he does her
+some justice, but his reconciliation with her mother precludes every
+dearer hope. Prepare, my dear mother, for the worst! The probability of
+their marrying is surely heightened! He is more securely hers than ever.
+When that wretched event takes place, Frederica must belong wholly to
+us. I am thankful that my last letter will precede this by so little, as
+every moment that you can be saved from feeling a joy which leads only
+to disappointment is of consequence.
+
+Yours ever, &c.,
+
+CATHERINE VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+I call on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations: I am my own self, gay
+and triumphant! When I wrote to you the other day I was, in truth, in
+high irritation, and with ample cause. Nay, I know not whether I ought
+to be quite tranquil now, for I have had more trouble in restoring
+peace than I ever intended to submit to--a spirit, too, resulting from
+a fancied sense of superior integrity, which is peculiarly insolent! I
+shall not easily forgive him, I assure you. He was actually on the point
+of leaving Churchhill! I had scarcely concluded my last, when Wilson
+brought me word of it. I found, therefore, that something must be done;
+for I did not choose to leave my character at the mercy of a man whose
+passions are so violent and so revengeful. It would have been trifling
+with my reputation to allow of his departing with such an impression in
+my disfavour; in this light, condescension was necessary. I sent
+Wilson to say that I desired to speak with him before he went; he came
+immediately. The angry emotions which had marked every feature when we
+last parted were partially subdued. He seemed astonished at the summons,
+and looked as if half wishing and half fearing to be softened by what I
+might say. If my countenance expressed what I aimed at, it was composed
+and dignified; and yet, with a degree of pensiveness which might
+convince him that I was not quite happy. "I beg your pardon, sir, for
+the liberty I have taken in sending for you," said I; "but as I have
+just learnt your intention of leaving this place to-day, I feel it my
+duty to entreat that you will not on my account shorten your visit here
+even an hour. I am perfectly aware that after what has passed between
+us it would ill suit the feelings of either to remain longer in the same
+house: so very great, so total a change from the intimacy of friendship
+must render any future intercourse the severest punishment; and your
+resolution of quitting Churchhill is undoubtedly in unison with our
+situation, and with those lively feelings which I know you to possess.
+But, at the same time, it is not for me to suffer such a sacrifice as it
+must be to leave relations to whom you are so much attached, and are so
+dear. My remaining here cannot give that pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon
+which your society must; and my visit has already perhaps been too long.
+My removal, therefore, which must, at any rate, take place soon, may,
+with perfect convenience, be hastened; and I make it my particular
+request that I may not in any way be instrumental in separating a
+family so affectionately attached to each other. Where I go is of
+no consequence to anyone; of very little to myself; but you are of
+importance to all your connections." Here I concluded, and I hope you
+will be satisfied with my speech. Its effect on Reginald justifies some
+portion of vanity, for it was no less favourable than instantaneous. Oh,
+how delightful it was to watch the variations of his countenance while I
+spoke! to see the struggle between returning tenderness and the remains
+of displeasure. There is something agreeable in feelings so easily
+worked on; not that I envy him their possession, nor would, for the
+world, have such myself; but they are very convenient when one wishes
+to influence the passions of another. And yet this Reginald, whom a
+very few words from me softened at once into the utmost submission, and
+rendered more tractable, more attached, more devoted than ever, would
+have left me in the first angry swelling of his proud heart without
+deigning to seek an explanation. Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive
+him such an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I ought not to
+punish him by dismissing him at once after this reconciliation, or
+by marrying and teazing him for ever. But these measures are each too
+violent to be adopted without some deliberation; at present my thoughts
+are fluctuating between various schemes. I have many things to compass:
+I must punish Frederica, and pretty severely too, for her application to
+Reginald; I must punish him for receiving it so favourably, and for the
+rest of his conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law for the insolent
+triumph of her look and manner since Sir James has been dismissed; for,
+in reconciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that ill-fated
+young man; and I must make myself amends for the humiliation to which
+I have stooped within these few days. To effect all this I have various
+plans. I have also an idea of being soon in town; and whatever may be
+my determination as to the rest, I shall probably put THAT project
+in execution; for London will be always the fairest field of action,
+however my views may be directed; and at any rate I shall there be
+rewarded by your society, and a little dissipation, for a ten weeks'
+penance at Churchhill. I believe I owe it to my character to complete
+the match between my daughter and Sir James after having so long
+intended it. Let me know your opinion on this point. Flexibility of
+mind, a disposition easily biassed by others, is an attribute which you
+know I am not very desirous of obtaining; nor has Frederica any claim
+to the indulgence of her notions at the expense of her mother's
+inclinations. Her idle love for Reginald, too! It is surely my duty to
+discourage such romantic nonsense. All things considered, therefore, it
+seems incumbent on me to take her to town and marry her immediately to
+Sir James. When my own will is effected contrary to his, I shall have
+some credit in being on good terms with Reginald, which at present, in
+fact, I have not; for though he is still in my power, I have given up
+the very article by which our quarrel was produced, and at best the
+honour of victory is doubtful. Send me your opinion on all these
+matters, my dear Alicia, and let me know whether you can get lodgings to
+suit me within a short distance of you.
+
+Your most attached
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+
+MRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN
+
+
+Edward Street.
+
+
+I am gratified by your reference, and this is my advice: that you come
+to town yourself, without loss of time, but that you leave Frederica
+behind. It would surely be much more to the purpose to get yourself well
+established by marrying Mr. De Courcy, than to irritate him and the rest
+of his family by making her marry Sir James. You should think more of
+yourself and less of your daughter. She is not of a disposition to do
+you credit in the world, and seems precisely in her proper place at
+Churchhill, with the Vernons. But you are fitted for society, and it
+is shameful to have you exiled from it. Leave Frederica, therefore,
+to punish herself for the plague she has given you, by indulging that
+romantic tender-heartedness which will always ensure her misery enough,
+and come to London as soon as you can. I have another reason for urging
+this: Mainwaring came to town last week, and has contrived, in spite
+of Mr. Johnson, to make opportunities of seeing me. He is absolutely
+miserable about you, and jealous to such a degree of De Courcy that it
+would be highly unadvisable for them to meet at present. And yet, if you
+do not allow him to see you here, I cannot answer for his not committing
+some great imprudence--such as going to Churchhill, for instance, which
+would be dreadful! Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to marry
+De Courcy, it will be indispensably necessary to you to get Mainwaring
+out of the way; and you only can have influence enough to send him back
+to his wife. I have still another motive for your coming: Mr. Johnson
+leaves London next Tuesday; he is going for his health to Bath, where,
+if the waters are favourable to his constitution and my wishes, he will
+be laid up with the gout many weeks. During his absence we shall be able
+to chuse our own society, and to have true enjoyment. I would ask you to
+Edward Street, but that once he forced from me a kind of promise never
+to invite you to my house; nothing but my being in the utmost distress
+for money should have extorted it from me. I can get you, however,
+a nice drawing-room apartment in Upper Seymour Street, and we may be
+always together there or here; for I consider my promise to Mr. Johnson
+as comprehending only (at least in his absence) your not sleeping in the
+house. Poor Mainwaring gives me such histories of his wife's jealousy.
+Silly woman to expect constancy from so charming a man! but she always
+was silly--intolerably so in marrying him at all, she the heiress of a
+large fortune and he without a shilling: one title, I know, she might
+have had, besides baronets. Her folly in forming the connection was so
+great that, though Mr. Johnson was her guardian, and I do not in general
+share HIS feelings, I never can forgive her.
+
+Adieu. Yours ever,
+
+ALICIA.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXVII
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+This letter, my dear Mother, will be brought you by Reginald. His long
+visit is about to be concluded at last, but I fear the separation takes
+place too late to do us any good. She is going to London to see her
+particular friend, Mrs. Johnson. It was at first her intention that
+Frederica should accompany her, for the benefit of masters, but we
+overruled her there. Frederica was wretched in the idea of going, and
+I could not bear to have her at the mercy of her mother; not all the
+masters in London could compensate for the ruin of her comfort. I
+should have feared, too, for her health, and for everything but her
+principles--there I believe she is not to be injured by her mother, or
+her mother's friends; but with those friends she must have mixed (a very
+bad set, I doubt not), or have been left in total solitude, and I can
+hardly tell which would have been worse for her. If she is with her
+mother, moreover, she must, alas! in all probability be with Reginald,
+and that would be the greatest evil of all. Here we shall in time be in
+peace, and our regular employments, our books and conversations, with
+exercise, the children, and every domestic pleasure in my power to
+procure her, will, I trust, gradually overcome this youthful attachment.
+I should not have a doubt of it were she slighted for any other woman in
+the world than her own mother. How long Lady Susan will be in town, or
+whether she returns here again, I know not. I could not be cordial in my
+invitation, but if she chuses to come no want of cordiality on my part
+will keep her away. I could not help asking Reginald if he intended
+being in London this winter, as soon as I found her ladyship's
+steps would be bent thither; and though he professed himself quite
+undetermined, there was something in his look and voice as he spoke
+which contradicted his words. I have done with lamentation; I look upon
+the event as so far decided that I resign myself to it in despair. If he
+leaves you soon for London everything will be concluded.
+
+Your affectionate, &c.,
+
+C. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXVIII
+
+
+MRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN
+
+
+Edward Street.
+
+
+My dearest Friend,--I write in the greatest distress; the most
+unfortunate event has just taken place. Mr. Johnson has hit on the most
+effectual manner of plaguing us all. He had heard, I imagine, by some
+means or other, that you were soon to be in London, and immediately
+contrived to have such an attack of the gout as must at least delay his
+journey to Bath, if not wholly prevent it. I am persuaded the gout is
+brought on or kept off at pleasure; it was the same when I wanted to
+join the Hamiltons to the Lakes; and three years ago, when I had a fancy
+for Bath, nothing could induce him to have a gouty symptom.
+
+I am pleased to find that my letter had so much effect on you, and that
+De Courcy is certainly your own. Let me hear from you as soon as you
+arrive, and in particular tell me what you mean to do with Mainwaring.
+It is impossible to say when I shall be able to come to you; my
+confinement must be great. It is such an abominable trick to be ill here
+instead of at Bath that I can scarcely command myself at all. At Bath
+his old aunts would have nursed him, but here it all falls upon me; and
+he bears pain with such patience that I have not the common excuse for
+losing my temper.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+ALICIA.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIX
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+My dear Alicia,--There needed not this last fit of the gout to make
+me detest Mr. Johnson, but now the extent of my aversion is not to
+be estimated. To have you confined as nurse in his apartment! My dear
+Alicia, of what a mistake were you guilty in marrying a man of his age!
+just old enough to be formal, ungovernable, and to have the gout; too
+old to be agreeable, too young to die. I arrived last night about five,
+had scarcely swallowed my dinner when Mainwaring made his appearance.
+I will not dissemble what real pleasure his sight afforded me, nor how
+strongly I felt the contrast between his person and manners and those of
+Reginald, to the infinite disadvantage of the latter. For an hour or two
+I was even staggered in my resolution of marrying him, and though this
+was too idle and nonsensical an idea to remain long on my mind, I do not
+feel very eager for the conclusion of my marriage, nor look forward with
+much impatience to the time when Reginald, according to our agreement,
+is to be in town. I shall probably put off his arrival under some
+pretence or other. He must not come till Mainwaring is gone. I am still
+doubtful at times as to marrying; if the old man would die I might not
+hesitate, but a state of dependance on the caprice of Sir Reginald will
+not suit the freedom of my spirit; and if I resolve to wait for that
+event, I shall have excuse enough at present in having been scarcely ten
+months a widow. I have not given Mainwaring any hint of my intention, or
+allowed him to consider my acquaintance with Reginald as more than the
+commonest flirtation, and he is tolerably appeased. Adieu, till we meet;
+I am enchanted with my lodgings.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+S. VERNON.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXX
+
+
+LADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+I have received your letter, and though I do not attempt to conceal that
+I am gratified by your impatience for the hour of meeting, I yet
+feel myself under the necessity of delaying that hour beyond the time
+originally fixed. Do not think me unkind for such an exercise of my
+power, nor accuse me of instability without first hearing my reasons.
+In the course of my journey from Churchhill I had ample leisure for
+reflection on the present state of our affairs, and every review has
+served to convince me that they require a delicacy and cautiousness of
+conduct to which we have hitherto been too little attentive. We have
+been hurried on by our feelings to a degree of precipitation which ill
+accords with the claims of our friends or the opinion of the world. We
+have been unguarded in forming this hasty engagement, but we must not
+complete the imprudence by ratifying it while there is so much reason
+to fear the connection would be opposed by those friends on whom you
+depend. It is not for us to blame any expectations on your father's side
+of your marrying to advantage; where possessions are so extensive as
+those of your family, the wish of increasing them, if not strictly
+reasonable, is too common to excite surprize or resentment. He has a
+right to require; a woman of fortune in his daughter-in-law, and I am
+sometimes quarrelling with myself for suffering you to form a connection
+so imprudent; but the influence of reason is often acknowledged too late
+by those who feel like me. I have now been but a few months a widow,
+and, however little indebted to my husband's memory for any happiness
+derived from him during a union of some years, I cannot forget that the
+indelicacy of so early a second marriage must subject me to the censure
+of the world, and incur, what would be still more insupportable, the
+displeasure of Mr. Vernon. I might perhaps harden myself in time against
+the injustice of general reproach, but the loss of HIS valued esteem
+I am, as you well know, ill-fitted to endure; and when to this may be
+added the consciousness of having injured you with your family, how am I
+to support myself? With feelings so poignant as mine, the conviction of
+having divided the son from his parents would make me, even with you,
+the most miserable of beings. It will surely, therefore, be advisable to
+delay our union--to delay it till appearances are more promising--till
+affairs have taken a more favourable turn. To assist us in such a
+resolution I feel that absence will be necessary. We must not meet.
+Cruel as this sentence may appear, the necessity of pronouncing it,
+which can alone reconcile it to myself, will be evident to you when you
+have considered our situation in the light in which I have found myself
+imperiously obliged to place it. You may be--you must be--well assured
+that nothing but the strongest conviction of duty could induce me
+to wound my own feelings by urging a lengthened separation, and of
+insensibility to yours you will hardly suspect me. Again, therefore,
+I say that we ought not, we must not, yet meet. By a removal for some
+months from each other we shall tranquillise the sisterly fears of Mrs.
+Vernon, who, accustomed herself to the enjoyment of riches, considers
+fortune as necessary everywhere, and whose sensibilities are not of a
+nature to comprehend ours. Let me hear from you soon--very soon. Tell me
+that you submit to my arguments, and do not reproach me for using such.
+I cannot bear reproaches: my spirits are not so high as to need being
+repressed. I must endeavour to seek amusement, and fortunately many
+of my friends are in town; amongst them the Mainwarings; you know how
+sincerely I regard both husband and wife.
+
+I am, very faithfully yours,
+
+S. VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXI
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+My dear Friend,--That tormenting creature, Reginald, is here. My letter,
+which was intended to keep him longer in the country, has hastened him
+to town. Much as I wish him away, however, I cannot help being pleased
+with such a proof of attachment. He is devoted to me, heart and soul.
+He will carry this note himself, which is to serve as an introduction to
+you, with whom he longs to be acquainted. Allow him to spend the evening
+with you, that I may be in no danger of his returning here. I have told
+him that I am not quite well, and must be alone; and should he call
+again there might be confusion, for it is impossible to be sure of
+servants. Keep him, therefore, I entreat you, in Edward Street. You will
+not find him a heavy companion, and I allow you to flirt with him as
+much as you like. At the same time, do not forget my real interest; say
+all that you can to convince him that I shall be quite wretched if he
+remains here; you know my reasons--propriety, and so forth. I would
+urge them more myself, but that I am impatient to be rid of him, as
+Mainwaring comes within half an hour. Adieu!
+
+S VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXII
+
+
+MRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN
+
+
+Edward Street.
+
+
+My dear Creature,--I am in agonies, and know not what to do. Mr. De
+Courcy arrived just when he should not. Mrs. Mainwaring had that instant
+entered the house, and forced herself into her guardian's presence,
+though I did not know a syllable of it till afterwards, for I was out
+when both she and Reginald came, or I should have sent him away at all
+events; but she was shut up with Mr. Johnson, while he waited in the
+drawing-room for me. She arrived yesterday in pursuit of her husband,
+but perhaps you know this already from himself. She came to this house
+to entreat my husband's interference, and before I could be aware of
+it, everything that you could wish to be concealed was known to him, and
+unluckily she had wormed out of Mainwaring's servant that he had visited
+you every day since your being in town, and had just watched him to your
+door herself! What could I do! Facts are such horrid things! All is by
+this time known to De Courcy, who is now alone with Mr. Johnson. Do not
+accuse me; indeed, it was impossible to prevent it. Mr. Johnson has for
+some time suspected De Courcy of intending to marry you, and would
+speak with him alone as soon as he knew him to be in the house. That
+detestable Mrs. Mainwaring, who, for your comfort, has fretted herself
+thinner and uglier than ever, is still here, and they have been all
+closeted together. What can be done? At any rate, I hope he will plague
+his wife more than ever. With anxious wishes, Yours faithfully,
+
+ALICIA.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXIII
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+This eclaircissement is rather provoking. How unlucky that you should
+have been from home! I thought myself sure of you at seven! I am
+undismayed however. Do not torment yourself with fears on my account;
+depend on it, I can make my story good with Reginald. Mainwaring is just
+gone; he brought me the news of his wife's arrival. Silly woman, what
+does she expect by such manoeuvres? Yet I wish she had stayed quietly
+at Langford. Reginald will be a little enraged at first, but by
+to-morrow's dinner, everything will be well again.
+
+Adieu!
+
+S. V.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXIV
+
+
+MR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN
+
+
+--Hotel
+
+
+I write only to bid you farewell, the spell is removed; I see you as
+you are. Since we parted yesterday, I have received from indisputable
+authority such a history of you as must bring the most mortifying
+conviction of the imposition I have been under, and the absolute
+necessity of an immediate and eternal separation from you. You
+cannot doubt to what I allude. Langford! Langford! that word will be
+sufficient. I received my information in Mr. Johnson's house, from Mrs.
+Mainwaring herself. You know how I have loved you; you can intimately
+judge of my present feelings, but I am not so weak as to find indulgence
+in describing them to a woman who will glory in having excited their
+anguish, but whose affection they have never been able to gain.
+
+R. DE COURCY.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXV
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+I will not attempt to describe my astonishment in reading the note this
+moment received from you. I am bewildered in my endeavours to form
+some rational conjecture of what Mrs. Mainwaring can have told you
+to occasion so extraordinary a change in your sentiments. Have I not
+explained everything to you with respect to myself which could bear a
+doubtful meaning, and which the ill-nature of the world had interpreted
+to my discredit? What can you now have heard to stagger your esteem for
+me? Have I ever had a concealment from you? Reginald, you agitate
+me beyond expression, I cannot suppose that the old story of Mrs.
+Mainwaring's jealousy can be revived again, or at least be LISTENED to
+again. Come to me immediately, and explain what is at present absolutely
+incomprehensible. Believe me the single word of Langford is not of such
+potent intelligence as to supersede the necessity of more. If we ARE to
+part, it will at least be handsome to take your personal leave--but
+I have little heart to jest; in truth, I am serious enough; for to be
+sunk, though but for an hour, in your esteem is a humiliation to which I
+know not how to submit. I shall count every minute till your arrival.
+
+S. V.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXVI
+
+
+MR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN
+
+
+----Hotel.
+
+
+Why would you write to me? Why do you require particulars? But, since
+it must be so, I am obliged to declare that all the accounts of your
+misconduct during the life, and since the death of Mr. Vernon, which had
+reached me, in common with the world in general, and gained my entire
+belief before I saw you, but which you, by the exertion of your
+perverted abilities, had made me resolved to disallow, have been
+unanswerably proved to me; nay more, I am assured that a connection,
+of which I had never before entertained a thought, has for some time
+existed, and still continues to exist, between you and the man whose
+family you robbed of its peace in return for the hospitality with which
+you were received into it; that you have corresponded with him ever
+since your leaving Langford; not with his wife, but with him, and that
+he now visits you every day. Can you, dare you deny it? and all this at
+the time when I was an encouraged, an accepted lover! From what have I
+not escaped! I have only to be grateful. Far from me be all complaint,
+every sigh of regret. My own folly had endangered me, my preservation I
+owe to the kindness, the integrity of another; but the unfortunate Mrs.
+Mainwaring, whose agonies while she related the past seemed to threaten
+her reason, how is SHE to be consoled! After such a discovery as this,
+you will scarcely affect further wonder at my meaning in bidding you
+adieu. My understanding is at length restored, and teaches no less to
+abhor the artifices which had subdued me than to despise myself for the
+weakness on which their strength was founded.
+
+R. DE COURCY.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXVII
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+
+I am satisfied, and will trouble you no more when these few lines are
+dismissed. The engagement which you were eager to form a fortnight ago
+is no longer compatible with your views, and I rejoice to find that
+the prudent advice of your parents has not been given in vain. Your
+restoration to peace will, I doubt not, speedily follow this act of
+filial obedience, and I flatter myself with the hope of surviving my
+share in this disappointment.
+
+S. V.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXVIII
+
+
+MRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN VERNON
+
+
+Edward Street
+
+
+I am grieved, though I cannot be astonished at your rupture with Mr.
+De Courcy; he has just informed Mr. Johnson of it by letter. He leaves
+London, he says, to-day. Be assured that I partake in all your feelings,
+and do not be angry if I say that our intercourse, even by letter, must
+soon be given up. It makes me miserable; but Mr. Johnson vows that if I
+persist in the connection, he will settle in the country for the rest of
+his life, and you know it is impossible to submit to such an extremity
+while any other alternative remains. You have heard of course that the
+Mainwarings are to part, and I am afraid Mrs. M. will come home to us
+again; but she is still so fond of her husband, and frets so much about
+him, that perhaps she may not live long. Miss Mainwaring is just come to
+town to be with her aunt, and they say that she declares she will have
+Sir James Martin before she leaves London again. If I were you, I would
+certainly get him myself. I had almost forgot to give you my opinion of
+Mr. De Courcy; I am really delighted with him; he is full as handsome, I
+think, as Mainwaring, and with such an open, good-humoured countenance,
+that one cannot help loving him at first sight. Mr. Johnson and he
+are the greatest friends in the world. Adieu, my dearest Susan, I wish
+matters did not go so perversely. That unlucky visit to Langford! but I
+dare say you did all for the best, and there is no defying destiny.
+
+Your sincerely attached
+
+ALICIA.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXXIX
+
+
+LADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON
+
+
+Upper Seymour Street.
+
+My dear Alicia,--I yield to the necessity which parts us. Under
+circumstances you could not act otherwise. Our friendship cannot
+be impaired by it, and in happier times, when your situation is as
+independent as mine, it will unite us again in the same intimacy as
+ever. For this I shall impatiently wait, and meanwhile can safely assure
+you that I never was more at ease, or better satisfied with myself and
+everything about me than at the present hour. Your husband I abhor,
+Reginald I despise, and I am secure of never seeing either again. Have
+I not reason to rejoice? Mainwaring is more devoted to me than ever; and
+were we at liberty, I doubt if I could resist even matrimony offered by
+HIM. This event, if his wife live with you, it may be in your power to
+hasten. The violence of her feelings, which must wear her out, may be
+easily kept in irritation. I rely on your friendship for this. I am now
+satisfied that I never could have brought myself to marry Reginald, and
+am equally determined that Frederica never shall. To-morrow, I shall
+fetch her from Churchhill, and let Maria Mainwaring tremble for the
+consequence. Frederica shall be Sir James's wife before she quits my
+house, and she may whimper, and the Vernons may storm, I regard them
+not. I am tired of submitting my will to the caprices of others; of
+resigning my own judgment in deference to those to whom I owe no duty,
+and for whom I feel no respect. I have given up too much, have been too
+easily worked on, but Frederica shall now feel the difference. Adieu,
+dearest of friends; may the next gouty attack be more favourable! and
+may you always regard me as unalterably yours,
+
+S. VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+XL
+
+
+LADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON
+
+
+My dear Catherine,--I have charming news for you, and if I had not sent
+off my letter this morning you might have been spared the vexation of
+knowing of Reginald's being gone to London, for he is returned. Reginald
+is returned, not to ask our consent to his marrying Lady Susan, but to
+tell us they are parted for ever. He has been only an hour in the house,
+and I have not been able to learn particulars, for he is so very low
+that I have not the heart to ask questions, but I hope we shall soon
+know all. This is the most joyful hour he has ever given us since the
+day of his birth. Nothing is wanting but to have you here, and it is our
+particular wish and entreaty that you would come to us as soon as you
+can. You have owed us a visit many long weeks; I hope nothing will make
+it inconvenient to Mr. Vernon; and pray bring all my grand-children; and
+your dear niece is included, of course; I long to see her. It has been
+a sad, heavy winter hitherto, without Reginald, and seeing nobody from
+Churchhill. I never found the season so dreary before; but this happy
+meeting will make us young again. Frederica runs much in my thoughts,
+and when Reginald has recovered his usual good spirits (as I trust he
+soon will) we will try to rob him of his heart once more, and I am full
+of hopes of seeing their hands joined at no great distance.
+
+Your affectionate mother,
+
+C. DE COURCY
+
+
+
+
+
+XLI
+
+
+MRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY
+
+
+Churchhill.
+
+
+My dear Mother,--Your letter has surprized me beyond measure! Can it be
+true that they are really separated--and for ever? I should be overjoyed
+if I dared depend on it, but after all that I have seen how can one be
+secure. And Reginald really with you! My surprize is the greater because
+on Wednesday, the very day of his coming to Parklands, we had a most
+unexpected and unwelcome visit from Lady Susan, looking all cheerfulness
+and good-humour, and seeming more as if she were to marry him when she
+got to London than as if parted from him for ever. She stayed nearly two
+hours, was as affectionate and agreeable as ever, and not a syllable,
+not a hint was dropped, of any disagreement or coolness between them.
+I asked her whether she had seen my brother since his arrival in town;
+not, as you may suppose, with any doubt of the fact, but merely to see
+how she looked. She immediately answered, without any embarrassment,
+that he had been kind enough to call on her on Monday; but she believed
+he had already returned home, which I was very far from crediting. Your
+kind invitation is accepted by us with pleasure, and on Thursday next we
+and our little ones will be with you. Pray heaven, Reginald may not be
+in town again by that time! I wish we could bring dear Frederica too,
+but I am sorry to say that her mother's errand hither was to fetch her
+away; and, miserable as it made the poor girl, it was impossible to
+detain her. I was thoroughly unwilling to let her go, and so was her
+uncle; and all that could be urged we did urge; but Lady Susan declared
+that as she was now about to fix herself in London for several months,
+she could not be easy if her daughter were not with her for masters,
+&c. Her manner, to be sure, was very kind and proper, and Mr. Vernon
+believes that Frederica will now be treated with affection. I wish I
+could think so too. The poor girl's heart was almost broke at taking
+leave of us. I charged her to write to me very often, and to remember
+that if she were in any distress we should be always her friends. I took
+care to see her alone, that I might say all this, and I hope made her a
+little more comfortable; but I shall not be easy till I can go to town
+and judge of her situation myself. I wish there were a better prospect
+than now appears of the match which the conclusion of your letter
+declares your expectations of. At present, it is not very likely,
+
+Yours ever, &c.,
+
+C. VERNON
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONCLUSION
+
+
+This correspondence, by a meeting between some of the parties, and a
+separation between the others, could not, to the great detriment of the
+Post Office revenue, be continued any longer. Very little assistance
+to the State could be derived from the epistolary intercourse of Mrs.
+Vernon and her niece; for the former soon perceived, by the style
+of Frederica's letters, that they were written under her mother's
+inspection! and therefore, deferring all particular enquiry till she
+could make it personally in London, ceased writing minutely or often.
+Having learnt enough, in the meanwhile, from her open-hearted brother,
+of what had passed between him and Lady Susan to sink the latter lower
+than ever in her opinion, she was proportionably more anxious to get
+Frederica removed from such a mother, and placed under her own care;
+and, though with little hope of success, was resolved to leave nothing
+unattempted that might offer a chance of obtaining her sister-in-law's
+consent to it. Her anxiety on the subject made her press for an early
+visit to London; and Mr. Vernon, who, as it must already have appeared,
+lived only to do whatever he was desired, soon found some accommodating
+business to call him thither. With a heart full of the matter, Mrs.
+Vernon waited on Lady Susan shortly after her arrival in town, and was
+met with such an easy and cheerful affection, as made her almost turn
+from her with horror. No remembrance of Reginald, no consciousness of
+guilt, gave one look of embarrassment; she was in excellent spirits, and
+seemed eager to show at once by ever possible attention to her brother
+and sister her sense of their kindness, and her pleasure in their
+society. Frederica was no more altered than Lady Susan; the same
+restrained manners, the same timid look in the presence of her mother as
+heretofore, assured her aunt of her situation being uncomfortable, and
+confirmed her in the plan of altering it. No unkindness, however, on the
+part of Lady Susan appeared. Persecution on the subject of Sir James was
+entirely at an end; his name merely mentioned to say that he was not in
+London; and indeed, in all her conversation, she was solicitous only for
+the welfare and improvement of her daughter, acknowledging, in terms of
+grateful delight, that Frederica was now growing every day more and more
+what a parent could desire. Mrs. Vernon, surprized and incredulous,
+knew not what to suspect, and, without any change in her own views,
+only feared greater difficulty in accomplishing them. The first hope
+of anything better was derived from Lady Susan's asking her whether she
+thought Frederica looked quite as well as she had done at Churchhill, as
+she must confess herself to have sometimes an anxious doubt of London's
+perfectly agreeing with her. Mrs. Vernon, encouraging the doubt,
+directly proposed her niece's returning with them into the country. Lady
+Susan was unable to express her sense of such kindness, yet knew not,
+from a variety of reasons, how to part with her daughter; and as, though
+her own plans were not yet wholly fixed, she trusted it would ere long
+be in her power to take Frederica into the country herself, concluded by
+declining entirely to profit by such unexampled attention. Mrs. Vernon
+persevered, however, in the offer of it, and though Lady Susan continued
+to resist, her resistance in the course of a few days seemed somewhat
+less formidable. The lucky alarm of an influenza decided what might not
+have been decided quite so soon. Lady Susan's maternal fears were then
+too much awakened for her to think of anything but Frederica's removal
+from the risk of infection; above all disorders in the world she most
+dreaded the influenza for her daughter's constitution!
+
+Frederica returned to Churchhill with her uncle and aunt; and three
+weeks afterwards, Lady Susan announced her being married to Sir James
+Martin. Mrs. Vernon was then convinced of what she had only suspected
+before, that she might have spared herself all the trouble of urging
+a removal which Lady Susan had doubtless resolved on from the first.
+Frederica's visit was nominally for six weeks, but her mother, though
+inviting her to return in one or two affectionate letters, was very
+ready to oblige the whole party by consenting to a prolongation of her
+stay, and in the course of two months ceased to write of her absence,
+and in the course of two or more to write to her at all. Frederica was
+therefore fixed in the family of her uncle and aunt till such time as
+Reginald De Courcy could be talked, flattered, and finessed into an
+affection for her which, allowing leisure for the conquest of his
+attachment to her mother, for his abjuring all future attachments, and
+detesting the sex, might be reasonably looked for in the course of a
+twelvemonth. Three months might have done it in general, but Reginald's
+feelings were no less lasting than lively. Whether Lady Susan was or
+was not happy in her second choice, I do not see how it can ever be
+ascertained; for who would take her assurance of it on either side of
+the question? The world must judge from probabilities; she had nothing
+against her but her husband, and her conscience. Sir James may seem to
+have drawn a harder lot than mere folly merited; I leave him, therefore,
+to all the pity that anybody can give him. For myself, I confess that I
+can pity only Miss Mainwaring; who, coming to town, and putting herself
+to an expense in clothes which impoverished her for two years, on
+purpose to secure him, was defrauded of her due by a woman ten years
+older than herself.
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/AustenNovels/Austen_MansfieldPark.txt b/AustenNovels/Austen_MansfieldPark.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..68a4520
--- /dev/null
+++ b/AustenNovels/Austen_MansfieldPark.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,15613 @@
+
+MANSFIELD PARK
+By Jane Austen
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
+thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
+Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
+to the rank of a baronet’s lady, with all the comforts and consequences
+of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the
+greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her
+to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to
+it. She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of
+their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as
+handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with
+almost equal advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of
+large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
+Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to
+be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law,
+with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
+Miss Ward’s match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
+contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an
+income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their
+career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a
+year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her
+family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education,
+fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could hardly have
+made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which,
+from principle as well as pride—from a general wish of doing right, and
+a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of
+respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of
+Lady Bertram’s sister; but her husband’s profession was such as no
+interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method
+of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken
+place. It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and such
+as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To save herself
+from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the
+subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very
+tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would
+have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking
+no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which
+could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to
+Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all
+its possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and
+angry; and an answer, which comprehended each sister in its bitterness,
+and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir
+Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to
+all intercourse between them for a considerable period.
+
+Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so
+distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
+other’s existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to
+make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have
+it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry
+voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,
+however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or
+resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her. A
+large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active
+service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very
+small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the
+friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady
+Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,
+such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything
+else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was
+preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,
+and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she
+could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future
+maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten
+years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;
+but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter
+useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No
+situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of
+Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?
+
+The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.
+Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram
+dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.
+
+Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more
+important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was
+often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister
+and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for
+her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not
+but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from
+the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.
+“What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest
+daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more
+attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and
+expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence
+of the action.” Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we
+cannot do better,” said she; “let us send for the child.”
+
+Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.
+He debated and hesitated;—it was a serious charge;—a girl so brought up
+must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of
+kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four
+children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;—but no sooner had
+he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
+interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.
+
+“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the
+generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a
+piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the
+main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of
+providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one’s own hands;
+and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
+mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I
+look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the
+children of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just—but you
+know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be
+frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and
+introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the
+means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of
+ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up
+in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don’t say she would be
+so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be
+introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable
+circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable
+establishment. You are thinking of your sons—but do not you know that,
+of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought
+up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is
+morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the
+only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty
+girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,
+and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having
+been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and
+neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered
+boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and
+suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be
+more to either than a sister.”
+
+“There is a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied Sir Thomas,
+“and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
+plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.
+I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and
+that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to
+ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged
+to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision
+of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so
+sanguine in expecting.”
+
+“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs. Norris, “you are everything
+that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
+on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
+enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never
+feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
+own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I
+should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a
+sister’s child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
+bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm
+heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of
+life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will
+write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon
+as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;
+_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never
+regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed
+at her cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed to meet her
+there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,
+under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I
+dare say there is always some reputable tradesman’s wife or other going
+up.”
+
+Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any
+objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous
+being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,
+and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The
+division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have
+been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
+consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
+least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As
+far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
+benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;
+but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
+quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
+Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look
+forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
+economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon
+grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude
+which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to
+provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having
+no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or
+lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they
+had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted
+by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim
+at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a
+charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk
+home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of
+being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.
+
+When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully
+explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “Where shall
+the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heard
+with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power
+to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been
+considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as
+a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he
+found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the
+little girl’s staying with them, at least as things then were, was
+quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris’s indifferent state of
+health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a
+child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his
+gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be
+glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just
+now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very
+mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.
+
+“Then she had better come to us,” said Lady Bertram, with the utmost
+composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, “Yes, let
+her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and
+she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age,
+and of a regular instructress.”
+
+“Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which are both very important
+considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she
+has three girls to teach, or only two—there can be no difference. I
+only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I
+am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch
+her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor
+away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the
+little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best
+place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close
+by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you
+know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think
+it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I
+do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else.”
+
+Lady Bertram made no opposition.
+
+“I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,” continued Mrs. Norris,
+“and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.”
+
+“Should her disposition be really bad,” said Sir Thomas, “we must not,
+for our own children’s sake, continue her in the family; but there is
+no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to
+wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,
+some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
+but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous
+for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I
+should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter
+of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to
+fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the
+association.”
+
+“That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs. Norris, “and what I was
+saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the
+child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her
+nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.”
+
+“I hope she will not tease my poor pug,” said Lady Bertram; “I have but
+just got Julia to leave it alone.”
+
+“There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir
+Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as
+they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the
+consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of
+their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
+her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see
+them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls
+the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they
+cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
+always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must
+assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of
+conduct.”
+
+Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed
+with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
+that between them it would be easily managed.
+
+It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her
+sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should
+be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer
+most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter’s being a very
+well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have
+cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate
+and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
+for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might
+agree with many of her children.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at
+Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of
+being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in
+to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.
+
+Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might
+not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,
+nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no
+glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid
+and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was
+not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was
+pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir
+Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that
+was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of
+deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or
+speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a
+good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the
+two.
+
+The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
+introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at
+least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall
+of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little
+cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in
+greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
+rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to
+company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their
+confidence increasing from their cousin’s total want of it, they were
+soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy
+indifference.
+
+They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
+daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of
+their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins
+in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would
+have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There
+were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia
+Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor
+meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of
+herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to
+look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs.
+Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her
+wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and
+good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of
+misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing
+for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became
+soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of
+Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that
+she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her
+sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a
+gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow
+two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her
+likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.
+
+“This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny
+had left the room. “After all that I said to her as we came along, I
+thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend
+upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a
+little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must
+make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry
+to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it
+_was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has
+changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.”
+
+It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to
+allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the
+separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very
+acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody
+meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to
+secure her comfort.
+
+The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to
+afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their
+young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap
+on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French;
+and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were
+so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous
+present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,
+while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport
+of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.
+
+Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the
+drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
+to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady
+Bertram’s silence, awed by Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite overcome
+by Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by
+reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss
+Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her
+clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers
+and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
+instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was
+severe.
+
+The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The
+rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched
+she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of
+something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
+and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left
+it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good
+fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week
+had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet
+passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
+the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.
+
+“My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the gentleness of an
+excellent nature, “what can be the matter?” And sitting down by her, he
+was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and
+persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with
+her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
+about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,
+want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long
+while no answer could be obtained beyond a “no, no—not at all—no, thank
+you”; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to
+her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the
+grievance lay. He tried to console her.
+
+“You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,” said he, “which
+shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are
+with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you
+happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about
+your brothers and sisters.”
+
+On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and
+sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her
+thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and
+wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her
+constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he
+was the darling) in every distress. “William did not like she should
+come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.” “But
+William will write to you, I dare say.” “Yes, he had promised he would,
+but he had told _her_ to write first.” “And when shall you do it?” She
+hung her head and answered hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had not
+any paper.”
+
+“If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and
+every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you
+choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?”
+
+“Yes, very.”
+
+“Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we
+shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to
+ourselves.”
+
+“But, cousin, will it go to the post?”
+
+“Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,
+as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.”
+
+“My uncle!” repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.
+
+“Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
+frank.”
+
+Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and
+they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
+paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could
+himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He
+continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with
+his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to
+these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother
+which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his
+love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.
+Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself
+incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words
+fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to
+find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all
+that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a
+strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther
+entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great
+timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
+she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in
+the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her
+especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and
+Julia, and being as merry as possible.
+
+From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a
+friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
+with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less
+formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not
+cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the
+best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and
+awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the
+tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,
+and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor
+did her aunt Norris’s voice make her start very much. To her cousins
+she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from
+inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their
+pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
+useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper;
+and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults,
+or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that “Fanny
+was good-natured enough.”
+
+Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure
+on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of
+seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just
+entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
+dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and
+enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his
+situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and
+laughed at her.
+
+As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
+thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was
+pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she
+showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little
+trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.
+Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing
+more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which
+they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and
+for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh
+report of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only think, my cousin
+cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the
+principal rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of Asia Minor—or she
+does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—How
+strange!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?”
+
+“My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you
+must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as
+yourself.”
+
+“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her
+last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she
+should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle
+of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other
+island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if
+I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot
+remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the
+least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat
+the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of
+their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!”
+
+“Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;
+besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,
+semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.”
+
+“Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful
+memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a
+vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and
+therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her
+deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever
+yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,
+there is a great deal more for you to learn.”
+
+“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another
+thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does
+not want to learn either music or drawing.”
+
+“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great
+want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know
+whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know
+(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with
+you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as
+you are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should
+be a difference.”
+
+Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her
+nieces’ minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their
+promising talents and early information, they should be entirely
+deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity
+and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught.
+Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly
+anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of
+his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.
+
+To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest
+attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent
+her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece
+of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug
+than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put
+herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,
+and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater
+leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed
+it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with
+proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s being
+stupid at learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some
+people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know
+what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add
+she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very
+handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.”
+
+Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at
+Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her
+attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her
+cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though
+Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too
+lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.
+
+From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in
+consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave
+up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,
+and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his
+duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort
+might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss
+Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,
+and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in
+person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his
+anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already
+given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing
+but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of
+Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted,
+would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund,
+his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for
+utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions. He
+was to be a clergyman.
+
+Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,
+Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.
+Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her
+sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,
+though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the
+truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of
+anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once
+only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with
+William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her
+ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed
+to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a
+sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire
+before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their
+exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and
+moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine
+views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the
+girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas
+holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin
+Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do,
+and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her
+gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s
+friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change
+in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities
+of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or
+any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and
+considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities
+understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being
+more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.
+
+Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not
+bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest
+importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its
+pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as
+well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly
+directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,
+and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the
+books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and
+corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of
+what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In
+return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world
+except William: her heart was divided between the two.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.
+Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
+introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
+Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house
+of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of
+her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and
+for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter
+economy.
+
+The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few
+years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till
+he were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to
+that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next
+presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for
+the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually
+held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
+somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to
+be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest
+son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better
+effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.
+
+“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush
+for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
+feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,
+twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income
+which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I
+hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
+forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
+natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent
+for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the
+urgency of your debts.”
+
+Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly
+as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,
+that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
+secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
+and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in
+all probability, die very soon.
+
+On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
+who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a
+hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s
+calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of
+fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.”
+
+He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they
+entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very
+respectable, agreeable people.
+
+The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to
+claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,
+and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any
+former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most
+decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
+fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate,
+in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable
+to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the
+obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that
+such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the
+first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when
+Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are
+going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”
+
+Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words,
+“Going to leave you?”
+
+“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years
+with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
+But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”
+
+The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She
+had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love
+her.
+
+“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she, with a faltering voice.
+
+“Yes, I dare say you will; _that’s_ natural enough. I suppose you have
+had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature
+in the world.”
+
+“I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny modestly.
+
+“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.”
+
+“And am I never to live here again?”
+
+“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make
+very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the
+other.”
+
+Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the
+difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt
+with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she
+told him her distress.
+
+“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like
+at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
+things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I
+am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to
+leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
+she is removed there.”
+
+“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
+it an excellent one.”
+
+“Oh, cousin!”
+
+“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a
+sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and
+companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does
+not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does
+not distress you very much, Fanny?”
+
+“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in
+it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with
+her.”
+
+“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the
+same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to
+children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she
+is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you
+_must_ be important to her.”
+
+“I can never be important to any one.”
+
+“What is to prevent you?”
+
+“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.”
+
+“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you
+never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.
+There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where
+you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure
+you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without
+wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a
+friend and companion.”
+
+“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I
+ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I
+am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my
+life.”
+
+“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance
+as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles
+off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost
+as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the
+year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will
+necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too
+many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to
+speak for yourself.”
+
+“Oh! do not say so.”
+
+“I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better
+fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a
+temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself
+about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.”
+
+Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to
+believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged
+to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose
+my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
+consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love
+the place so well.”
+
+“The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the
+house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever.
+Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a
+nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same
+library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to
+ride.”
+
+“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how
+much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked
+of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s
+opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
+pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
+me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you
+proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.”
+
+“And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as
+good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for
+your ultimate happiness too.”
+
+So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it
+could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had
+not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,
+on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To
+prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
+which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,
+the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her
+servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very
+particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been
+wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now
+never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from
+being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of
+the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose
+it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a
+certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—
+
+“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes
+to live with you.”
+
+Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do
+you mean?”
+
+“Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir
+Thomas.”
+
+“Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to
+me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of,
+or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what
+could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for
+anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at
+her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need
+most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!
+Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is
+too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would
+propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?”
+
+“Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.”
+
+“But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I
+am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.”
+
+“No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We
+both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,
+there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.”
+
+“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any
+comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best
+of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits
+still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough
+to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as
+not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed—what possible comfort
+could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish
+it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.
+She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through
+my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”
+
+“Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?”
+
+“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,
+but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I
+_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed
+to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.
+A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the
+parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was
+consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,
+matters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or
+I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to
+be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.”
+
+“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t you?”
+
+“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.
+It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody
+else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a
+little trifle among them worth their having.”
+
+“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are
+sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”
+
+“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the
+Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.”
+
+“Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it,
+I know.”
+
+“Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, “I can only say
+that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir
+Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able
+to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
+besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must
+keep a spare room for a friend.”
+
+Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to
+convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and
+she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the
+slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her
+refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to
+adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady
+Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their
+family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same
+time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable
+him better to provide for Fanny himself.
+
+Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and
+her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some
+consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to
+be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of
+the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events
+over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.
+
+The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave
+great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had
+their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very
+fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant,
+instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook
+as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen
+in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such
+grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly
+consumed in the house. “Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than
+herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed,
+had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad
+character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she
+could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out
+of place. _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough
+for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find
+out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”
+
+Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.
+She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all
+the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life
+without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point
+almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the
+other.
+
+These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event
+arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some
+place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found
+it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of
+his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of
+detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with
+the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.
+
+The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its
+utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the
+rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of
+others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not
+think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or
+rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s
+watchful attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient
+confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.
+
+Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she
+was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his
+comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,
+or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.
+
+The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their
+sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to
+them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his
+absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all
+restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably
+have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at
+their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
+Fanny’s relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her
+cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were
+ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir
+Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone
+perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it
+was a shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the
+very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the
+course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite
+him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be
+known to be in England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he
+only have smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he
+said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.
+But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,
+by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able
+to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted
+have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though,
+I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much
+like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when
+her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set
+her down as a hypocrite.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he
+could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to
+find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund
+could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to
+the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from
+all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of
+directing her letters.
+
+The earliest intelligence of the travellers’ safe arrival at Antigua,
+after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris
+had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund
+participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
+on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
+she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,
+when Sir Thomas’s assurances of their both being alive and well made it
+necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
+for a while.
+
+The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts
+continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for
+her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
+and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in
+addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of
+her sister, and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
+little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.
+
+The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the
+neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
+a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and
+obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.
+Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free
+from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such
+behaviour, secured and brought round by their aunt, served to
+strengthen them in believing they had no faults.
+
+Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too
+indolent even to accept a mother’s gratification in witnessing their
+success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the
+charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a
+post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished
+the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to
+hire.
+
+Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
+being avowedly useful as her aunt’s companion when they called away the
+rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
+became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a
+party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the
+tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a
+_tête-à-tête_ from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to
+a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.
+As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them,
+especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought
+too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted
+to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer
+concern in them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;
+for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of
+his arrival was worth much.
+
+The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey
+pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her
+health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged
+importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for
+mounting her again, “because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “she
+might ride one of her cousin’s horses at any time when they did not
+want them,” and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses
+every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to
+the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came.
+They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May;
+and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked
+beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram
+holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was
+unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
+thinking everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this
+time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned,
+to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects,
+there seemed with him but one thing to be done; and that “Fanny must
+have a horse” was the resolute declaration with which he opposed
+whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy
+of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help
+thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers
+belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be
+borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then
+lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it
+as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a
+regular lady’s horse of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was
+sure Sir Thomas had never intended it: and she must say that, to be
+making such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses
+of his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,
+seemed to her very unjustifiable. “Fanny must have a horse,” was
+Edmund’s only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.
+Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity
+of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only
+pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till
+Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself.
+He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only
+waiting till September?
+
+Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his
+mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help
+paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a
+method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father’s
+thinking he had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny
+the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be
+without. He had three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a
+woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this
+third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he
+knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his
+mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a
+treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for
+the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.
+She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the
+old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund’s mare was far beyond any
+former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in
+the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was
+beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example
+of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but
+herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from
+her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments
+towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful,
+confiding, and tender.
+
+As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of
+Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny’s use; and had
+Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have
+been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in
+September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and
+without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
+circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to
+turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty
+in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home
+his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived
+safely, bringing an excellent account of his father’s health; but to
+very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s
+sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent’s care, under the
+influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help
+feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came
+on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of
+her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room
+of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, was not without
+its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind became so
+pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece,
+as tolerably to quiet her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas were fated never
+to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria
+well married,” she very often thought; always when they were in the
+company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a
+young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and
+finest places in the country.
+
+Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss
+Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He
+was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there
+was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was
+well pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year,
+Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a
+marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger
+income than her father’s, as well as ensure her the house in town,
+which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral
+obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs.
+Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and
+contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and,
+among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s mother,
+who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram
+to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It
+was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady
+and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her
+son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had
+ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and
+accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris
+accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character
+which could so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and
+delight of them all—perfectly faultless—an angel; and, of course, so
+surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as
+far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an
+acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve
+and attach her.
+
+After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young
+people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due
+reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the
+satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general
+lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the
+expediency of Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram.
+
+It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent could be received; but,
+in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure
+in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on
+without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.
+Norris’s talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
+present.
+
+Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the
+business; but no representation of his aunt’s could induce him to find
+Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be
+the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her
+happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
+often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s company—“If this man had
+not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.”
+
+Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so
+unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the
+perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right
+sort—in the same county, and the same interest—and his most hearty
+concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that
+the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was
+again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong
+hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving
+Antigua before the end of the summer.
+
+Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
+reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received
+an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss
+Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were
+young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the
+daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been
+always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon
+followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the
+care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
+had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s house they had found a
+kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
+were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no
+farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite,
+to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral
+delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the
+lady’s death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months’
+further trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home. Admiral
+Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining
+his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs.
+Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of coming to her, a
+measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the
+other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual
+resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of
+children—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty
+furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very
+much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a
+sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as
+long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief
+anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young
+woman who had been mostly used to London.
+
+Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though
+they arose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and
+tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to
+persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that
+she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To
+anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
+Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his
+sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the
+utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch
+her away again, at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of
+the place.
+
+The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a
+sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked
+the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs.
+Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young
+man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was
+remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance;
+the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant
+immediately gave them credit for everything else. She was delighted
+with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able
+to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of
+being proud of her sister’s. She had not waited her arrival to look out
+for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest
+son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,
+with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in
+her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been
+three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.
+
+Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very
+near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister’s early care,
+or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she
+could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
+objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in
+life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to
+think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
+
+“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something to make it
+complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and
+therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,
+handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
+happy.”
+
+Henry bowed and thanked her.
+
+“My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you can persuade him into anything of
+the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself
+allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not
+half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to
+marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
+abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular
+friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
+which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt
+and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is
+inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If
+your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
+avoid Henry.”
+
+“My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.”
+
+“No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will
+allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious
+temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think
+more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the
+blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of
+the poet—‘Heaven’s _last_ best gift.’”
+
+“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at
+his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s lessons
+have quite spoiled him.”
+
+“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant, “to what any young person
+says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for
+it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.”
+
+Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
+disinclination to the state herself.
+
+“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if
+they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves
+away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to
+advantage.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each
+side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as
+early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty
+did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome
+themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as
+much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown
+complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and
+fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be
+no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while
+they were the finest young women in the country.
+
+Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was
+absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with
+a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he
+was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
+teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he
+was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with
+him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by
+anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had
+ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram’s
+engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was
+fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite
+ready to be fallen in love with.
+
+Maria’s notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She
+did not want to see or understand. “There could be no harm in her
+liking an agreeable man—everybody knew her situation—Mr. Crawford must
+take care of himself.” Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger!
+the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased;
+and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not
+want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have
+made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on
+such points.
+
+“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,” said he, as he
+returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner
+visit; “they are very elegant, agreeable girls.”
+
+“So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you
+like Julia best.”
+
+“Oh yes! I like Julia best.”
+
+“But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the
+handsomest.”
+
+“So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I
+prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is
+certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but
+I shall always like Julia best, because you order me.”
+
+“I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at
+last.”
+
+“Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?”
+
+“And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.
+Her choice is made.”
+
+“Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more
+agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares
+are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing
+without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be
+done.”
+
+“Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and
+it is a great match for her.”
+
+“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your
+opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure
+Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in
+her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to
+suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.”
+
+“Mary, how shall we manage him?”
+
+“We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will
+be taken in at last.”
+
+“But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I
+would have it all fair and honourable.”
+
+“Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as
+well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.”
+
+“Not always in marriage, dear Mary.”
+
+“In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present
+company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one
+in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look
+where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,
+when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which
+people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.”
+
+“Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.”
+
+“My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,
+however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring
+business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and
+confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or
+accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found
+themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly
+the reverse. What is this but a take in?”
+
+“My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your
+pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but
+half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will
+be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to
+expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human
+nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a
+second better: we find comfort somewhere—and those evil-minded
+observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in
+and deceived than the parties themselves.”
+
+“Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a
+wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
+general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.”
+
+“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.
+Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
+and we will cure you.”
+
+The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.
+Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
+equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend
+only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was
+nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them
+both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it
+so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant
+society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford’s being his
+guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.
+
+The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than
+anything which Miss Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. She
+acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
+that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,
+and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very
+good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and
+gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed,
+his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early
+presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was
+her way.
+
+Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he
+was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was
+of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a
+higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large
+acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield
+Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt
+that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with due
+consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a park, a
+real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well
+placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of
+engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be
+completely new furnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an
+agreeable man himself—with the advantage of being tied up from much
+gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas
+hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him;
+and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse
+which he had to run at the B—— races.
+
+These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance
+began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual
+goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his
+passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to
+attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with
+all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.
+
+And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what
+was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could
+be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,
+very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss
+Crawford’s beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford
+very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the
+contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited
+herself, was to this effect. “I begin now to understand you all, except
+Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.
+Bertrams. “Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at
+the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and
+yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.”
+
+Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, “I believe I know
+what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My
+cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs
+and not outs are beyond me.”
+
+“And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The
+distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally
+speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it
+possible to be mistaken as to a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out
+has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks
+very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I
+assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
+it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most
+objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being
+introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass
+in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite—to
+confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does
+not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to
+every thing—and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the
+year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such
+changes.”
+
+“I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You
+are quizzing me and Miss Anderson.”
+
+“No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am
+quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,
+if you will tell me what about.”
+
+“Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed
+on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an
+altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was
+exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the
+other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles
+Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented
+it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years
+ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me.
+I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and
+a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,
+and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I
+could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady—nothing like a
+civil answer—she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an
+air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I
+met her at Mrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She came up to
+me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and
+talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I
+must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is
+plain, has heard the story.”
+
+“And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,
+than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers
+certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their
+daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set
+people right, but I do see that they are often wrong.”
+
+“Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,” said
+Mr. Bertram gallantly, “are doing a great deal to set them right.”
+
+“The error is plain enough,” said the less courteous Edmund; “such
+girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the
+beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is
+no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public
+than afterwards.”
+
+“I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. “Yes, I cannot
+agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the
+business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the
+same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have
+seen done. That is worse than anything—quite disgusting!”
+
+“Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,” said Mr. Bertram. “It leads
+one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure
+air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what
+is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want
+of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last
+September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend
+Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund—his father, and mother,
+and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place
+they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and
+the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow
+in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to
+one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made
+myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her
+manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that
+I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both
+well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but I
+afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the
+youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the
+eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six
+months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me.”
+
+“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister,
+I feel for her. To be neglected before one’s time must be very
+vexatious; but it was entirely the mother’s fault. Miss Augusta should
+have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.
+But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls?
+Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister’s?”
+
+“No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My
+mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with
+Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.”
+
+“Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+Mr. Bertram set off for————, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a
+great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meetings
+which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and on their
+all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her
+chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a
+most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very
+flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund
+would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most
+spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,
+and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any
+former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about “my friend such a
+one.” She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper
+end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making
+his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords’
+arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and
+that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
+Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very
+eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not
+saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had
+been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the
+dining-parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his
+chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious
+superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton
+Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency,
+which prevented her from being very ungracious.
+
+“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the most complete
+thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did
+not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things
+in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I
+declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a
+prison—quite a dismal old prison.”
+
+“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A prison indeed? Sotherton Court
+is the noblest old place in the world.”
+
+“It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that
+wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do
+not know what can be done with it.”
+
+“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” said Mrs.
+Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton will
+have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.”
+
+“I must try to do something with it,” said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not
+know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.”
+
+“Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said Miss Bertram calmly,
+“would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.”
+
+“That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I
+think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”
+
+“Well, and if they were _ten_,” cried Mrs. Norris, “I am sure _you_
+need not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were
+you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in
+the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton
+Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space
+to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own
+part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of
+Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally I
+am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt
+anything where I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a
+burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight
+in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the
+Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when we
+first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps;
+but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements
+we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr.
+Norris’s sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man,
+to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things
+that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been for _that_,
+we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to
+shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always
+doing something as it was. It was only the spring twelvemonth before
+Mr. Norris’s death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
+which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection,
+sir,” addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.
+
+“The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,” replied Dr. Grant. “The
+soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit
+should be so little worth the trouble of gathering.”
+
+“Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost
+us—that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill—and I
+know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.”
+
+“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied Dr. Grant: “these potatoes have
+as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree.
+It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,
+which none from my garden are.”
+
+“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across
+the table to Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural
+taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it
+is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a
+remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,
+my cook contrives to get them all.”
+
+Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little
+while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.
+Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had
+begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.
+
+After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. “Smith’s place is
+the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before
+Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.”
+
+“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “if I were you, I would have a very
+pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
+weather.”
+
+Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and
+tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission
+to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with
+the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies
+in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was
+anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end
+to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not
+usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his
+heart. “Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his
+grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the
+place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven
+hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so
+much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two
+or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it
+opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or
+anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton
+down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,
+you know,” turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss
+Bertram thought it most becoming to reply—
+
+“The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of
+Sotherton.”
+
+Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite
+Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at
+him, and said in a low voice—
+
+“Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?
+‘Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’”
+
+He smiled as he answered, “I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
+Fanny.”
+
+“I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place
+as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.”
+
+“Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is
+out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.”
+
+“Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it
+has been altered.”
+
+“I collect,” said Miss Crawford, “that Sotherton is an old place, and a
+place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?”
+
+“The house was built in Elizabeth’s time, and is a large, regular,
+brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good
+rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the
+park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are
+fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good
+deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a
+modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely
+well.”
+
+Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, “He is a
+well-bred man; he makes the best of it.”
+
+“I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,” he continued; “but, had I a
+place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an
+improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own
+choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own
+blunders than by his.”
+
+“_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not
+suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are
+before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most
+thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much
+beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it
+was complete.”
+
+“It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all,” said
+Fanny.
+
+“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education;
+and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first
+favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_
+as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured
+uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers
+in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being
+excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for
+three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to
+step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as
+possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic
+seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is
+different; he loves to be doing.”
+
+Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to
+admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of
+propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and
+liveliness to put the matter by for the present.
+
+“Mr. Bertram,” said she, “I have tidings of my harp at last. I am
+assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been
+these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often
+received to the contrary.” Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.
+“The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,
+we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this
+morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer,
+and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the
+butcher’s son-in-law left word at the shop.”
+
+“I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope
+there will be no further delay.”
+
+“I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?
+Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in
+the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.”
+
+“You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a
+very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?”
+
+“I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want
+a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to
+speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet
+without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing
+another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather
+grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise,
+when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most
+impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the
+labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I
+believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law
+himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me
+when he found what I had been at.”
+
+“You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but
+when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in
+the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you
+suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in
+harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.”
+
+“I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the
+true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a
+little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country
+customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is
+good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it
+not be honourably conveyed?”
+
+Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be
+soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and
+wished for it very much.
+
+“I shall be most happy to play to you both,” said Miss Crawford; “at
+least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I
+dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the
+player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than
+one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to
+tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.
+And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
+airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his
+horse will lose.”
+
+“If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,
+foresee any occasion for writing.”
+
+“No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you
+ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion
+would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would
+not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the
+world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is
+ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words.
+You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in
+every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me,
+consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,
+has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing
+more than—‘Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and
+everything as usual. Yours sincerely.’ That is the true manly style;
+that is a complete brother’s letter.”
+
+“When they are at a distance from all their family,” said Fanny,
+colouring for William’s sake, “they can write long letters.”
+
+“Miss Price has a brother at sea,” said Edmund, “whose excellence as a
+correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us.”
+
+“At sea, has she? In the king’s service, of course?”
+
+Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined
+silence obliged her to relate her brother’s situation: her voice was
+animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had
+been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been
+absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an
+early promotion.
+
+“Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?” said Edmund; “Captain
+Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?”
+
+“Among admirals, large enough; but,” with an air of grandeur, “we know
+very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort
+of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could
+tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of
+their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can
+assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used.
+Certainly, my home at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle of
+admirals. Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting
+me of a pun, I entreat.”
+
+Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, “It is a noble profession.”
+
+“Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make
+the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it
+is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable
+form to _me_.”
+
+Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect
+of hearing her play.
+
+The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under
+consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help
+addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss
+Julia Bertram.
+
+“My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver
+yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place
+in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as
+it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of
+ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again!”
+
+“Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,”
+was his answer; “but I fear there would be some disappointment: you
+would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere
+nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for
+improvement, there was very little for me to do—too little: I should
+like to have been busy much longer.”
+
+“You are fond of the sort of thing?” said Julia.
+
+“Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which
+pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,
+and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months
+before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at
+Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at
+one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having
+so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.”
+
+“Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,” said
+Julia. “_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.
+Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.”
+
+Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,
+persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother’s; and as Miss
+Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,
+declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult
+with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the
+business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very
+ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford’s assistance; and Mr.
+Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at
+his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began
+to propose Mr. Crawford’s doing him the honour of coming over to
+Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in
+her two nieces’ minds their little approbation of a plan which was to
+take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.
+
+“There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford’s willingness; but why should
+not more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many
+that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth,
+and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford’s opinion on the spot, and
+that might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for
+my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother
+again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so
+remiss; but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth,
+while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we
+could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as
+might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home
+by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me
+in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and
+Fanny will stay at home with you.”
+
+Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going
+was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund,
+who heard it all and said nothing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?” said Edmund the
+next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. “How did you
+like her yesterday?”
+
+“Very well—very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and
+she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at
+her.”
+
+“It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play
+of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
+Fanny, as not quite right?”
+
+“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was
+quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,
+and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,
+treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed
+it!”
+
+“I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.”
+
+“And very ungrateful, I think.”
+
+“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any
+claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth
+of her respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here. She is
+awkwardly circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it
+must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,
+without throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which
+was most to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral’s present
+conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural
+and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do
+not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in
+making them public.”
+
+“Do not you think,” said Fanny, after a little consideration, “that
+this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her
+niece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her
+right notions of what was due to the Admiral.”
+
+“That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece to
+have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the
+disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do
+her good. Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they ought to be. She
+speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.”
+
+“Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me
+almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature
+of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything
+worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure
+William would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And
+what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters
+when you were absent?”
+
+“The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to
+its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
+untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of
+either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or
+loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we
+have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw
+it all as I did.”
+
+Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance
+of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,
+there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a
+line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny
+could not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions did not lessen. The harp
+arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she
+played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste
+which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be
+said at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
+to be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an
+invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a
+listener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.
+
+A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and
+both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a
+little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was
+enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were
+all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour
+frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as
+everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the
+sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth
+looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he
+was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such
+intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady
+it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder
+brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small
+talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she
+had not foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not
+pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no
+compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and
+simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,
+his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not
+equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it,
+however: he pleased her for the present; she liked to have him near
+her; it was enough.
+
+Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;
+she would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited
+and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when
+the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he
+should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their
+home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she
+thought it a very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the
+wine and water for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a
+little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford,
+and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed,
+and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the
+same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was
+fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it
+enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to
+point out her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like
+ill-nature. The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her
+was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the
+former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the
+example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund’s
+acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and
+the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts,
+as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish. No
+pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this
+offer: _she_ was not to lose a day’s exercise by it. The mare was only
+to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to
+begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling
+slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be
+asking her leave for it.
+
+Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no
+inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and
+presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before
+either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when
+she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second
+day’s trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford’s enjoyment of riding
+was such that she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless,
+and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a
+horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something
+was probably added in Edmund’s attendance and instructions, and
+something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in
+general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny
+was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for
+not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared.
+To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.
+
+The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of
+each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could
+look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its
+demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s
+meadow she immediately saw the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on
+horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,
+with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party
+it appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a
+doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound
+which did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should
+forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the
+meadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss
+Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not
+small, at a foot’s pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose
+into a canter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it was most astonishing to
+see how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund
+was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing
+her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or
+the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not
+wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should
+be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She
+could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved
+him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and
+becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with
+all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew
+nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of
+Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such
+double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.
+
+Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by
+seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
+horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the
+lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
+She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked
+to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.
+
+“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all
+within hearing, “I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you
+waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself—I knew it
+was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if
+you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,
+you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”
+
+Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction
+that she could be in no hurry. “For there is more than time enough for
+my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,” said he, “and you
+have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half
+an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from
+the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued
+by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.”
+
+“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,”
+said she, as she sprang down with his help; “I am very strong. Nothing
+ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way
+to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a
+pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this
+dear, delightful, beautiful animal.”
+
+The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now
+joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another
+part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
+as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together
+to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments
+on Miss Crawford’s great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been
+watching with an interest almost equal to her own.
+
+“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!”
+said he. “I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have
+a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,
+six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble
+when Sir Thomas first had you put on!”
+
+In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in
+being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated
+by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her
+early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure
+in praising it.
+
+“I was sure she would ride well,” said Julia; “she has the make for it.
+Her figure is as neat as her brother’s.”
+
+“Yes,” added Maria, “and her spirits are as good, and she has the same
+energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a
+great deal to do with the mind.”
+
+When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride
+the next day.
+
+“No, I do not know—not if you want the mare,” was her answer.
+
+“I do not want her at all for myself,” said he; “but whenever you are
+next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to
+have her a longer time—for a whole morning, in short. She has a great
+desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling
+her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal
+to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry
+to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides
+only for pleasure; _you_ for health.”
+
+“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,” said Fanny; “I have been out
+very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong
+enough now to walk very well.”
+
+Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride to
+Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all
+the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and
+doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of
+this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield
+Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There
+were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,
+there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is
+always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were
+spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing
+the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety
+and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be
+talked of with pleasure—till the fourth day, when the happiness of one
+of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund
+and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was
+excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect
+good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the
+Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good
+manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she
+reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was
+increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over
+him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and
+throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.
+
+Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,
+fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of
+what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would
+scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was
+half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s
+ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
+which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say
+no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in
+their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think
+beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking
+around, said, “But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”
+
+“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Norris; “she was here a moment
+ago.”
+
+Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was
+a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began
+scolding.
+
+“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening
+upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as
+_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the
+poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,
+not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.
+You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it
+is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a
+sofa.”
+
+Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,
+and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high
+good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of
+exclaiming, “I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa
+as anybody in the house.”
+
+“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I am sure you
+have the headache.”
+
+She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.
+
+“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I know your looks too well.
+How long have you had it?”
+
+“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.”
+
+“Did you go out in the heat?”
+
+“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris: “would you have her
+stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your
+mother was out to-day for above an hour.”
+
+“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly
+awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above an
+hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny
+cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It
+was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the
+coming home again.”
+
+“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”
+
+“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing!
+_She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could
+not wait.”
+
+“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a
+rather softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not
+be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as
+standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well
+to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always
+forget to have mine filled.”
+
+“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she has had it ever since she
+came back from your house the second time.”
+
+“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well as cutting roses;
+walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am?
+No wonder her head aches.”
+
+Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.
+
+“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but
+when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then
+you know they must be taken home.”
+
+“But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?”
+
+“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and,
+unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the
+key, so she was obliged to go again.”
+
+Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be
+employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been
+a very ill-managed business.”
+
+“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried
+Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself,
+indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.
+Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by _her_ desire,
+and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
+and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can
+justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I
+cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to
+my house for me—it is not much above a quarter of a mile—I cannot think
+I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day,
+early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?”
+
+“I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”
+
+“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be
+knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long
+while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to
+walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.
+But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among
+the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue
+of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
+Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly at his mother, “it
+was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that
+did the mischief.”
+
+“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more candid Lady Bertram, who
+had overheard her; “I am very much afraid she caught the headache
+there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I
+could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him
+from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me.”
+
+Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,
+on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to
+Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able
+to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made
+it easier to swallow than to speak.
+
+Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry
+with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything
+which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been
+properly considered; but she had been left four days together without
+any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
+avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed
+to think that for four days together she had not had the power of
+riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to
+check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, that it should never happen again.
+
+Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her
+arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its
+share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and
+been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she
+leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be
+seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and
+the sudden change which Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned, made her
+hardly know how to support herself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Fanny’s rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant
+fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been,
+Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be
+soon made good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his
+mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in
+urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been
+started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent
+absence from home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces
+were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and
+agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies
+did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly
+have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise the
+liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr.
+Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to
+walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and
+inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.
+
+Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out
+some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met
+him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.
+Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was
+hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for
+Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a
+well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of
+consequence, but as it related to her own and her son’s concerns, had
+not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady
+Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made
+Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris’s more
+numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.
+
+“The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I
+assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you
+know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two
+dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that
+could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She
+will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very
+well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will
+answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on
+horseback, you know.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram’s staying at
+home, could only be sorry. “The loss of her ladyship’s company would be
+a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen
+the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,
+and it was a pity she should not see the place.”
+
+“You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,” cried Mrs.
+Norris; “but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of
+seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is
+quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.”
+
+“Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must
+be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the
+invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of
+visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly
+declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for
+her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in
+accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the
+Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to
+learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to
+her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other
+ladies.
+
+On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to
+make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford’s being of the party were
+desirable or not, or whether her brother’s barouche would not be full
+without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that
+the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on
+which _one_ might go with him.
+
+“But why is it necessary,” said Edmund, “that Crawford’s carriage, or
+his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother’s
+chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day,
+understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the
+carriage of the family.”
+
+“What!” cried Julia: “go boxed up three in a postchaise in this
+weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that
+will not quite do.”
+
+“Besides,” said Maria, “I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking
+us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.”
+
+“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris, “taking out _two_ carriages
+when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between
+ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and
+Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching
+his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
+when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.”
+
+“That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford’s,”
+said Maria; “but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and
+does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no
+inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.”
+
+“There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,” said Edmund, “in
+going on the barouche box.”
+
+“Unpleasant!” cried Maria: “oh dear! I believe it would be generally
+thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one’s view
+of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box
+herself.”
+
+“There can be no objection, then, to Fanny’s going with you; there can
+be no doubt of your having room for her.”
+
+“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her
+going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She
+is not expected.”
+
+“You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,” said he, addressing his
+mother, “for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates
+to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you
+would not wish to keep her at home?”
+
+“To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her.”
+
+“You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.”
+
+There was a general cry out at this. “Yes,” he continued, “there is no
+necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great
+desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not
+often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma’am, you would be
+glad to give her the pleasure now?”
+
+“Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.”
+
+Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could
+remain—their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could
+not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in
+taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got
+over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so
+very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth,
+whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,
+that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection
+for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her
+opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own
+scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt
+that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any
+alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in
+reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not
+distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth’s account, because he had taken the
+opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss
+Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly
+received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was
+too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say,
+“Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am
+sure I do not care about it.”
+
+“It seems very odd,” said Maria, “that you should be staying at home
+instead of Fanny.”
+
+“I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,” added Julia,
+hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she
+ought to offer to stay at home herself.
+
+“Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,” was
+Edmund’s only reply, and the subject dropt.
+
+Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater
+than her pleasure. She felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and more than
+all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,
+could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her
+account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton
+would be nothing without him.
+
+The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another
+alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general
+approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to
+Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at
+dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young
+ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an
+arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs.
+Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue’s end,
+and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.
+
+Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.
+Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was
+nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take
+their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of
+honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While
+each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most
+appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled
+by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped from the carriage, “As there are
+five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as
+you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think
+this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.”
+
+Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a
+moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;
+and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining
+ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress’s arms.
+
+Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had
+never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy
+in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She
+was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor
+did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her
+best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the
+bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the
+harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found
+entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to
+speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance
+between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for
+Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny’s
+delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate
+Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and
+women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after
+Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or
+when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were
+united, and a “there he is” broke at the same moment from them both,
+more than once.
+
+For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:
+her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side
+by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his
+expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the
+laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own
+sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back,
+it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them,
+it was in the highest spirits: “her view of the country was charming,
+she wished they could all see it,” etc.; but her only offer of exchange
+was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long
+hill, and was not more inviting than this: “Here is a fine burst of
+country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it,
+let me press you ever so much;” and Miss Crawford could hardly answer
+before they were moving again at a good pace.
+
+When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was
+better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her
+bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the
+vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.
+Rushworth’s consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that
+“those woods belonged to Sotherton,” she could not carelessly observe
+that “she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth’s property on each
+side of the road,” without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to
+increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and
+ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of
+court-leet and court-baron.
+
+“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties
+are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth
+has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.
+Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned
+remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great
+house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must
+be terrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I
+understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are
+almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward’s
+house; he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the
+lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is
+not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the
+situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a
+mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it
+had a better approach.”
+
+Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss
+Bertram’s feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her
+enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility;
+and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard
+with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her
+reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and
+observing that “it was a sort of building which she could not look at
+but with respect,” she added, “Now, where is the avenue? The house
+fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back
+of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front.”
+
+“Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and
+ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see
+something of it here—something of the more distant trees. It is oak
+entirely.”
+
+Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had
+known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her
+spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,
+when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal
+entrance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole
+party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they
+were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all
+the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of
+arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were
+thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into
+the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with
+abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went
+well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would
+Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of
+the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford
+suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey
+more than two. “To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other
+eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of
+present pleasure.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this
+was scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled
+nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them
+as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
+pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing
+something.
+
+The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth’s guidance
+were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and
+amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,
+solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each
+handsome in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few
+good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to
+anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all
+that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well
+qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed
+herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison
+in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen
+scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the
+appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was
+almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected
+earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in
+former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,
+delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her
+imagination with scenes of the past.
+
+The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect
+from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were
+attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking
+his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a
+lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron
+palisades and gates.
+
+Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any
+other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for
+housemaids, “Now,” said Mrs. Rushworth, “we are coming to the chapel,
+which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as
+we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will
+excuse me.”
+
+They entered. Fanny’s imagination had prepared her for something
+grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of
+devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion
+of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
+of the family gallery above. “I am disappointed,” said she, in a low
+voice, to Edmund. “This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing
+awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no
+arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown
+by the night wind of heaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleeps
+below.’”
+
+“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how
+confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and
+monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have
+been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for
+the banners and the achievements.”
+
+“It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This chapel was fitted up as you
+see it, in James the Second’s time. Before that period, as I
+understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to
+think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were
+only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome
+chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.
+Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the
+memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off.”
+
+“Every generation has its improvements,” said Miss Crawford, with a
+smile, to Edmund.
+
+Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and
+Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.
+
+“It is a pity,” cried Fanny, “that the custom should have been
+discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is
+something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great
+house, with one’s ideas of what such a household should be! A whole
+family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”
+
+“Very fine indeed,” said Miss Crawford, laughing. “It must do the heads
+of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and
+footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here
+twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying
+away.”
+
+“_That_ is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,” said Edmund.
+“If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be
+more harm than good in the custom.”
+
+“At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such
+subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way—to chuse their own time
+and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality,
+the restraint, the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing,
+and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and
+gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come
+when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke
+with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was
+missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine
+with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of
+Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs.
+Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming piety, but with
+heads full of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain
+were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very
+inferior even to what they are now.”
+
+For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at
+Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little
+recollection before he could say, “Your lively mind can hardly be
+serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,
+and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_
+_times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if
+you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown
+into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_
+devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered,
+which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected
+in a closet?”
+
+“Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their
+favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and
+it would not be tried so long.”
+
+“The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_
+circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I
+believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse
+better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,
+however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One
+wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to
+forget what chapel prayers are.”
+
+While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the
+chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford’s attention to her sister, by saying,
+“Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as
+if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely
+the air of it?”
+
+Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,
+said, in a voice which she only could hear, “I do not like to see Miss
+Bertram so near the altar.”
+
+Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering
+herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not
+much louder, “If he would give her away?”
+
+“I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,” was his reply, with a look
+of meaning.
+
+Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.
+
+“Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place
+directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,
+and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.” And she
+talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the
+comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to
+the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with
+proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her
+whenever it took place.
+
+“If Edmund were but in orders!” cried Julia, and running to where he
+stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: “My dear Edmund, if you were but in
+orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that
+you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.”
+
+Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a
+disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she
+was receiving. Fanny pitied her. “How distressed she will be at what
+she said just now,” passed across her mind.
+
+“Ordained!” said Miss Crawford; “what, are you to be a clergyman?”
+
+“Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father’s return—probably at
+Christmas.”
+
+Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,
+replied only, “If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the
+cloth with more respect,” and turned the subject.
+
+The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which
+reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss
+Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to
+feel that they had been there long enough.
+
+The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.
+Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the
+principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her
+son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. “For
+if,” said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a
+clearer head does not always avoid, “we are _too_ long going over the
+house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It
+is past two, and we are to dine at five.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,
+with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and
+Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and
+horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an
+outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led
+immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
+as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.
+
+“Suppose we turn down here for the present,” said Mrs. Rushworth,
+civilly taking the hint and following them. “Here are the greatest
+number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.”
+
+“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, “whether we may not find
+something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great
+promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?”
+
+“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, “I believe the wilderness will
+be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the
+wilderness yet.”
+
+No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to
+move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by
+the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy
+independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the
+capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side
+by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a
+bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed
+by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the
+trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for
+fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr.
+Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into
+parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by
+Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and
+who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties,
+left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs.
+Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star
+no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,
+and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while her
+aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed
+the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the
+only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was
+now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of
+the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she
+had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to
+escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that
+just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that
+principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her
+education, made her miserable under it.
+
+“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one
+turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the
+middle which opened to the wilderness. “Shall any of us object to being
+comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.
+What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;
+for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go
+where they like.”
+
+The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in
+turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day
+behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,
+which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of
+larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much
+regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with
+the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,
+and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short
+pause, Miss Crawford began with, “So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.
+Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.”
+
+“Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some
+profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a
+soldier, nor a sailor.”
+
+“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know
+there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the
+second son.”
+
+“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund, “but not quite universal.
+I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for
+myself.”
+
+“But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot
+of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.”
+
+“Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?”
+
+“_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation,
+which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done
+in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the
+other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A
+clergyman is nothing.”
+
+“The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as
+the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must
+not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that
+situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first
+importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered,
+temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and
+morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their
+influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who
+holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just
+importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not
+to appear.”
+
+“_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been
+used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see
+much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be
+acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons
+a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to
+have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you speak of?
+govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for
+the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.”
+
+“_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large.”
+
+“The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.”
+
+“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the
+kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is
+not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good;
+and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be
+most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in
+fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish
+and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size
+capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general
+conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost
+there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the
+largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing
+public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I
+mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of
+refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The
+_manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the
+result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines
+which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe,
+be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought
+to be, so are the rest of the nation.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.
+
+“There,” cried Miss Crawford, “you have quite convinced Miss Price
+already.”
+
+“I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”
+
+“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with an arch smile; “I am
+just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to
+take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change
+your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law.”
+
+“Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this
+wilderness.”
+
+“Now you are going to say something about law being the worst
+wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have
+forestalled you.”
+
+“You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a
+_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very
+matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a
+repartee for half an hour together without striking it out.”
+
+A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first
+interruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with only
+walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it
+is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little
+while.”
+
+“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,
+“how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,”
+turning to Miss Crawford, “my other companion may do me the honour of
+taking an arm.”
+
+“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, as she
+spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a
+connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.
+“You scarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use. What
+a difference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At
+Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the
+length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.”
+
+“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have
+walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?”
+
+“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in
+love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.
+
+“Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken
+such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile
+long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since
+we left the first great path.”
+
+“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw
+directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it
+closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in
+length.”
+
+“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long
+wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into
+it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must
+speak within compass.”
+
+“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,” said Edmund, taking
+out his watch. “Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?”
+
+“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or
+too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”
+
+A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk
+they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,
+and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench,
+on which they all sat down.
+
+“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,” said Edmund, observing her;
+“why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amusement for
+you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so
+soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”
+
+“How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
+last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen
+again.”
+
+“_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my
+own neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than with
+me.”
+
+“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there
+is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have
+been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room
+to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one
+does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is
+generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price
+has found it so, though she did not know it.”
+
+“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny; “to sit in the shade on a fine
+day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”
+
+After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. “I must move,”
+said she; “resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I
+am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
+without being able to see it so well.”
+
+Edmund left the seat likewise. “Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up
+the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile
+long, or half half a mile.”
+
+“It is an immense distance,” said she; “I see _that_ with a glance.”
+
+He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she
+would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree
+of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they
+talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should
+endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little
+more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were
+then in—for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the
+side of the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a little way in some other
+direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few
+minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this
+was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an
+earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench
+to think with pleasure of her cousin’s care, but with great regret that
+she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner,
+and listened till all sound of them had ceased.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still
+thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption
+from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to
+listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices
+again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet
+approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those
+she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued
+from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.
+
+“Miss Price all alone” and “My dear Fanny, how comes this?” were the
+first salutations. She told her story. “Poor dear Fanny,” cried her
+cousin, “how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid
+with us.”
+
+Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the
+conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the
+possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on;
+but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally
+speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,
+and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to
+hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own
+beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith’s place.
+
+After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron
+gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their
+views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very
+thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way
+of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion; and he
+directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly
+the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that
+knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth
+wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether
+he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come
+without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil.
+They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s inclination for so
+doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth’s declaring
+outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.
+
+“It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from
+the house already,” said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.
+
+“Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you
+find the place altogether worse than you expected?”
+
+“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in
+its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the
+truth,” speaking rather lower, “I do not think that _I_ shall ever see
+Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will
+hardly improve it to me.”
+
+After a moment’s embarrassment the lady replied, “You are too much a
+man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people
+think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.”
+
+“I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be
+good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent,
+nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be
+the case with men of the world.”
+
+This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. “You
+seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to
+see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole
+way.”
+
+“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection
+at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of
+an old Irish groom of my uncle’s. Your sister loves to laugh.”
+
+“You think her more light-hearted than I am?”
+
+“More easily amused,” he replied; “consequently, you know,” smiling,
+“better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish
+anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”
+
+“Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to
+think of now.”
+
+“You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high
+spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too
+fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before
+you.”
+
+“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,
+certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But
+unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint
+and hardship. ‘I cannot get out,’ as the starling said.” As she spoke,
+and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her.
+“Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!”
+
+“And for the world you would not get out without the key and without
+Mr. Rushworth’s authority and protection, or I think you might with
+little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my
+assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more
+at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.”
+
+“Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.
+Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out
+of sight.”
+
+“Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will
+find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.”
+
+Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to
+prevent it. “You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried; “you
+will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your
+gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better
+not go.”
+
+Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,
+and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, “Thank you,
+my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.”
+
+Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant
+feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,
+astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a
+circuitous, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to
+the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer
+she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to
+have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that
+Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for
+Edmund to forget her so entirely.
+
+She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:
+somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She
+expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,
+and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, “Heyday!
+Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.”
+
+Fanny explained.
+
+“A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,” looking
+eagerly into the park. “But they cannot be very far off, and I think I
+am equal to as much as Maria, even without help.”
+
+“But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do
+wait for Mr. Rushworth.”
+
+“Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,
+child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a
+penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so
+composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had
+been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these
+scrapes.”
+
+This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and
+let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt
+that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her
+if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.
+
+“Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,
+and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all
+were.”
+
+“It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.”
+
+“_That_ is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for
+_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt
+was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away
+from.”
+
+And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not
+attending to Fanny’s last question of whether she had seen anything of
+Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of
+seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued
+absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been
+very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had
+passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia’s exit; and
+though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and
+displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his
+looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked
+to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.
+
+“They desired me to stay—my cousin Maria charged me to say that you
+would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.”
+
+“I do not believe I shall go any farther,” said he sullenly; “I see
+nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone
+somewhere else. I have had walking enough.”
+
+And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.
+
+“I am very sorry,” said she; “it is very unlucky.” And she longed to be
+able to say something more to the purpose.
+
+After an interval of silence, “I think they might as well have staid
+for me,” said he.
+
+“Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.”
+
+“I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.”
+
+This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,
+he went on—“Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.
+Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.”
+
+“I do not think him at all handsome.”
+
+“Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not
+five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot
+eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these
+Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.”
+
+A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict
+him.
+
+“If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have
+been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.”
+
+“Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare
+say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you
+know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when
+people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute
+seems like five.”
+
+He got up and walked to the gate again, and “wished he had had the key
+about him at the time.” Fanny thought she discerned in his standing
+there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another
+attempt, and she said, therefore, “It is a pity you should not join
+them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part
+of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing
+of that sort, you know, can be settled without you.”
+
+She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a
+companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. “Well,” said he, “if you really
+think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for
+nothing.” And letting himself out, he walked off without farther
+ceremony.
+
+Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so
+long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of
+them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just
+turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford
+once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings
+brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness
+from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very
+soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the
+park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning
+to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees.
+This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending
+their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their
+absence. Fanny’s best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had
+wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back
+for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite
+sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour,
+when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of
+curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that
+time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and
+depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the
+house.
+
+On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and
+Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the
+wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the
+house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever
+cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,
+she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,
+after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken
+her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the
+receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia’s leaving them they
+had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most
+satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his
+grandson’s illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him
+a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest
+nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious
+specimen of heath.
+
+On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to
+lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and
+Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of
+dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came
+in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially
+agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the
+object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking
+after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last
+seemed, to Fanny’s observation, to have been as much too late for
+re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on
+any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth,
+that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was
+gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more
+gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during
+dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore
+general good-humour.
+
+Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles’ drive home
+allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to
+table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage
+came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained
+a few pheasants’ eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made
+abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the
+way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, “I hope
+I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air
+in so exposed a seat.” The request had not been foreseen, but was very
+graciously received, and Julia’s day was likely to end almost as well
+as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different,
+and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the
+one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.
+Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better
+pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending
+the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.
+
+“Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,” said
+Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. “Nothing but pleasure from
+beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your
+aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’s
+amusement you have had!”
+
+Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, “I think _you_ have
+done pretty well yourself, ma’am. Your lap seems full of good things,
+and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my
+elbow unmercifully.”
+
+“My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old
+gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it
+in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me;
+take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just
+like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that
+good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out
+as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I
+knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That
+Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her
+whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away
+two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny.
+Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well.”
+
+“What else have you been spunging?” said Maria, half-pleased that
+Sotherton should be so complimented.
+
+“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful
+pheasants’ eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she
+would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me,
+as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures
+of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to
+set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have
+them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great
+delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good
+luck, your mother shall have some.”
+
+It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as
+pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris
+ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within.
+Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the
+day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of
+almost all.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss
+Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the
+letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was
+much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to
+think of their father in England again within a certain period, which
+these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.
+
+November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of
+it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His
+business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take
+his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward
+with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.
+
+Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a
+husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness
+would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness
+should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to
+throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should
+see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were
+generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring
+_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or
+their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would
+probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was
+three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might
+happen in thirteen weeks.
+
+Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that
+his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have
+found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the
+breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her
+brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;
+and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness,
+and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it
+with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the
+particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea,
+as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny
+looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr.
+Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the
+pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,
+and saying, “How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of
+November.”
+
+Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.
+
+“Your father’s return will be a very interesting event.”
+
+“It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but
+including so many dangers.”
+
+“It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your
+sister’s marriage, and your taking orders.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing, “but it does put me in mind
+of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits
+in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe
+return.”
+
+“There is no sacrifice in the case,” replied Edmund, with a serious
+smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; “it is entirely her own
+doing.”
+
+“Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than
+what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being
+extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.”
+
+“My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria’s
+marrying.”
+
+“It is fortunate that your inclination and your father’s convenience
+should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I
+understand, hereabouts.”
+
+“Which you suppose has biassed me?”
+
+“But _that_ I am sure it has not,” cried Fanny.
+
+“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would
+affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a
+provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it
+should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see
+no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he
+will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I
+should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my
+father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I
+was biased, but I think it was blamelessly.”
+
+“It is the same sort of thing,” said Fanny, after a short pause, “as
+for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general
+to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody
+wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve
+them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they
+appear.”
+
+“No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either
+navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its
+favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are
+always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers
+and sailors.”
+
+“But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of
+preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?” said Edmund. “To be
+justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty
+of any provision.”
+
+“What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;
+absolute madness.”
+
+“Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to
+take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not
+know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from
+your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which
+you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in
+their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are
+all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
+sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.”
+
+“Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to
+the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing
+nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is
+indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of
+all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to
+take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A
+clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish—read the
+newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate
+does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.”
+
+“There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common
+as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I
+suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,
+you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose
+opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that
+your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.
+You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men
+you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told
+at your uncle’s table.”
+
+“I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion
+is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of the
+domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any
+deficiency of information.”
+
+“Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are
+condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,
+or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,
+perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or
+bad, they were always wishing away.”
+
+“Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the
+Antwerp,” was a tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to the purpose
+of her own feelings if not of the conversation.
+
+“I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,”
+said Miss Crawford, “that I can hardly suppose—and since you push me so
+hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of
+seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my
+own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
+to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good
+scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very
+respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who
+must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a
+finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook
+makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the
+truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a
+disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better
+of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.”
+
+“I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great
+defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
+and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to
+such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to
+defend Dr. Grant.”
+
+“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not give up his profession for all
+that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
+taken a—not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy
+or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he
+has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor
+or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that
+whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in
+a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly
+profession, where he would have had less time and obligation—where he
+might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at
+least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he
+is now. A man—a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of
+teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every
+Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he
+does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think;
+and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than
+he would if he had been anything but a clergyman.”
+
+“We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better
+fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness
+depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a
+good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling
+about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.”
+
+“I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,” said Edmund
+affectionately, “must be beyond the reach of any sermons.”
+
+Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time
+to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to
+deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the
+Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,
+leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her
+many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful
+tread.
+
+“There goes good-humour, I am sure,” said he presently. “There goes a
+temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily
+she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment
+she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’s reflection,
+“that she should have been in such hands!”
+
+Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the
+window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes
+soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was
+solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an
+unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny
+spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s
+what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only
+can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and
+lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I
+feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;
+and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature
+were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves
+by contemplating such a scene.”
+
+“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they
+are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,
+as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in
+early life. They lose a great deal.”
+
+“_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.”
+
+“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus looking very bright.”
+
+“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”
+
+“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?”
+
+“Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any
+star-gazing.”
+
+“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.” The glee began. “We will stay
+till this is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the window;
+and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance
+too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when
+it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in
+requesting to hear the glee again.
+
+Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris’s
+threats of catching cold.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to
+call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.
+Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to
+Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
+agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford
+demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
+which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and
+altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual
+comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.
+
+It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it
+was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even
+want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty
+required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but
+pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear
+that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more
+than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of
+Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time,
+she did not believe she could accept him.
+
+The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took
+Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the
+beginning of September. He went for a fortnight—a fortnight of such
+dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their
+guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the
+absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not
+to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of
+shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to
+keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own
+motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity
+was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad
+example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters,
+handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind;
+and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of
+Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was
+welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with
+further.
+
+Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the
+repeated details of his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his
+dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their
+qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not
+find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or
+some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and
+Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much
+more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be
+justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit
+what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.
+Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his
+manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground
+with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the
+steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general
+notice.
+
+Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but
+since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with
+either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or
+censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her
+exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was
+seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some
+important communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however,
+she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. “I am rather
+surprised,” said she, “that Mr. Crawford should come back again so
+soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; for I had
+understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I
+thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take
+him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield.”
+
+“It is to his credit,” was Edmund’s answer; “and I dare say it gives
+his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.”
+
+“What a favourite he is with my cousins!”
+
+“Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I
+believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much
+symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a
+serious attachment would remove.”
+
+“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said Fanny cautiously, “I could
+sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.”
+
+“Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,
+Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before
+he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or
+intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the
+woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found
+himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,
+after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.”
+
+Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think
+differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could do,
+and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she
+occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say
+that Julia was Mr. Crawford’s choice, she knew not always what to
+think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on
+the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs.
+Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering
+as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to
+listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and
+she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing
+for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a
+partner then depended. It was Fanny’s first ball, though without the
+preparation or splendour of many a young lady’s first ball, being the
+thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a
+violin player in the servants’ hall, and the possibility of raising
+five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of
+Mr. Bertram’s just arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very
+happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be
+losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking
+now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two
+above-mentioned ladies was forced on her—
+
+“I think, ma’am,” said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.
+Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, “we shall
+see some happy faces again now.”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other, with a stately simper, “there
+will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was
+rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in
+their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I
+wonder my son did not propose it.”
+
+“I dare say he did, ma’am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear
+Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true
+delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth—that wish
+of avoiding particularity! Dear ma’am, only look at her face at this
+moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!”
+
+Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with
+pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her
+partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster
+together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she
+had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.
+
+Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful, ma’am, to see young
+people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I
+cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what do you say,
+ma’am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good
+example, and such things are very catching.”
+
+Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.
+
+“The couple above, ma’am. Do you see no symptoms there?”
+
+“Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty
+match. What is his property?”
+
+“Four thousand a year.”
+
+“Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they
+have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very
+genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.”
+
+“It is not a settled thing, ma’am, yet. We only speak of it among
+friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing
+extremely particular in his attentions.”
+
+Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all
+suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though
+feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it
+must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking
+her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the
+present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom
+he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the
+modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable
+in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper
+from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “If you
+want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equal
+civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I am glad
+of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the
+newspaper again, “for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good
+people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find
+any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at
+them you may see they are so many couple of lovers—all but Yates and
+Mrs. Grant—and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover
+as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the
+doctor,” making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter,
+who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a
+change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of
+everything, could hardly help laughing at. “A strange business this in
+America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know
+what I am to think of public matters.”
+
+“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt soon afterwards, “as you are not dancing,
+I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall
+you?” Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,
+added in a whisper, “We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you
+know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare
+time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.
+Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you
+may bet half-guineas with _him_.”
+
+“I should be most happy,” replied he aloud, and jumping up with
+alacrity, “it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this
+moment going to dance. Come, Fanny,” taking her hand, “do not be
+dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.”
+
+Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to
+feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly
+did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.
+
+“A pretty modest request upon my word,” he indignantly exclaimed as
+they walked away. “To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two
+hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that
+poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my
+good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!
+without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of
+refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my
+spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of
+being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as
+to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not
+luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it.
+It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her
+head, nothing can stop her.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend
+him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of
+a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably
+have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.
+Bertram’s acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had
+spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if
+friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.
+Yates’s being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,
+and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had
+been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large
+party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had
+left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with
+his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the
+play in which he had borne a part was within two days of
+representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions
+of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To
+be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in
+praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right
+Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have
+immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so
+near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates
+could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its
+arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing
+subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.
+
+Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for
+acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the
+interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the
+epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to
+have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their
+skill. The play had been Lovers’ Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been
+Count Cassel. “A trifling part,” said he, “and not at all to my taste,
+and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was
+determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had
+appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached
+Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it
+was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he
+should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the
+Baron—a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten
+minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was
+resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal
+to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;
+whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised
+to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did
+not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was
+thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have
+gone off wonderfully.”
+
+“It was a hard case, upon my word”; and, “I do think you were very much
+to be pitied,” were the kind responses of listening sympathy.
+
+“It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager
+could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help
+wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three
+days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,
+and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been
+no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I
+suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of
+it.”
+
+“An afterpiece instead of a comedy,” said Mr. Bertram. “Lovers’ Vows
+were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother
+by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,
+between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in
+the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends,
+Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you
+to be our manager.”
+
+This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment;
+for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly
+than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much
+leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such
+a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to
+the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. “Oh for
+the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with.” Each sister
+could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of
+his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at
+the idea. “I really believe,” said he, “I could be fool enough at this
+moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock
+or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat
+and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I
+could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy
+in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a
+play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances,
+I am sure,” looking towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, what
+signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in
+this house might suffice.”
+
+“We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram; “a few yards of green baize
+for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.”
+
+“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with only just a side wing or two
+run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing
+more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement
+among ourselves we should want nothing more.”
+
+“I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,” said Maria. “There would
+not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt
+Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_,
+our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.”
+
+“Nay,” said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. “Let us do nothing
+by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted
+up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from
+beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a
+good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,
+and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do
+nothing.”
+
+“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,” said Julia. “Nobody loves a play
+better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.”
+
+“True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would
+hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of
+those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and
+ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to
+struggle through.”
+
+After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was
+discussed with unabated eagerness, every one’s inclination increasing
+by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and
+though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,
+and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the
+world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,
+the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make
+Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if
+possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which
+passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.
+
+The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.
+Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
+Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was
+standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa
+at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work,
+thus began as he entered—“Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours
+is not to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no
+longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it
+again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room
+for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at
+the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to
+do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father’s room,
+is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for
+it; and my father’s room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to
+join the billiard-room on purpose.”
+
+“You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?” said Edmund, in a low
+voice, as his brother approached the fire.
+
+“Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise
+you in it?”
+
+“I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private
+theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,
+I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious
+to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on
+my father’s account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant
+danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose
+situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely
+delicate.”
+
+“You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three
+times a week till my father’s return, and invite all the country. But
+it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little
+amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our
+powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be
+trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
+and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing
+in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in
+chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And as
+to my father’s being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I
+consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must
+be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of
+amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few
+weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will
+he. It is a _very_ anxious period for her.”
+
+As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk
+back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,
+and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was
+getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.
+
+Edmund smiled and shook his head.
+
+“By Jove! this won’t do,” cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with
+a hearty laugh. “To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety—I was unlucky
+there.”
+
+“What is the matter?” asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one
+half-roused; “I was not asleep.”
+
+“Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,” he continued,
+returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady
+Bertram began to nod again, “but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we
+shall be doing no harm.”
+
+“I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally
+disapprove it.”
+
+“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise
+of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for
+anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always
+a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a
+time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be’d_
+and not _to_ _be’d_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am
+sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one
+Christmas holidays.”
+
+“It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself.
+My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never
+wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is
+strict.”
+
+“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased. “I know my father as well as
+you do; and I’ll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress
+him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I’ll take care of the rest
+of the family.”
+
+“If you are resolved on acting,” replied the persevering Edmund, “I
+must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a
+theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my
+father’s house in his absence which could not be justified.”
+
+“For everything of that nature I will be answerable,” said Tom, in a
+decided tone. “His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an
+interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such
+alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or
+unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a
+week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose
+he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the
+breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister’s
+pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute
+nonsense!”
+
+“The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
+expense.”
+
+“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps
+it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must
+have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain
+and a little carpenter’s work, and that’s all; and as the carpenter’s
+work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be
+too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,
+everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don’t imagine that nobody in
+this house can see or judge but yourself. Don’t act yourself, if you do
+not like it, but don’t expect to govern everybody else.”
+
+“No, as to acting myself,” said Edmund, “_that_ I absolutely protest
+against.”
+
+Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit
+down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
+
+Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling
+throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
+some comfort, “Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit
+them. Your brother’s taste and your sisters’ seem very different.”
+
+“I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will
+find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,
+and that is all I can do.”
+
+“I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.”
+
+“I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my
+sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,
+I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through
+her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better
+do anything than be altogether by the ears.”
+
+His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next
+morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to
+his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as
+Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in
+the least afraid of their father’s disapprobation. There could be no
+harm in what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so
+many women of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness
+run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs,
+comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which
+would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to
+admit that Maria’s situation might require particular caution and
+delicacy—but that could not extend to _her_—she was at liberty; and
+Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much
+more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to
+consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was
+still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh
+from the Parsonage, calling out, “No want of hands in our theatre, Miss
+Bertram. No want of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and
+hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the
+part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do
+yourselves.”
+
+Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, “What say you now? Can we be
+wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?” And Edmund, silenced, was
+obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry
+fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
+dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than
+on anything else.
+
+The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he was
+mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no
+difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest
+nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole
+arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at
+all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,
+and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself
+obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at
+her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be
+spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with
+the project.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business
+of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
+the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had
+suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having
+made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,
+was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations
+were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from
+Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good
+management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming
+into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and
+as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to
+hope that none might ever be found.
+
+There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people
+to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a
+need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that
+there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by
+youth and zeal could hold out.
+
+On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.
+Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was
+evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though politely kept back,
+inclined the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to
+make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable
+difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the
+whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All
+the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor
+Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
+satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
+Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
+dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that
+did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other
+it was a continual repetition of, “Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us
+have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s
+part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be
+impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a
+part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,
+perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have
+always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do
+not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I
+think we could not chuse worse.”
+
+Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness
+which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
+how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that
+something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
+everything of higher consequence was against it.
+
+“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We are wasting time
+most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that
+something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many
+must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.
+If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything
+of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you
+chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition
+for nothing more.”
+
+For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting
+only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and
+very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others
+that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the Dramatis
+Personæ.
+
+The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same
+speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on
+the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And
+why should not Lovers’ Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws?
+How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would
+do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for
+Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody
+else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not
+dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do
+my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is
+only Count Cassel and Anhalt.”
+
+The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of
+indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had
+been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was
+particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron
+at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and been
+forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron
+Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the
+advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with
+the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him
+justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering
+that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed
+an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either.
+Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a
+short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the
+interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by
+observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure
+ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit
+him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right,
+and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the
+proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.
+Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do
+anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to
+be scrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.
+
+“This is not behaving well by the absent,” said she. “Here are not
+women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is
+nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”
+
+Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure
+his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that
+she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But
+this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of
+Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
+would accept it. “It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,” said
+he, “as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no
+sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.”
+
+A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the
+best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the
+rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with
+seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the
+business.
+
+“I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,” said he, “not to engage in the
+part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must
+not, indeed you must not” (turning to her). “I could not stand your
+countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had
+together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his
+knapsack would be obliged to run away.”
+
+Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the
+matter to Julia’s feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed
+the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
+Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to
+suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could
+command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against
+her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the
+best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not
+trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the
+look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too
+quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She
+had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager’s wife; you had,
+indeed, Julia. Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The
+old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good
+deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”
+
+“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates. “What are you talking of? The most
+trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
+tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to
+propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all
+agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more
+justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if
+you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.”
+
+“Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really
+acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to
+Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager’s
+wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
+satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have
+more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately
+bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches
+instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change the parts all through; _he_
+is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference
+in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife’s
+speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart.”
+
+“With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,” said Henry Crawford,
+“it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and
+we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not
+_allow_ her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own
+complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a
+character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I
+consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It
+requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and
+simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the
+part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress
+by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.
+It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I
+hope?” turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened
+her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again
+interposed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.
+
+“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.
+She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and
+robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It
+is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part,
+and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”
+
+Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.
+“You must oblige us,” said he, “indeed you must. When you have studied
+the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your
+choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will
+be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not
+refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your
+basket.”
+
+The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only
+trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous
+affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He
+was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously
+at her sister; Maria’s countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed
+and alarmed—but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia
+well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her
+expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she
+said to him, “You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance
+when I come in with a basket of provisions—though one might have
+supposed—but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!”
+She stopped—Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not
+know what to say. Tom Bertram began again—
+
+“Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.”
+
+“Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,” cried Julia, with
+angry quickness: “I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
+nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
+most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,
+unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and
+this is comedy in its worst form.” And so saying, she walked hastily
+out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but
+exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet
+auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the
+agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.
+
+A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon
+returned to business and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the
+play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would be
+necessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
+under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am sure I
+would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall
+probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,” was
+doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.
+
+When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed
+by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in
+the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram’s
+resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia
+to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.
+
+The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which
+had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
+of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she
+ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals
+of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that
+it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and
+Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for
+home representation—the situation of one, and the language of the
+other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could
+hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging
+in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
+remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss
+Bertram’s return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another
+character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and
+Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss
+Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different
+style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he
+had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid
+fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the
+decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could
+not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act
+together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the
+leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly
+took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being
+shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much
+dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his
+finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much
+engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,
+or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which
+Maria had been half prepared for.
+
+Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,
+knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room
+before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and
+Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to
+tell him the agreeable news.
+
+“We have got a play,” said he. “It is to be Lovers’ Vows; and I am to
+be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink
+satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way
+of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.”
+
+Fanny’s eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard
+this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.
+
+“Lovers’ Vows!” in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply
+to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if
+hardly doubting a contradiction.
+
+“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our debatings and difficulties, we
+find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so
+unexceptionable, as Lovers’ Vows. The wonder is that it should not have
+been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have
+all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to
+have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.”
+
+“But what do you do for women?” said Edmund gravely, and looking at
+Maria.
+
+Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, “I take the part
+which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and” (with a bolder eye) “Miss
+Crawford is to be Amelia.”
+
+“I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled
+up, with _us_,” replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his
+mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great
+vexation.
+
+Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, “I come in three times, and have
+two-and-forty speeches. That’s something, is not it? But I do not much
+like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue
+dress and a pink satin cloak.”
+
+Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called
+out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being
+accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr.
+Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, “I
+cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without
+reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria,
+tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private
+representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but
+suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the
+first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can
+approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father’s_
+judgment, I am convinced.”
+
+“We see things very differently,” cried Maria. “I am perfectly
+acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,
+and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing
+objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who
+thinks it very fit for private representation.”
+
+“I am sorry for it,” was his answer; “but in this matter it is _you_
+who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered,
+it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy
+is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of
+the party.”
+
+This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved
+better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,
+“I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I
+still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake
+to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be
+the greatest indecorum, I think.”
+
+“Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your
+conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel
+yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and
+confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness,
+and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand
+your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as
+it ought.”
+
+“Do not act anything improper, my dear,” said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas
+would not like it.—Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.—To be
+sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”
+
+“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund, preventing Fanny, “that Sir
+Thomas would not like it.”
+
+“There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?”
+
+“If I were to decline the part,” said Maria, with renewed zeal, “Julia
+would certainly take it.”
+
+“What!” cried Edmund, “if she knew your reasons!”
+
+“Oh! she might think the difference between us—the difference in our
+situations—that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel
+necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I
+cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so
+disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we
+shall never act anything.”
+
+“I was just going to say the very same thing,” said Mrs. Norris. “If
+every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the
+preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure
+_that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as
+Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with
+most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise,
+Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only
+wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there
+was the loss of half a day’s work about those side-doors. The curtain
+will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I
+think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is
+no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I
+hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should
+always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot
+to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been
+looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who
+should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’ hall-door with
+two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be
+sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then
+father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no
+how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants’
+dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I
+hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have
+always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to
+the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know,
+who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘_I’ll_ take the boards to your
+father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.’ The boy looked
+very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I
+might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming
+marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness—so good
+as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!”
+
+Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and
+Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his
+only satisfaction.
+
+Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick
+Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked
+of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he
+would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating
+support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying
+to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable
+on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their
+company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress
+in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.
+
+But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:
+there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening
+giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being
+reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a
+separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting
+deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the
+entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it
+was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful
+joy.
+
+“Well, how do you go on?” and “What have you settled?” and “Oh! we can
+do nothing without you,” followed the first salutations; and Henry
+Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his
+sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was
+complimenting _her_. “I must really congratulate your ladyship,” said
+she, “on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with
+exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and
+difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be
+infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you
+joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the
+same predicament,” glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to
+Edmund.
+
+She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.
+His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat
+with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to
+the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest
+herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden
+recollection, she exclaimed, “My good friends, you are most composedly
+at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
+me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman
+among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?”
+
+For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the
+same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr.
+Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken
+Anhalt.”
+
+“I had my choice of the parts,” said Mr. Rushworth; “but I thought I
+should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am
+to have.”
+
+“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied Miss Crawford, with a
+brightened look; “Anhalt is a heavy part.”
+
+“_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,” returned Mr. Rushworth,
+“which is no trifle.”
+
+“I am not at all surprised,” said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,
+“at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward
+young lady may well frighten the men.”
+
+“I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,”
+cried Tom; “but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I
+will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done—I
+will look it over again.”
+
+“Your _brother_ should take the part,” said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.
+“Do not you think he would?”
+
+“_I_ shall not ask him,” replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.
+
+Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined
+the party at the fire.
+
+“They do not want me at all,” said she, seating herself. “I only puzzle
+them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as
+you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,
+therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it
+practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?”
+
+“My advice,” said he calmly, “is that you change the play.”
+
+“_I_ should have no objection,” she replied; “for though I should not
+particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if
+everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as
+they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_” (looking
+round), “it certainly will not be taken.”
+
+Edmund said no more.
+
+“If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,”
+observed the lady archly, after a short pause; “for he is a clergyman,
+you know.”
+
+“_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,” he replied, “for I
+should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must
+be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn
+lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one
+of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.”
+
+Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and
+mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and
+gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.
+
+“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference
+was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, “we want your
+services.”
+
+Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of
+employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
+Edmund could do.
+
+“Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your
+_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be
+Cottager’s wife.”
+
+“Me!” cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
+“Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to
+give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.”
+
+“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten
+you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen
+speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a
+word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must
+have you to look at.”
+
+“If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,” cried Mr. Rushworth,
+“what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to
+learn.”
+
+“It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,” said Fanny, shocked
+to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to
+feel that almost every eye was upon her; “but I really cannot act.”
+
+“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we
+will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall
+be Cottager, I’ll put you in and push you about, and you will do it
+very well, I’ll answer for it.”
+
+“No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.
+It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I
+should only disappoint you.”
+
+“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll do it very well. Every
+allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must
+get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make
+you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
+eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.”
+
+“You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,” cried Fanny, growing
+more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully
+at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate
+his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her
+entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said
+before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed
+by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which
+differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and
+which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could
+breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing
+her in a whisper at once angry and audible—“What a piece of work here
+is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a
+difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort—so kind as
+they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no
+more of the matter, I entreat.”
+
+“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair to urge her in
+this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for
+herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely
+trusted. Do not urge her any more.”
+
+“I am not going to urge her,” replied Mrs. Norris sharply; “but I shall
+think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what
+her aunt and cousins wish her—very ungrateful, indeed, considering who
+and what she is.”
+
+Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment
+with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears
+were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some
+keenness, “I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,”
+and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to
+Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,
+“Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is
+cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them”; and with pointed
+attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits,
+in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she
+prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the
+really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were
+rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund’s
+favour.
+
+Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her
+for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and
+wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and
+supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course
+she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded
+to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said
+that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine
+young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to
+sea again—she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable
+flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she
+had intended.
+
+The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford’s
+attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling her,
+with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to
+undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been
+most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not
+do; he must give it up. “But there will not be the smallest difficulty
+in filling it,” he added. “We have but to speak the word; we may pick
+and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within
+six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and
+there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid
+to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very
+clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will
+see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride
+over to Stoke, and settle with one of them.”
+
+While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in
+full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as
+this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said
+nothing. After a moment’s thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As
+far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all
+think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr.
+Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s one day, did not he, Henry? A
+quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if
+you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect
+stranger.”
+
+Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going
+to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened
+her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance
+first at Maria and then at Edmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals
+would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,” Edmund still held
+his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
+
+“I am not very sanguine as to our play,” said Miss Crawford, in an
+undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; “and I can tell Mr.
+Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of
+_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,
+and by no means what I expected.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk Fanny into any real
+forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went
+to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an
+attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her
+spirits sinking under her aunt’s unkind reflection and reproach. To be
+called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the
+prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do
+what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of
+obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the
+dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to
+make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with
+the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation
+of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and
+if she were applied to again among themselves with all the
+authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund
+perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could
+answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the
+next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her
+sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving
+incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was
+dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet for walking
+about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been
+almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room; so called till
+the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and
+inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and
+there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within
+the last three years, when she had quitted them. The room had then
+become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,
+when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was
+still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and
+accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value
+for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and
+spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so
+naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now
+generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called
+ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny’s,
+almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making
+the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,
+with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of
+superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris,
+having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s
+account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody
+else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the
+indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.
+
+The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable
+in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind
+as Fanny’s; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be
+driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in
+her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything
+unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or
+some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books—of which she had
+been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling—her
+writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within
+her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would
+do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an
+interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or
+bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much
+of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,
+her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she
+had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost
+every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt
+Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what
+was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and
+her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had
+told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which
+made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together,
+so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.
+The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its
+furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been
+originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its
+greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s
+work, too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in
+a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window,
+where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a
+moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought
+unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their
+side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four
+years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the
+bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
+
+To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on
+an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile
+she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums
+she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more
+than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel
+undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the
+room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was
+so warmly asked, so strongly wished for—what might be so essential to a
+scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest
+complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness,
+and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund’s judgment, would his
+persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole, be enough to
+justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would
+be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth
+and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the
+claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight
+of present upon present that she had received from them. The table
+between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which
+had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew
+bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind
+remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of
+this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle “Come in” was
+answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont
+to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
+
+“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?” said he.
+
+“Yes, certainly.”
+
+“I want to consult. I want your opinion.”
+
+“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it
+gratified her.
+
+“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting
+scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a
+play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask
+the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the
+end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I
+know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must
+spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
+objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think
+of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
+magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in
+the same light?”
+
+“Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.”
+
+“There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
+I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.”
+
+Fanny could not answer him.
+
+“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being
+driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known
+to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face
+of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in
+every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you,
+Fanny?”
+
+“No,” said Fanny slowly, “not immediately, but—”
+
+“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.
+Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_,
+of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man’s being
+received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at
+all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all
+restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must
+tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s
+place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.
+She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for
+herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to
+understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
+probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps
+without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it
+would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her
+feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You
+hesitate.”
+
+“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
+to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
+will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the
+others!”
+
+“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously
+I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave
+it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the
+business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I
+shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do
+nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I
+have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes
+of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller
+circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material
+gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will
+not this be worth gaining?”
+
+“Yes, it will be a great point.”
+
+“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
+measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?”
+
+“No, I cannot think of anything else.”
+
+“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
+it.”
+
+“Oh, cousin!”
+
+“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet—But it is
+absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
+country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom:
+the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have
+entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”
+
+“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,”
+said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
+
+“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
+night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.”
+
+“She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared”...
+
+She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in
+the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.
+
+“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure
+of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you
+any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had
+spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
+been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly
+making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him
+directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all
+in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with
+such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
+China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?”—opening a volume on
+the table and then taking up some others. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales,
+and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book.
+I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am
+gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
+comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”
+
+He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He
+had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most
+unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting!
+After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all
+that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be
+feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not
+deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s
+doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable.
+The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously
+distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were
+become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them
+up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her
+cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their
+reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a
+victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
+most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
+darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
+jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
+of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and
+say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
+in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven
+to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
+from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were
+both as much the better as the happier for the descent.
+
+They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
+exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
+to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
+Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
+inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what they
+had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the
+destruction of all their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,
+gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
+ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was
+all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
+dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron
+admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth
+undertook to count his speeches.
+
+“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
+Perhaps you may persuade _her_.”
+
+“No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.”
+
+“Oh! very well.” And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
+again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
+fail her already.
+
+There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
+change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
+with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
+affair as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in
+respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.” And the
+morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One
+advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
+Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
+undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
+that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this,
+when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss
+Crawford to whom she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose kind
+exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them
+was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and
+safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from
+peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
+disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally
+against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and
+his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and
+agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
+insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could
+hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous
+and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their
+dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were
+finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in
+the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and
+insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she
+might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the
+solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could
+almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant
+was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste
+and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought
+for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
+of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought
+better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to
+respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she
+received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a
+scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.
+
+Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as
+she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,
+though not quite so blamelessly.
+
+Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
+allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister
+so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the
+conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she
+submitted to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any
+endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in
+gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no
+curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,
+was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting
+of the others.
+
+For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
+endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and
+compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a
+few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for
+more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather
+thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might
+ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not
+pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by
+disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her
+happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did
+assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had
+ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her
+former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his
+tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her
+share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in
+general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two
+so dear to her.
+
+“I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,” was her observation
+to Mary.
+
+“I dare say she is,” replied Mary coldly. “I imagine both sisters are.”
+
+“Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of
+Mr. Rushworth!”
+
+“You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do
+_her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth’s property and
+independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A
+man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape
+a profession and represent the county.”
+
+“I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I
+dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to
+put him in the way of doing anything yet.”
+
+“Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,” said
+Mary, after a pause. “Do you remember Hawkins Browne’s ‘Address to
+Tobacco,’ in imitation of Pope?—
+
+Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
+To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.
+
+
+I will parody them—
+
+Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
+To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
+
+
+Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir
+Thomas’s return.”
+
+“You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see
+him in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without
+him. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a
+house, and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a
+cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.
+Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for
+Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she
+did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good
+friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”
+
+“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s chance if Henry stept in
+before the articles were signed.”
+
+“If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as
+the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know
+his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he
+is Henry, for a time.”
+
+Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and
+though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She
+had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a
+warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the
+disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
+of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of
+angry consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy
+terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each
+other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end
+to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment
+to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.
+Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,
+to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the
+same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or
+principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or
+compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless
+of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
+Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a
+public disturbance at last.
+
+Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward
+fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no
+liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by
+Fanny’s consciousness.
+
+The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia’s
+discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to
+the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was
+engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not
+immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real
+part, between Miss Crawford’s claims and his own conduct, between love
+and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
+in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,
+superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for
+which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half a
+crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for
+watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and
+dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great
+impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was
+not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she
+had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had
+been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their
+vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a
+scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase
+of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their
+proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as
+to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every
+family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the
+scene-painter’s slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He
+had learned his part—all his parts, for he took every trifling one that
+could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be
+acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense
+of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more
+ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.
+
+Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only
+listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most
+of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant
+dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom
+Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant
+spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his
+part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,
+who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that
+poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_
+complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her
+eye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often
+the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
+had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from
+being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring
+something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the
+others. Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody would
+attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to
+come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.
+
+Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the
+play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure
+to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the
+first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for
+Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the
+first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and
+sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.
+As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor
+of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
+more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man,
+but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there
+were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed
+against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr.
+Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, “Do you think
+there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of
+me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an
+undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very
+ridiculous in my opinion.”
+
+From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which
+Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to
+remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the
+knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his
+ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea
+of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was
+not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they
+were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;
+but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,
+and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
+through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great
+pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and
+directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him,
+and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much
+the forwarder.
+
+Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
+but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was
+as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
+as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
+demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first
+anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally
+useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.
+
+There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her
+help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as
+the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it—“Come,
+Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be
+always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
+your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself
+till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak without
+sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help
+in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a
+trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part
+to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than
+_you_, we should not get on very fast.”
+
+Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but
+her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf—
+
+“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all
+new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play
+ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at
+leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play
+about, Fanny? you have never told me.”
+
+“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who
+can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers’ Vows.”
+
+“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will be three acts
+rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of
+seeing all the actors at once.”
+
+“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris;
+“the curtain will be hung in a day or two—there is very little sense in
+a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it
+draw up into very handsome festoons.”
+
+Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her
+aunt’s composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the
+three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be
+acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
+between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was
+longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject
+of it was love—a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,
+and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.
+
+She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering
+emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
+circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet
+rehearsed it, even in private.
+
+The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s
+consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very
+diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her
+silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made
+her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no
+concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal
+of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at
+once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.
+Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies
+walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,
+and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a
+quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the
+entrance of Miss Crawford.
+
+“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your
+pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”
+
+Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the
+room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty
+grate with concern.
+
+“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little
+while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought
+my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_
+obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by
+ourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he
+_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have
+hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will
+be so good, won’t you?”
+
+Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them
+in a very steady voice.
+
+“Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?” continued Miss
+Crawford, opening her book. “Here it is. I did not think much of it at
+first—but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and
+_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
+Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the
+difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him,
+and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.”
+
+“Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must
+_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.”
+
+“_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for
+it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the
+front of the stage. There—very good school-room chairs, not made for a
+theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick
+their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your
+governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could
+Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are
+rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
+dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
+of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If
+_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in
+upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the
+times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was
+with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off
+as well as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellent
+Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely
+_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.’ Was not that well done of me?
+He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”
+
+She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the
+idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but
+with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of
+a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
+and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought
+a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.
+
+Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on
+this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same
+business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure
+were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,
+and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to
+prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the
+house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown
+together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny’s
+kind offices.
+
+_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under
+the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to
+both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now
+rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
+not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was
+wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with
+the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it
+and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within
+her shrank—she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been
+otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained
+her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too
+much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To
+prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than
+enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching
+them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of
+Edmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he
+wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
+thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped
+they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced
+herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other;
+and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to
+believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling
+in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering
+exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must
+stand the brunt of it again that very day.
+
+The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to
+take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to
+return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every
+one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a
+general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying
+such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the
+morning’s rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed
+away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the
+gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram,
+Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;
+and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were
+waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.
+
+They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.
+She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which
+he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his
+wife.
+
+“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock solemnity. “He has been ill
+ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it
+tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since”.
+
+Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed.
+Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable
+amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not
+act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
+comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom,
+as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes
+began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, “If Miss
+Price would be so good as to _read_ the part.” She was immediately
+surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, “Do,
+Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you.”
+
+But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was
+not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather
+gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of
+attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and
+distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly
+punished.
+
+“You have only to _read_ the part,” said Henry Crawford, with renewed
+entreaty.
+
+“And I do believe she can say every word of it,” added Maria, “for she
+could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am
+sure you know the part.”
+
+Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as
+Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on
+her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was
+satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
+while the others prepared to begin.
+
+They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be
+struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had
+proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and
+Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father
+is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater
+number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All
+felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake
+was harboured anywhere. Julia’s looks were an evidence of the fact that
+made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not
+a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance
+was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the
+most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might
+consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr.
+Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was
+sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,
+every other heart was suggesting, “What will become of us? what is to
+be done now?” It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were
+the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.
+
+Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness
+had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at
+the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of
+devotion to Agatha’s narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and
+as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock
+of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister’s hand,
+her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she
+had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, “_I_ need
+not be afraid of appearing before him.”
+
+Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers
+stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few
+words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of
+opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them
+with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very
+circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
+support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment
+of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and
+anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,
+and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly
+heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s repeated question of, “Shall I go too? Had
+not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?” but they
+were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
+the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his
+respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
+delighted haste.
+
+Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been
+quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims
+on Sir Thomas’s affection was much too humble to give her any idea of
+classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and
+gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that
+was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even
+innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her
+former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it
+compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the
+development before him, with solicitude on Edmund’s account
+indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she
+was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no
+longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of
+vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a
+most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been
+twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua.
+
+The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better
+understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that
+must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the
+total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
+Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for
+the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal
+being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were
+over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords
+laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their
+walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr.
+Yates’s accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
+But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of
+parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything
+of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, “he
+preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the
+old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
+think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away.”
+
+Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she
+staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was
+settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister’s apology,
+saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the
+dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.
+
+Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after
+pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which
+the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in
+desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected
+family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
+Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, “But where
+is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?”—and on perceiving her,
+came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
+calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing
+with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to
+feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so
+kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his
+voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful
+in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light
+and looked at her again—inquired particularly after her health, and
+then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her
+appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having
+succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his
+belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next
+after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was
+such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and
+thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift
+her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the
+burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender
+feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much
+unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.
+
+Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now
+seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the
+talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own
+house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him
+communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to
+give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of
+his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had
+latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
+having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private
+vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little
+particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
+were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
+heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him—interrupting himself
+more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them
+all at home—coming unexpectedly as he did—all collected together
+exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth
+was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
+had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in
+the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing
+disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’s appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
+him already.
+
+By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
+unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to
+see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to
+place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
+She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained
+so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side,
+and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
+She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time
+had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great
+deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have
+answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the
+young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him
+again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
+comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to
+feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it
+would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.
+
+Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister.
+Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s
+disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for
+her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
+caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin
+cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew
+any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It
+had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room,
+and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the
+house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the
+nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the
+butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the
+drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which
+she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be
+the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
+anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing
+was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have
+consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with
+troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of
+despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take
+nothing, nothing till tea came—he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs.
+Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most
+interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a
+French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with
+the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would
+be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup.”
+
+Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for
+everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed
+I would rather have nothing but tea.”
+
+“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
+you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” She carried
+this point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.
+
+At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were
+exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now
+at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not
+long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and
+what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, “How do
+you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir
+Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.”
+
+“Indeed! and what have you been acting?”
+
+“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it.”
+
+“The _all_ will soon be told,” cried Tom hastily, and with affected
+unconcern; “but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now.
+You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by
+way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last
+week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant
+rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to
+the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the
+3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no
+attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,
+and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
+between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we
+respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire.
+I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than
+they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life
+as this year. I hope you will take a day’s sport there yourself, sir,
+soon.”
+
+For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s sick feelings
+subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas,
+getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the
+house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was
+returning. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for
+the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his
+disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak—
+
+“Something must be done,” said he.
+
+“It is time to think of our visitors,” said Maria, still feeling her
+hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little for anything
+else. “Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?”
+
+Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
+
+“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried Tom. “I will go and fetch him. He
+will be no bad assistant when it all comes out.”
+
+To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the
+first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good
+deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his
+eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
+air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from
+before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had
+scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there
+were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some
+one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the
+voice—more than talking—almost hallooing. He stepped to the door,
+rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate
+communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a
+theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to
+knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir
+Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the
+whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of
+the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his
+countenance. His father’s looks of solemnity and amazement on this his
+first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the
+impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
+making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an
+exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon
+any account. It would be the last—in all probability—the last scene on
+that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would
+close with the greatest eclat.
+
+There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of
+merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist
+the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir
+Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which
+was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased with
+the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its
+commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions were sufficiently known
+to him to render his introduction as the “particular friend,” another
+of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome;
+and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the
+forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding
+himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
+exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so
+untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt
+sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the
+course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of
+the two.
+
+Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be
+always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to
+see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be
+some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
+his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that
+when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the
+billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable
+curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations
+on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak
+a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr.
+Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen
+returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of
+gravity which was not lost on all.
+
+“I come from your theatre,” said he composedly, as he sat down; “I
+found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room—but
+in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the
+smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a
+character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by
+candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.” And then
+he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over
+domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to
+catch Sir Thomas’s meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion
+enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the
+others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the
+topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks
+relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of
+his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely,
+but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his
+ill-opinion of Mr. Yates’s habits of thinking, from the beginning to
+the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other
+assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.
+
+“This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,” said Tom, after a
+moment’s thought. “My friend Yates brought the infection from
+Ecclesford, and it spread—as those things always spread, you know,
+sir—the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the
+sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.”
+
+Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and
+immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were
+doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
+conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of
+affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not
+only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends
+as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of
+unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the
+face on which his own eyes were fixed—from seeing Sir Thomas’s dark
+brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters
+and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a
+language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not
+less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
+her aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all
+that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his
+father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it
+was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas’s look
+implied, “On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been
+about?” She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to
+utter, “Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!”
+
+Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in
+the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going
+through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.
+Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
+that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the
+honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the
+result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young
+performers; we bespeak your indulgence.”
+
+“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied Sir Thomas gravely, “but
+without any other rehearsal.” And with a relenting smile, he added, “I
+come home to be happy and indulgent.” Then turning away towards any or
+all of the rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and Miss Crawford were
+mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
+acquaintance?”
+
+Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely
+without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love
+or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. “Mr. Crawford was a
+most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
+lively girl.”
+
+Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “I do not say he is not
+gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not
+above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.”
+
+Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise
+at the speaker.
+
+“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr. Rushworth, “in my opinion
+it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much
+of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think
+we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among
+ourselves, and doing nothing.”
+
+Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, “I
+am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It
+gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and
+quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel,
+is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic
+tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
+exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most
+favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with
+you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such
+weight.”
+
+Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s opinion in better words
+than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a
+genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with
+better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to
+value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to
+smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but
+by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir
+Thomas’s good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best
+towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+
+Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and
+give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own
+share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his
+motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that
+his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his
+judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating
+himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one
+amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of
+defence or palliation. “We have all been more or less to blame,” said
+he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has
+judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have
+been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think
+of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.”
+
+Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
+and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;
+he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands
+with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and
+forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,
+after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the
+remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into
+any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to
+believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
+The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of
+every preparation, would be sufficient.
+
+There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to
+learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help
+giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might
+have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have
+disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming
+the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision
+themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of
+unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must
+regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of
+their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements
+should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as
+nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was
+ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was
+so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her
+influence was insufficient—that she might have talked in vain. Her only
+resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn
+the current of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier channel. She had a
+great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to
+the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many
+sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden
+removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
+and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most
+considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant
+been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest
+support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the
+Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the
+credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect.
+“If I had not been active,” said she, “and made a point of being
+introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the
+first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come
+of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who
+wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the
+catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was
+ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did
+persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle
+of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.”
+
+“I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady
+Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not
+have been—”
+
+“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!
+I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four
+horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his
+great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
+account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since
+Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter—and
+this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room
+before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his
+wig; so I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I
+shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has
+been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.’
+But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and
+as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart
+quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes
+about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it
+was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about
+him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know
+how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of
+Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I
+got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much,
+but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be
+dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful
+cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the
+visit.”
+
+“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that
+might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.
+Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to
+be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family
+party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly
+as one could wish.”
+
+“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like
+him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good
+qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite
+laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my
+word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth
+were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater
+respect.’”
+
+Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her
+flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that
+where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her
+kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.
+
+It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied
+but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted
+concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to
+examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into
+his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and
+methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
+master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in
+pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and
+given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
+pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
+The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
+ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants
+idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
+two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
+even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the
+house, for he was burning all that met his eye.
+
+Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions,
+though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his
+friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom
+had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his
+father’s particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as
+acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the
+same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation
+was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his
+friend’s youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the
+baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
+little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in
+Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir
+Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think
+it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
+without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and
+often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,
+in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so
+unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was
+not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be
+thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay
+a few days longer under his roof.
+
+The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind
+was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his
+daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a
+good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that
+Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
+disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
+that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and
+all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set
+off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
+for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble
+of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,
+not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of
+congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the
+first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly
+divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August
+began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a
+sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
+did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were
+followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the
+house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects
+to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the
+breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon
+appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of
+the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and
+so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who
+had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice
+whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present
+happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in
+that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
+required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his
+uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a
+renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he
+should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition
+with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play
+should not be lost by _his_ absence.
+
+“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will
+attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”
+
+It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.
+He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;
+but as to our play, _that_ is all over—entirely at an end” (looking
+significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and
+very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
+would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody
+there.”
+
+“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”
+
+“When do you think of going?”
+
+“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”
+
+“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was the next question; and while
+this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
+neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of
+it with tolerable calmness.
+
+To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
+only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what
+availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not
+voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting
+what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
+He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand
+which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were
+alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the
+agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose
+from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
+the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general
+civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as
+it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was
+gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting
+bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her.
+Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours
+afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish
+vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.
+
+Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be
+odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
+dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added
+to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
+
+With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it
+at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned
+with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling—from
+the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his
+mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,
+and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and
+could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;
+but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_
+activity to keep pace with her wishes?
+
+Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure
+Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his
+family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been
+irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was
+every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of
+Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been
+quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good
+wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him
+to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had
+staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at
+Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left
+the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas
+hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected
+with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
+its existence.
+
+Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
+have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
+talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
+happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+
+Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
+independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
+altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
+of many others saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with the
+past—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
+intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from
+intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for
+any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only
+addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.
+
+Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor
+could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,”
+he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they
+seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible
+of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was
+away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is,
+that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth
+when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their
+society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people
+he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among
+ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at
+his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
+pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”
+
+“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like
+_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
+that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
+not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I mean
+before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
+much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
+there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
+has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness;
+but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
+except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose,
+when those they look up to are at home”.
+
+“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short
+consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
+were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
+lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
+I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”
+
+“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do
+not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
+I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more
+than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I
+dare say.”
+
+“Why should you dare say _that_?” (smiling). “Do you want to be told
+that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
+But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
+to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
+your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
+though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
+trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”
+
+Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
+
+“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and
+the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
+more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
+thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did
+admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so
+improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay,
+Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear
+an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin
+to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try
+not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”
+
+“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more
+feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
+had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—
+
+“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
+only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
+silent in the evening circle.”
+
+“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you
+hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”
+
+“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It
+would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”
+
+“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my
+cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
+interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as
+if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity
+and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to
+feel.”
+
+“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
+that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
+were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those
+were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who
+distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!
+She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the
+greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to
+some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the
+unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as
+accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my
+father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most
+gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen
+him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be
+much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
+her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met
+more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on
+his side.”
+
+“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of
+you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And
+Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so
+very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little
+while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,
+allowing for the difference of the time of year.”
+
+“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
+infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and
+November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant
+is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”
+
+Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,
+and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,
+her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her
+into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind
+opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she
+began to talk of something else.
+
+“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.
+Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
+may continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”
+
+“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’s
+visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the
+stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to
+follow—the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
+longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give
+something that Rushworth and Maria had never met.”
+
+In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.
+Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s
+deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
+the truth—that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in
+business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
+seeming much aware of it himself.
+
+He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel
+grave on Maria’s account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little
+observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the
+most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
+was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas
+resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the
+alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her
+happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps,
+been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
+she was repenting.
+
+With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,
+inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
+assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the
+connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the
+prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a
+moment’s struggle as she listened, and only a moment’s: when her father
+ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and
+with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention,
+his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had
+the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible
+of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had
+the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and
+could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.
+
+Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge
+the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.
+It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
+and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.
+Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could
+now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly
+without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
+Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to
+be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she
+could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
+there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed
+young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more
+attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
+must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
+probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
+enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy
+to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the
+reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a
+marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and
+influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s
+disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.
+
+To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a
+state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:
+that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from
+the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her
+actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
+determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,
+that her father might not be again suspecting her.
+
+Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
+days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
+at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or
+absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been
+different; but after another three or four days, when there was no
+return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope
+of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all
+the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.
+
+Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that
+he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
+prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the
+retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,
+independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more
+needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She
+was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father
+imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become
+absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as
+possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and
+the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and
+varied not.
+
+To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
+been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
+marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind
+she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,
+restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,
+and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The
+preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and
+spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.
+
+The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that
+a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must
+precede the wedding.
+
+Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the
+fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in
+November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with
+true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
+Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
+in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and
+before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which
+gave Sotherton another mistress.
+
+It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two
+bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
+stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried
+to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing
+could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
+neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and
+bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same
+chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In
+everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
+investigation.
+
+It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
+must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his
+wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.
+Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending
+it at the Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking the health
+of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all
+joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;
+and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she
+had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
+smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought
+up under her eye.
+
+The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
+Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was
+new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
+When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the
+wider range of London.
+
+Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the
+sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their
+former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to
+make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
+Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to
+his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as
+Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain
+them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.
+
+Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
+which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly
+contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to
+its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed
+them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
+the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
+affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+
+Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.
+Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,
+the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she
+had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to
+be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever
+been before; and “Where is Fanny?” became no uncommon question, even
+without her being wanted for any one’s convenience.
+
+Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In
+that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.
+Norris’s death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the
+gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her
+visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.
+Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the
+easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest
+thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of
+improvement in pressing her frequent calls.
+
+Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
+Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
+being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
+under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
+premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her
+part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant
+himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to
+be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible;
+and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
+rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all
+her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a
+single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the
+sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price
+dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an
+event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.
+She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being
+useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first
+allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being
+obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and
+waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning
+downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the
+rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was
+thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the
+period of dressing and dinner.
+
+The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
+have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
+and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at
+the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s
+carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was
+threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such
+weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that
+score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was
+perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
+aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in
+such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.
+
+It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
+room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an
+acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,
+which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since
+its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and
+natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since
+the instrument’s arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but
+Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
+was concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to you now?” and
+“What will you have?” were questions immediately following with the
+readiest good-humour.
+
+She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
+who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and
+who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes,
+straying to the window on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke
+what she felt must be done.
+
+“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and we shall see how
+it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those
+clouds look alarming.”
+
+“But they are passed over,” said Fanny. “I have been watching them.
+This weather is all from the south.”
+
+“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not
+set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play
+something more to you—a very pretty piece—and your cousin Edmund’s
+prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”
+
+Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that
+sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
+awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and
+again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
+constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,
+with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
+and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
+impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
+and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
+take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the
+harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at
+home.
+
+Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
+them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away—an
+intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of something
+new, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to
+her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could
+not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without
+ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being
+sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher
+pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_
+often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry
+on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,
+however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.
+Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of
+year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches
+now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the
+midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so
+protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold
+gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and
+walk for warmth.
+
+“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as they
+were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this
+shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,
+this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the
+field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
+and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say
+whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in
+another three years, we may be forgetting—almost forgetting what it was
+before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and
+the changes of the human mind!” And following the latter train of
+thought, she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature
+may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
+There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
+the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our
+intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so
+obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so
+tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;
+but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly
+past finding out.”
+
+Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
+Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought
+must interest.
+
+“It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste
+Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in
+the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”
+
+“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very well for a place
+of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between
+ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country
+parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.”
+
+“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!” said Fanny, in reply. “My
+uncle’s gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and
+so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.
+The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
+When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some
+countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that
+does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun
+should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their
+existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
+especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into
+this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the
+commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling
+fancy.”
+
+“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am something like the
+famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no
+wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had
+told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be
+spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not
+have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,
+moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.”
+
+“_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.”
+
+“I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,” and her eyes
+brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
+summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there
+is no saying what it may lead to.”
+
+Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or
+soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
+animation, soon went on—
+
+“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
+than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend
+_half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very
+pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
+connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
+society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
+more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round
+of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tête-à-tête_ with the
+person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing
+frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy
+the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_.”
+
+“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny attempted to say. “Come,
+come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.
+Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay,
+brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton
+another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public
+blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to
+fill her house, and give the best balls in the country.”
+
+Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
+suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!
+here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
+appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.
+Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
+Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram
+so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.”
+
+“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound of _Mr._
+Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
+character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But there is
+nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of
+kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of
+chivalry and warm affections.”
+
+“I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_
+Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the
+annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr.
+Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture
+upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before
+they can begin?”
+
+Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his
+seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
+which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship
+between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
+and to the credit of the lover’s understanding, be it stated, that he
+did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater
+gainer by such a friendship.
+
+“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do you not scold us for our
+imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be
+talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so
+again?”
+
+“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either of you had been
+sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a
+great deal.”
+
+“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I
+went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then
+they were walking.”
+
+“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that your sitting down
+for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not
+always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater
+liberties in November than in May.”
+
+“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the most
+disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no
+giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been
+suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.
+Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
+against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very
+little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
+own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.”
+
+“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
+chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a
+different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would
+have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time—for here
+are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights
+are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a
+sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking
+everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one;
+and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which
+I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how
+much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the
+day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like
+grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.”
+
+“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!” said Miss Crawford
+archly. “Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”
+
+“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.
+Paul’s, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
+could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have
+me do?”
+
+“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,
+and never lose your temper.”
+
+“Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
+where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I
+dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and
+the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and
+unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
+forth bitter lamentations.”
+
+“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A
+large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It
+certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.”
+
+“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund, with a look which, to
+Fanny’s eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
+
+“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?”
+
+“I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my
+power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has
+only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no
+doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.”
+
+“By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your
+income, and all that. I understand you—and a very proper plan it is for
+a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
+connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not
+much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do
+anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth
+and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy
+you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much
+greater respect for those that are honest and rich.”
+
+“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I
+have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is
+exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
+between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
+anxious for your not looking down on.”
+
+“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look
+down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to
+distinction.”
+
+“But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any
+distinction?”
+
+This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an “Oh!”
+of some length from the fair lady before she could add, “You ought to
+be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.”
+
+“_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in
+parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly
+for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No,
+Miss Crawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there _are_
+distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without
+any chance—absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining—but
+they are of a different character.”
+
+A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of
+manner on Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was
+sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite
+unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
+following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home
+immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of
+the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that
+she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the
+previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just
+then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she
+directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to
+recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had
+walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
+
+Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund’s
+attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
+was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through
+which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as
+they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he
+_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but
+be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant
+to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for
+an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden
+recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company
+too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in
+the events of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise and
+embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
+“but she did not suppose it would be in her power,” was looking at
+Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having
+such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half
+a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt’s account, could
+not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,
+and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should
+be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his
+encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon
+settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might
+expect her.
+
+“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling—“the
+turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning to her
+husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”
+
+“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad to
+hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
+Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want
+to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is
+all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or
+whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.”
+
+The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
+discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
+satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy
+which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
+for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for
+any other.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+
+“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she
+to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this
+sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
+Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”
+
+“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his
+cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
+dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
+should not.”
+
+“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never
+did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
+asked Fanny.”
+
+“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—” said Fanny, in a self-denying
+tone.
+
+“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”
+
+“To be sure, so I shall.”
+
+“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am.”
+
+“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
+soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”
+
+“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion as
+to the _propriety_ of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and I
+think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
+Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.”
+
+“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised
+that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”
+
+There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any
+purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it
+did, her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in
+Lady Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in
+for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she
+called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir
+Thomas, stop a moment—I have something to say to you.”
+
+Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
+voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
+story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
+herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
+nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than
+she ought to be—for what was it after all whether she went or staid?
+but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and
+with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at
+last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly
+submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It
+began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with—“I have something to tell you that
+will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.”
+
+“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.
+
+“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”
+
+“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; “but what is
+your difficulty?”
+
+Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
+mother’s story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “So
+strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.”
+
+“But is it not very natural,” observed Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should
+wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”
+
+“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir Thomas, after a short
+deliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
+in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s shewing civility to Miss
+Price, to Lady Bertram’s niece, could never want explanation. The only
+surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its
+being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional
+answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she
+must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
+no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.”
+
+“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”
+
+“Indeed I think you may.”
+
+“She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.”
+
+“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,
+and I shall certainly be at home.”
+
+“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”
+
+The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way
+to his own.
+
+“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
+hesitation on your uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You are to
+go.”
+
+“Thank you, I am _so_ glad,” was Fanny’s instinctive reply; though when
+she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
+“And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or
+hearing something there to pain me?”
+
+In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an
+engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in
+hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined
+out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three
+people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of
+preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor
+assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and
+directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to
+anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
+of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill
+humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece’s pleasure, both
+present and future, as much as possible.
+
+“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
+and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
+thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to
+look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that
+there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
+way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon
+ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
+meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended
+to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to
+_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come
+into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
+had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.”
+
+Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant’s part of
+the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only
+say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
+and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a
+state as to prevent her being missed.
+
+“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
+would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy
+about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and
+find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the
+very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I
+cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
+should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table,
+too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been
+contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their
+senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his
+own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how
+infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have
+been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of
+their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only five to be sitting
+round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I
+dare say.”
+
+Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
+
+“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and
+trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give
+_you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of
+us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself
+forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your
+cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never
+do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and
+last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,
+you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,
+you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle
+_that_.”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything else.”
+
+“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never
+saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage
+as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for
+you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage
+will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what
+may happen, and take your things accordingly.”
+
+Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to
+comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
+afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you
+have the carriage come round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which
+made it impossible for her to speak.
+
+“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, “Fanny can
+walk.”
+
+“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,
+and coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner engagement
+at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given with the feelings almost
+of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
+in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of
+the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words
+spoken in angry agitation—
+
+“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is
+upon Edmund’s account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.”
+
+But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for
+herself, and herself alone: and her uncle’s consideration of her,
+coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her
+some tears of gratitude when she was alone.
+
+The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the
+gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
+late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them
+off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.
+
+“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smile of an
+affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well as I
+can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got
+on?”
+
+“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin’s
+marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it
+as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity
+all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.”
+
+“A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no
+finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems
+very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown
+something the same?”
+
+In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
+coach-house.
+
+“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company, here’s a carriage! who have
+they got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,
+“’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche, I protest! There are his own two
+men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This
+is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”
+
+There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
+differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe
+her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed
+the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.
+
+In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
+enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
+of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his
+sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A
+very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the
+exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there
+might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the
+party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to
+sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for
+though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite
+of her aunt Norris’s opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
+and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while
+they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in
+which she was not required to take any part—there was so much to be
+said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
+young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
+Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and
+Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
+listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not
+compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of
+interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending
+for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by
+Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of
+his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to
+resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of
+the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as
+civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather
+not have him speak to her.
+
+Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on
+seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.
+Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
+apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
+as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them
+spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled
+in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of
+business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and
+Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with
+more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which
+made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride
+are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!”
+
+“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they
+not? And Julia is with them.”
+
+“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”
+
+“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he
+figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I
+think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with
+Mr. Yates.”
+
+“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continued Crawford.
+“Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now—his toil and
+his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever
+want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding, with a
+momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much too good.” And
+then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing
+Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness
+and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in
+trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to give
+him a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for him
+out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough
+himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had
+honour from all the rest of the party.”
+
+Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
+
+“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth
+again, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back on our
+theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such
+an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all
+alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour
+of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some
+little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”
+
+With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never
+happier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was not
+justifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
+unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”
+
+“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
+the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
+feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other
+week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
+of events—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just
+for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a
+difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
+tremendous weather—but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I
+think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm
+in the Atlantic at that season.”
+
+He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,
+said, with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,
+I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it
+all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had
+gone quite far enough.”
+
+She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
+never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
+and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few
+moments’ silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
+and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right. It
+was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then
+turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
+subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
+advance in any.
+
+Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now
+observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
+discuss.”
+
+“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother—“how to make
+money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
+Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I
+find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the
+dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will
+have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned
+without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven
+hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger
+brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all
+for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I
+suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.”
+
+His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses
+me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance
+of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look
+rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to
+seven hundred a year.”
+
+“Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.
+Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly
+well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four
+or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do
+for it.”
+
+Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do
+and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
+checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
+when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
+
+“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to
+Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
+to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not
+you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
+with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not
+to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence
+preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
+pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that
+Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”
+
+“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;
+“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
+sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”
+
+“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he
+ought.”
+
+The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
+other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
+after tea—formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
+attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford
+took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her
+tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when
+Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,
+which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed
+by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that
+she soothed herself and amused her friend.
+
+The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
+like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
+distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very
+angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to
+think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost
+decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool
+feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
+attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she
+would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.
+She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond
+immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_
+should do her no harm.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+
+Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
+another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
+written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
+his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
+coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, “And how do
+you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
+I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
+plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?”
+
+“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”
+
+“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be
+exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,
+_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
+alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my
+plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.”
+
+“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two
+cousins.”
+
+“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
+hole in Fanny Price’s heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
+claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you
+seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in
+her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and
+therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different
+creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,
+modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I
+used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that
+soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was
+yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
+eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
+enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner,
+her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown
+two inches, at least, since October.”
+
+“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare
+her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
+well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.
+The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
+and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty—not
+strikingly pretty—but ‘pretty enough,’ as people say; a sort of beauty
+that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet
+smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it
+may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having
+nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation
+with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her
+beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and
+folly.”
+
+Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
+said, “I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
+understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What
+is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did
+she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak.
+I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to
+entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so
+grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, ‘I
+will not like you, I am determined not to like you’; and I say she
+shall.”
+
+“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
+her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
+her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
+desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,
+perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
+her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
+great deal of feeling.”
+
+“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if a fortnight can
+kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
+will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look
+kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for
+me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and
+talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions
+and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go
+away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.”
+
+“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can have no scruples now. Well, you
+will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
+for we are a great deal together.”
+
+And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her
+fate, a fate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way
+unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
+deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
+ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to
+be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
+manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
+believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of
+disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
+escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a
+fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
+previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
+engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and
+disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his
+continued attentions—continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting
+themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her
+character—obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She
+had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as
+ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners
+were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that
+it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.
+
+A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few
+days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his
+views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
+which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her
+brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
+again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
+written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the
+first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when
+Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
+would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over
+this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the
+kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in
+reply.
+
+It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
+master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
+such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
+excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to
+town to apply for information as to the probable period of the
+Antwerp’s return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which
+attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the
+reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
+as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many
+years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval
+intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first
+feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given.
+But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully
+acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond
+the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.
+
+This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
+of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
+midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
+have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
+might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his
+best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who
+had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the
+reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as
+soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been
+in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in
+an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on
+the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
+a brother.
+
+It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
+ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
+him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
+had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly
+intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was
+exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as
+each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they
+both advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing where she was, instead of rushing
+out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.
+
+William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
+pleasure of receiving, in his protégé, certainly a very different
+person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of
+an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
+respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.
+
+It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
+such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
+and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
+could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
+from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him
+the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been
+yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did
+gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her
+own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was
+the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger
+spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to
+feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true
+enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tête-à-tête_ which
+Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund
+had pointed it out to him.
+
+Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
+unlooked-for instance of Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few
+months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
+as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
+friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
+and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
+dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
+her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers
+and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all
+the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
+ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or
+differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of
+their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the
+whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over
+again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the
+fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in
+which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the
+same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and
+habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no
+subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and
+unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can
+justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever
+entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes
+almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William
+and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and
+freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate
+attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its
+increase.
+
+An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who
+had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck
+with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the
+young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards
+Fanny’s head, “Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,
+though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
+not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
+Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
+were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”; and saw, with lively
+admiration, the glow of Fanny’s cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
+deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
+any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
+sea must supply.
+
+It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
+Fanny’s attractions increased—increased twofold; for the sensibility
+which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
+attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
+her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
+be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
+unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
+fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.
+
+William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
+were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
+seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by
+his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
+with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
+professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
+that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had
+already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the
+West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore
+by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had
+known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer.
+With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and
+though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody
+in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in
+the midst of her nephew’s account of a shipwreck or an engagement,
+everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of
+such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her
+work to say, “Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go
+to sea.”
+
+To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been
+at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
+his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before
+he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
+proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of
+endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful
+contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing
+himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
+self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
+
+The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
+of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
+as to his plans for the next day’s hunting; and he found it was as well
+to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
+In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
+kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and
+curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and
+Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to
+himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew
+better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to
+reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by
+all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,
+of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough
+horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from
+dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a
+high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and
+well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the
+risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the
+horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was
+proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be
+a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was
+one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest
+cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use
+entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+
+The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
+restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the old
+intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
+Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it, but
+much was still owing to Sir Thomas’s more than toleration of the
+neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
+the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the
+Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
+infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
+matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
+possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a
+littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid
+perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat
+distinguishing his niece—nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)
+from giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account.
+
+His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
+general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
+doubts as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed so
+ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded from
+good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
+Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
+course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
+the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.
+Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.
+
+The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in
+a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
+and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
+style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all
+to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
+either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
+who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
+servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
+its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.
+
+In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
+Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
+remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
+complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
+speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
+soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for
+her own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a
+card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.
+
+“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse
+me most?”
+
+Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was a
+whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
+amuse him to have her for a partner.
+
+“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “then speculation, if
+you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
+me.”
+
+Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
+equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
+her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision again; but upon
+everybody’s assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
+easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with a
+most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
+Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
+Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
+intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss
+Crawford’s direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine
+arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his
+hands full of business, having two persons’ cards to manage as well as
+his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
+mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to
+inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which,
+especially in any competition with William, was a work of some
+difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all
+her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to
+keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, must direct her
+in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it.
+
+He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and
+preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful
+impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table was
+altogether a very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and
+orderly silence of the other.
+
+Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
+lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
+manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
+Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
+her compliments.
+
+“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.”
+
+“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know
+what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does
+all the rest.”
+
+“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
+of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you what happened
+to me yesterday in my ride home.” They had been hunting together, and
+were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
+when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had
+been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you
+I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees,
+because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my
+usual luck—for I never do wrong without gaining by it—I found myself in
+due time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was
+suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the
+midst of a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small
+stream before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to
+my right—which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place,
+and not a gentleman or half a gentleman’s house to be seen excepting
+one—to be presumed the Parsonage—within a stone’s throw of the said
+knoll and church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.”
+
+“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after
+passing Sewell’s farm?”
+
+“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
+answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
+be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey—for such it certainly
+was.”
+
+“You inquired, then?”
+
+“No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was
+Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.”
+
+“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so
+much of the place.”
+
+Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
+well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price’s knave
+increased.
+
+“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw?”
+
+“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five
+summers at least before the place is liveable.”
+
+“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
+but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and
+when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to
+it.”
+
+“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out
+the blacksmith’s shop. The house must be turned to front the east
+instead of the north—the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be
+on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
+done. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the
+garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the
+house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to
+the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty
+yards up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look
+about me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The
+meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_,
+sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to
+the principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
+course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
+They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them.
+Then the stream—something must be done with the stream; but I could not
+quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.”
+
+“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and one of them is,
+that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
+practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I
+think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
+of a gentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
+must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.”
+
+Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
+voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
+hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
+securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will
+stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
+born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be
+from not striving for it.”
+
+The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to
+secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
+Thornton Lacey.
+
+“My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form
+it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will
+find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
+(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie
+just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it
+the air of a gentleman’s residence. _That_ will be done by the removal
+of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never
+saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
+gentleman’s residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
+parsonage-house—above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is
+not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as
+windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
+farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
+one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
+generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
+spending from two to three thousand a year in.” Miss Crawford listened,
+and Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman’s residence,
+therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is
+capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for
+that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does
+not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By
+some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you
+to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody’s striking
+out a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into
+a _place_. From being the mere gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by
+judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
+modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and
+that house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the
+great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;
+especially as there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point—a
+circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a
+situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all
+calculation. _You_ think with me, I hope” (turning with a softened
+voice to Fanny). “Have you ever seen the place?”
+
+Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
+subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
+bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
+with “No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too
+dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
+hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is
+quite determined. The game will be yours,” turning to her again; “it
+will certainly be yours.”
+
+“And Fanny had much rather it were William’s,” said Edmund, smiling at
+her. “Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!”
+
+“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, “you know
+Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
+anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only
+think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
+produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive
+about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and
+there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!”
+
+Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
+more than grave—even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
+withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
+sister, and laughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at
+Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
+other, and bewildered.” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
+added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to
+have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see
+things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.”
+
+Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
+happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s
+capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s great hands, she
+called out, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
+indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
+luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
+will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
+received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
+relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at
+Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr.
+Rushworth’s fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly
+know the distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not
+very far off, you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I
+could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your
+cousins.”
+
+“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
+and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
+smart place as that—poor scrubby midshipman as I am.”
+
+Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
+depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with authority,
+“I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
+soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
+would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
+Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
+family as his own.”
+
+“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
+anything else,” was William’s only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
+to reach far, and the subject dropped.
+
+As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford’s
+behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second
+rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their
+last play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the
+object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
+character.
+
+Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
+Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing it to
+his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme
+was to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have
+a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the
+use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though
+_that_ consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
+in spite of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness, it was impossible for
+him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without
+material inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did
+not depend upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his
+heart upon having a something there that he could come to at any time,
+a little homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year
+might be spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and
+_perfecting_ that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
+family which was increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard
+and was not offended. There was no want of respect in the young man’s
+address; and Fanny’s reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm
+and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
+assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of
+appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of
+strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom
+he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject
+to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.
+
+“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard
+me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your
+not influencing your son against such a tenant?”
+
+Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It is the only way, sir, in
+which I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but
+I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton
+Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too much?”
+
+Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
+understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.
+
+“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though
+I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as
+half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own
+improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that
+may occur to you this spring.”
+
+“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir Thomas. “His going, though only
+eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but
+I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
+himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have
+thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and
+claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and
+which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund
+might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might
+read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might
+ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through
+divine service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every
+seventh day, for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it
+will not. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly
+sermon can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners,
+and prove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend,
+he does very little either for their good or his own.”
+
+Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
+
+“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that Thornton Lacey is the only
+house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on
+Mr. Crawford as occupier.”
+
+Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
+
+“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly understands the duty of a
+parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too.”
+
+Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue might really produce on
+Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others,
+two of his most attentive listeners—Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of
+whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
+completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
+would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from
+the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength
+of her brother’s description, no longer able, in the picture she had
+been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the
+clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and
+occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
+Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and
+suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his
+character and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself
+by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.
+
+All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was
+time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to
+find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her
+spirits by a change of place and neighbour.
+
+The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire,
+and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most
+detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,
+talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of
+the rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford’s chair was the first
+to be given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing
+them for a few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir
+Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.
+
+“This is the assembly night,” said William. “If I were at Portsmouth I
+should be at it, perhaps.”
+
+“But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?”
+
+“No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
+dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would
+be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.
+The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a
+commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_
+nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing
+fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted
+by a lieutenant.”
+
+“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William” (her own cheeks in a
+glow of indignation as she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It is no
+reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
+all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
+you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
+fall to every sailor’s share, like bad weather and hard living, only
+with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
+come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you
+are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how
+little you will care for any nonsense of this kind.”
+
+“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets
+made but me.”
+
+“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle
+says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get
+you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.”
+
+She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
+had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
+else.
+
+“Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?”
+
+“Yes, very; only I am soon tired.”
+
+“I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you
+never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d
+dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
+and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
+together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the
+street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a
+better.” And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, “Is not
+Fanny a very good dancer, sir?”
+
+Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
+way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
+reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
+coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
+contrary, it was no worse than, “I am sorry to say that I am unable to
+answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
+little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a
+gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
+opportunity of doing ere long.”
+
+“I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,” said
+Henry Crawford, leaning forward, “and will engage to answer every
+inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
+But I believe” (seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must be at some
+other time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
+Miss Price spoken of.”
+
+True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that
+he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
+elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the
+life of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for
+granted that she had been present than remembered anything about her.
+
+He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by
+no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
+and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and
+listening to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of
+dancing which had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard
+his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by
+the bustle of Mrs. Norris.
+
+“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see
+your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox
+waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear
+Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for
+you, and Edmund and William.”
+
+Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
+previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
+forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
+herself.
+
+Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
+which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
+her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker hand, and she was
+obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+
+William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
+impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
+had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
+steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
+else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
+young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
+his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
+next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
+his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William, that you should
+leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
+pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
+Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
+altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
+believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
+be more eligible; and if—”
+
+“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knew what was
+coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
+or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
+for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
+at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
+ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
+William, thank your uncle!”
+
+“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, “have their
+pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
+think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
+assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
+absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.”
+
+Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
+and her surprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be
+settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
+herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
+must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
+all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
+have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
+restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
+others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.
+
+Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
+as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
+desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never
+conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
+
+Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
+objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
+trouble; and she assured him “that she was not at all afraid of the
+trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.”
+
+Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
+think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
+would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
+day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
+very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
+quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
+he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
+notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
+couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
+fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
+Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
+visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
+earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
+same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
+as by far the best day for the purpose.
+
+The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
+thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
+and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of
+happy cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost
+beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of
+choice and no confidence in her own taste, the “how she should be
+dressed” was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary
+ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had
+brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had
+nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it
+in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst
+of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
+would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her
+a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and
+therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were
+anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even under the
+prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.
+
+The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit
+on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra
+visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making
+up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran
+about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
+“there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.”
+
+Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
+deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at
+hand, which were to fix his fate in life—ordination and
+matrimony—events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
+would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
+his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd he
+was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation as
+himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
+Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
+other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
+established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
+those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
+was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were
+points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
+she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
+affection, so far as to be resolved—almost resolved—on bringing it to a
+decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
+before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he had
+many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
+conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
+look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
+disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
+doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
+acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
+preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
+rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
+demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
+conscience must forbid.
+
+The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
+to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
+enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he
+was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a
+“Yes,” had sometimes its “No.”
+
+Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
+“no” and the “yes” had been very recently in alternation. He had seen
+her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend’s letter, which
+claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry,
+in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
+her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey
+with an animation which had “no” in every tone. But this had occurred
+on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the
+burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit
+was before her. He had since heard her express herself differently,
+with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell
+Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret; that she began to
+believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she was going to were
+worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must go, and
+knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking
+forward to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a “yes” in all this?
+
+With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
+could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
+rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
+strong interest. Independent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the
+evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
+of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of
+receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford’s attachment; but the
+whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
+excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
+the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
+he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
+could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
+subject, from morning till night.
+
+Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
+unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
+seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
+her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her
+blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she
+had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the
+Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private
+discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important
+part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own
+solicitude.
+
+She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
+out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
+obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
+explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
+kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well
+without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the
+application, and after a moment’s thought, urged Fanny’s returning with
+her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going
+up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without
+disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room.
+It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude
+on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors,
+and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss
+Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and
+taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make
+everything agreeable by her encouragement. The dress being settled in
+all its grander parts—“But what shall you have by way of necklace?”
+said Miss Crawford. “Shall not you wear your brother’s cross?” And as
+she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in
+her hand when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on
+this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
+refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having a small trinket-box
+placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among several gold
+chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford
+was provided, and such the object of her intended visit: and in the
+kindest manner she now urged Fanny’s taking one for the cross and to
+keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the
+scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of
+horror at the proposal.
+
+“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever
+use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old
+necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.”
+
+Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable.
+But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much
+affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the
+cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny
+found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
+or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
+reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
+looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
+was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one
+necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was
+of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a
+longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped,
+in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to
+keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to
+complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see
+how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its
+becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was
+exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would
+rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was
+an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a
+kindness which proved her a real friend. “When I wear this necklace I
+shall always think of you,” said she, “and feel how very kind you
+were.”
+
+“You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,”
+replied Miss Crawford. “You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
+in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
+to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a
+family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
+bringing the brother too.”
+
+Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
+present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of
+a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
+embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
+necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take
+another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a
+prettier consciousness. “My dear child,” said she, laughing, “what are
+you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and
+fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be
+too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which
+his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a
+throat in the world? or perhaps”—looking archly—“you suspect a
+confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his
+knowledge and at his desire?”
+
+With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.
+
+“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
+believing her, “to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
+unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the
+necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother’s
+need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure
+you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always
+giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him
+that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember
+half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six
+times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would
+be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have
+happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would
+rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more
+against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many
+words.”
+
+Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less
+happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression
+in Miss Crawford’s eyes which she could not be satisfied with.
+
+It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford’s change of
+manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was
+gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to
+her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity
+as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in
+this necklace—she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss
+Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a
+friend.
+
+Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she
+had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
+home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
+treading that path before.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+
+On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
+unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
+favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
+but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin
+Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred
+before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.
+
+“Fanny,” said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting
+her with something in his hand, “I beg your pardon for being here. I
+came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your
+coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You
+will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my
+business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little
+trifle—a chain for William’s cross. You ought to have had it a week
+ago, but there has been a delay from my brother’s not being in town by
+several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received
+it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I
+endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
+I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really
+is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends.”
+
+And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
+thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
+quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, “Oh! cousin, stop
+a moment, pray stop!”
+
+He turned back.
+
+“I cannot attempt to thank you,” she continued, in a very agitated
+manner; “thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can
+possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
+beyond—”
+
+“If that is all you have to say, Fanny” smiling and turning away again.
+
+“No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.”
+
+Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into
+her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers’
+packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
+help bursting forth again, “Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the
+very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I
+have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They
+must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable
+moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.”
+
+“My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
+happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
+to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I
+have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to
+yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so
+unalloyed. It is without a drawback.”
+
+Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
+without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment,
+obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,
+“But what is it that you want to consult me about?”
+
+It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
+return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
+history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
+for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
+Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
+between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
+pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was
+some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
+to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
+uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he
+did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
+wished.
+
+“Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be
+mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant
+sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have
+given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a
+friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so
+deserving of?”
+
+“If it had been given to me in the first instance,” said Fanny, “I
+should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother’s
+present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
+it, when it is not wanted?”
+
+“She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its
+having been originally her brother’s gift makes no difference; for as
+she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
+account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is
+handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.”
+
+“No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my
+purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William’s cross
+beyond all comparison better than the necklace.”
+
+“For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
+sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
+pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford’s
+attentions to you have been—not more than you were justly entitled to—I
+am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been
+invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the
+_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,
+is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
+to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
+any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
+advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
+intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose
+characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and
+natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting
+principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect
+friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,” he
+repeated, his voice sinking a little, “between the two dearest objects
+I have on earth.”
+
+He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
+she could. She was one of his two dearest—that must support her. But
+the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
+and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
+a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
+decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
+long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
+again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
+any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
+be—oh, how different would it be—how far more tolerable! But he was
+deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
+what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
+many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
+and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the
+influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.
+
+It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
+all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
+affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
+would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
+satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
+justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
+nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
+such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?
+It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She
+would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of
+Miss Crawford’s character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him
+by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
+
+She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her
+duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her
+not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on
+the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which
+Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
+and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, “My very dear
+Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept” locked it up with the
+chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing
+approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might
+never receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive
+another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two
+lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most
+distinguished author—never more completely blessed the researches of
+the fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman’s love is even beyond
+the biographer’s. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of
+anything it may convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters
+cut by any other human being as Edmund’s commonest handwriting gave!
+This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
+was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement
+of “My very dear Fanny,” which she could have looked at for ever.
+
+Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
+mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and
+resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
+usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.
+
+Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more
+kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
+volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
+from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
+to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
+to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make
+up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
+proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant
+to be in town by his uncle’s accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
+was invited to dine with him at the Admiral’s. The proposal was a very
+pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling
+post with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and,
+in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once
+everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
+could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly
+pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the
+mail from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed
+him an hour’s rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and
+though this offer of Mr. Crawford’s would rob her of many hours of his
+company, she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of
+such a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it
+for another reason. His nephew’s introduction to Admiral Crawford might
+be of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole,
+it was a very joyous note. Fanny’s spirits lived on it half the
+morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being
+himself to go away.
+
+As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
+to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
+or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
+forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
+circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
+gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known only
+by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
+appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could
+be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to
+the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball
+was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have
+lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
+wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any
+extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the
+evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.
+Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from
+her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
+comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the
+best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of
+a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often
+under the influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to
+make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting;
+Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and
+left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because
+the housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_
+could not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at
+last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent
+off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own
+room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no
+share in it.
+
+As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
+about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found
+Edmund in the East room. “Suppose I were to find him there again
+to-day!” said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
+
+“Fanny,” said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,
+she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself,
+standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her.
+“You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.”
+
+“No, I have not been out at all.”
+
+“Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
+better have gone out.”
+
+Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
+though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
+soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
+something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
+upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.
+
+“I come from Dr. Grant’s,” said Edmund presently. “You may guess my
+errand there, Fanny.” And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could
+think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. “I
+wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,” was the
+explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling
+her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an
+inquiry as to the result.
+
+“Yes,” he answered, “she is engaged to me; but” (with a smile that did
+not sit easy) “she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
+dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
+not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with
+a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could
+wish there had been no ball just at—I mean not this very week, this
+very day; to-morrow I leave home.”
+
+Fanny struggled for speech, and said, “I am very sorry that anything
+has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My
+uncle meant it so.”
+
+“Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right.
+I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the
+ball as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,” stopping her, by
+taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, “you know what all
+this means. You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I
+could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
+You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this
+morning, and cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be
+as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
+companions makes her seem—gives to her conversation, to her professed
+opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but
+she speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be
+playfulness, it grieves me to the soul.”
+
+“The effect of education,” said Fanny gently.
+
+Edmund could not but agree to it. “Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
+injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
+appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.”
+
+Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
+after a moment’s consideration, said, “If you only want me as a
+listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
+for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.”
+
+“You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
+not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
+is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
+I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
+conscience. I only want to talk to you.”
+
+“One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to
+me. Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for.
+The time may come—”
+
+The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
+
+“Dearest Fanny!” cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
+almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford’s, “you are all
+considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
+come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
+most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
+there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
+be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if
+they are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her
+character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You
+are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said;
+but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness,
+Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked
+over her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up
+every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if,
+whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without
+the sincerest gratitude.”
+
+He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
+enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
+and with a brighter look, she answered, “Yes, cousin, I am convinced
+that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
+might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
+not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.”
+
+They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
+prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny’s present comfort it was
+concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
+another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
+away all Miss Crawford’s faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
+they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with some
+very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
+hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford’s note to William had worn
+away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been no
+comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
+William’s good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
+greater value than at first. The ball, too—such an evening of pleasure
+before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
+with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
+she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
+again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
+her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the
+cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too
+large for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with
+delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross—those memorials of
+the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for
+each other by everything real and imaginary—and put them round her
+neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she
+was able, without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford’s
+necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a
+claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the
+stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she could do her
+justice even with pleasure to herself. The necklace really looked very
+well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with
+herself and all about her.
+
+Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
+degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
+Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the
+upper housemaid’s, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own
+maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman
+had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room
+completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt
+her aunt’s attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman
+could do themselves.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII
+
+
+Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
+down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
+pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
+remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
+that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
+leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with
+very decided praise.
+
+“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.”
+
+“Look well! Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Norris, “she has good reason to look
+well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has
+been, with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners before her. Only
+think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have
+been the means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice
+of is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth
+married. What would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?”
+
+Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
+the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
+again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she
+was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
+better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
+still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
+was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, “You must dance
+with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
+except the first.” She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly
+ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life.
+Her cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer
+surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was
+actually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
+could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely
+taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which
+the butler had prepared.
+
+Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
+other circumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but
+to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
+of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?
+
+The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation
+of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed
+diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every
+moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a
+struggle in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the
+effort so successfully made.
+
+When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
+assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
+many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
+formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
+Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
+occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
+here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to
+curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never
+summoned to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his
+ease in the background of the scene, and longing to be with him.
+
+The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
+stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
+more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew
+comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils
+of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her
+eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all
+loveliness—and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were
+brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her
+thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
+instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was
+very much _à la mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner at
+first was a most essential good—for the moment of beginning was now
+growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as
+to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
+last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only
+through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would
+have been terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his
+manner of asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye
+glancing for a moment at her necklace, with a smile—she thought there
+was a smile—which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there
+was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to
+be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her
+embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
+and had no composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she
+could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a
+partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.
+
+When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for
+the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
+immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother’s had been,
+and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to
+get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
+necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
+compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
+thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
+yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did
+Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I
+honour him beyond expression.” And she looked around as if longing to
+tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of
+the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm
+of each, they followed with the rest.
+
+Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
+Miss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were
+playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
+anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
+everything was done.
+
+In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
+and the “Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,” was exactly what he had intended
+to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
+saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
+way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
+Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
+a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
+impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
+she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
+an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir
+Thomas’s was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
+horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in the
+face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
+however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too
+serious, and said too decidedly, “It must be so, my dear,” for her to
+hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by
+Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
+the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.
+
+She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
+women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
+cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
+unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
+their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
+would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard
+them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to
+have them away when it was given—and for _her_ to be opening the
+ball—and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that
+distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in
+the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
+in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
+could understand herself.
+
+The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
+first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried
+to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to
+have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at.
+Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were
+not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
+disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
+Thomas’s niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It
+was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
+her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
+niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
+seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with
+himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she
+owed to him.
+
+Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he stood, and
+having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing
+desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping
+aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he
+received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
+politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
+to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
+when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
+began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.
+
+“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placid reply.
+“Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she
+was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
+struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
+not get it out of her head.
+
+Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_ by
+commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered—“Ah!
+ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!” and
+Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
+time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making up
+card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
+chaperons to a better part of the room.
+
+Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions to
+please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and
+filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
+misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still thought she must be doing so
+when she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
+significant look, “Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to
+town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not tell me
+what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what
+we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply
+to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?”
+
+Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.
+
+“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing, “I must suppose it to be
+purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of
+you by the way.”
+
+Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
+Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or
+thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
+pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
+the course of the evening; but Henry’s attentions had very little to do
+with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
+very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
+previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
+the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
+be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
+could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy
+or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,
+he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which
+did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her
+satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
+perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could
+walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy
+in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances
+with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
+evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
+engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even
+when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
+or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
+His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend
+with whom it could find repose. “I am worn out with civility,” said he.
+“I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
+But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be
+talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.” Fanny would hardly even
+speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure,
+from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was
+peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances
+together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on
+that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.
+
+The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been
+in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
+gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
+and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,
+she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
+profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had
+talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
+and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to
+refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
+satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet
+some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he
+did suffer.
+
+When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
+for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her
+walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with
+her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
+From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.
+
+“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
+working away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she is knocked
+up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these
+two hours. How can you be tired so soon?”
+
+“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with
+all necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sister is not
+used to these sort of hours.”
+
+“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep
+as long as you can, and never mind me.”
+
+“Oh! William.”
+
+“What! Did she think of being up before you set off?”
+
+“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
+her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last
+time, you know; the last morning.”
+
+“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past
+nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?”
+
+Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
+denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well, well!” which was permission.
+
+“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to William as the latter was
+leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind
+sister to get up for _me_.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have
+only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of
+time and his own very different to-morrow.”
+
+After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the
+early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should
+himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was
+accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to
+himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded.
+Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of
+what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had
+just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last
+morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her
+wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On
+the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted,
+or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that
+she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point
+so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.
+
+Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
+inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his
+word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
+rise, and, with Mr. Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
+stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one
+moment and no more,” to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
+the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and
+then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the
+ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
+sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
+of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.
+
+In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
+merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
+sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
+by shewing her persuadableness.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX
+
+
+The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
+was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
+very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.
+
+After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
+breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
+change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace,
+conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might
+exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones
+and mustard in William’s plate might but divide her feelings with the
+broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as
+her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.
+William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit
+in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.
+
+Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her
+aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
+without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
+when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
+her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
+due to him for a whole fortnight.
+
+It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
+bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
+and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but
+remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt
+Bertram—she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so
+little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was
+heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress or
+anybody’s place at supper but her own. “She could not recollect what it
+was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was
+that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether
+Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he
+said he was the finest young man in the room—somebody had whispered
+something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.”
+And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the
+rest was only a languid “Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did
+not see _that_; I should not know one from the other.” This was very
+bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp answers would have
+been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to
+nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little
+party, though it could not boast much beside.
+
+The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matter
+with me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “I feel
+quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
+do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel
+so very stupid.”
+
+The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
+bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard
+in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
+game—“And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
+are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal for you?” Fanny thought and thought
+again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
+and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
+bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
+of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
+solitude.
+
+A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William
+the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an
+opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss
+Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of
+imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential
+to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind
+without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the
+tranquillity of the present quiet week.
+
+They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a
+whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
+cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
+But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
+and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
+uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
+without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.
+
+“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the
+first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
+dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more was
+said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
+second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
+his promotion hoped for. “And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir
+Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
+Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter
+of his belonging to us, as he has done.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away. They are
+all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.”
+
+This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
+permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
+for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
+though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
+lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which
+would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
+sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to
+the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
+was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
+_must_ feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attributed to her
+nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end
+of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed,
+“Sir Thomas, I have been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as
+we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.”
+
+Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true.
+We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her
+face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to
+_her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort to think that
+we shall always have _her_.”
+
+Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
+replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
+home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
+here.”
+
+“And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite
+her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but
+she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is
+better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her.”
+
+The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
+Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
+lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings.
+What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation
+to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one
+so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more
+might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of
+interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind,
+Edmund’s absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief.
+To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society
+every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive
+anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went.
+He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence
+than this week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her
+brother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the
+sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She
+felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors
+by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope
+for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and
+acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they
+had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
+him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
+longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His
+absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an
+absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure
+from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished
+she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid
+she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of
+the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was
+wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
+
+Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
+still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
+when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
+communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
+that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
+to remain some days longer with his friend.
+
+If she had felt impatience and regret before—if she had been sorry for
+what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him—she now felt and
+feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
+disagreeable emotion entirely new to her—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen
+had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
+staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
+to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
+returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
+should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
+for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
+live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to
+the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
+unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
+addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.
+
+The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
+and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at
+last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
+Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could—“And
+how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long? Being the
+only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
+You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?”
+
+“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly
+expected it.”
+
+“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
+way all young men do.”
+
+“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.”
+
+“He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very—a very pleasing
+young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
+seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
+case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
+will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
+him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
+I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss
+Price, in our language—a something between compliments and—and love—to
+suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many
+months’ acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his
+letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing?
+Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?”
+
+“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
+it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
+heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
+had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
+not quite sure which.”
+
+“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to
+Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was
+concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you,
+there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
+and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
+everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?”
+
+“Three grown up.”
+
+“Are they musical?”
+
+“I do not at all know. I never heard.”
+
+“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to
+appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is
+sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions
+about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one
+knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished
+and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family;
+it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;
+and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better
+for not being taught; or something like it.”
+
+“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.
+
+“You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
+express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one
+has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find
+Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine
+and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time
+draws near. She does not like my going.”
+
+Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed by
+many,” said she. “You will be very much missed.”
+
+Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
+and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
+when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
+am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
+I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
+doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.”
+
+Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
+disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
+power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
+again.
+
+“The Miss Owens,” said she, soon afterwards; “suppose you were to have
+one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like
+it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it.
+And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty
+establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is
+everybody’s duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas
+Bertram’s son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their
+father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are
+all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs
+to them. You don’t speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don’t speak. But
+honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?”
+
+“No,” said Fanny stoutly, “I do not expect it at all.”
+
+“Not at all!” cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. “I wonder at that. But
+I dare say you know exactly—I always imagine you are—perhaps you do not
+think him likely to marry at all—or not at present.”
+
+“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
+belief or the acknowledgment of it.
+
+Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
+the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as
+he is,” and turned the subject.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX
+
+
+Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
+she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
+week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
+to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
+London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
+had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
+he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
+have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke—suspected only of
+concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
+next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
+go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
+he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting
+for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most
+impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you
+have been all this time?” he had only to say that he had been sitting
+with Lady Bertram and Fanny.
+
+“Sitting with them an hour and a half!” exclaimed Mary.
+
+But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
+
+“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the
+sweep as if not knowing where he was: “I could not get away sooner;
+Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is
+entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am
+quite determined to marry Fanny Price.”
+
+The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
+consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
+had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the
+astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
+and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
+once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
+surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with
+the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s
+marrying a little beneath him.
+
+“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance. “I am fairly caught. You
+know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them. I
+have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
+affections; but my own are entirely fixed.”
+
+“Lucky, lucky girl!” cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; “what a
+match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
+my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
+choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
+and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
+devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
+Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of
+all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
+_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever.
+When did you begin to think seriously about her?”
+
+Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
+nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the
+pleasing plague had stolen on him” he could not say; and before he had
+expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words three
+times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with, “Ah, my dear
+Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your business! You
+chose to consult the Admiral before you made up your mind.”
+
+But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him
+on any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it
+never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.
+
+“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doat on her.
+She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
+the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman as he thinks does not
+exist in the world. She is the very impossibility he would describe, if
+indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody his own ideas.
+But till it is absolutely settled—settled beyond all interference, he
+shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You
+have not discovered my business yet.”
+
+“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
+in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
+Mansfield should have done so much for—that _you_ should have found
+your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
+chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
+want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good.
+The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country.
+She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world.
+But go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her
+own happiness?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“What are you waiting for?”
+
+“For—for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
+cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.”
+
+“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her not to
+love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)—you would
+be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
+her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
+marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
+capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but
+ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.”
+
+As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
+as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
+interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
+relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.
+Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and
+goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty,
+and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that
+sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the
+judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can
+never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
+to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
+excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually
+exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently
+strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove
+that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be
+more encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her
+understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her
+manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was
+this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of
+good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to
+serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when he
+talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such
+a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might
+warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
+he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well
+principled and religious.
+
+“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and _that_
+is what I want.”
+
+Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
+Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.
+
+“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convinced that you
+are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
+Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
+the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace
+turns out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.”
+
+“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
+her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first
+put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she
+has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take
+her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in
+this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’
+lease of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I
+could name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank
+me.”
+
+“Ha!” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then
+we shall be all together.”
+
+When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
+but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
+supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her
+in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in
+her.
+
+“You must give us more than half your time,” said he. “I cannot admit
+Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
+both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!”
+
+Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
+now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
+many months longer.
+
+“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
+with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting
+away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of
+his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned
+to sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_
+are not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you;
+but, in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To
+have seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture,
+would have broken my heart.”
+
+“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
+faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
+me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You
+must not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one
+another.”
+
+Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
+persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
+time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
+on the Admiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
+could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
+my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
+marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
+would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love,
+she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
+gentleman.”
+
+The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
+Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
+groundwork of his eloquent answer.
+
+“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he continued, “attending with
+such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt’s
+stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
+heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
+finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
+stupid woman’s service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
+so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
+moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
+and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and
+then shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at
+intervals to _me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what
+I said. Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the
+possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing.”
+
+“My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his
+face, “how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me.
+But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?”
+
+“I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see
+what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of
+sense. I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see
+their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be
+heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They
+will be angry,” he added, after a moment’s silence, and in a cooler
+tone; “Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to
+her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two moments’ ill
+flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a
+coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lasting than other women’s,
+though _I_ was the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a
+difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of
+every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion of my
+happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to
+give the consequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent, helpless,
+friendless, neglected, forgotten.”
+
+“Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
+forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.”
+
+“Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and so
+is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
+long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
+do, what _do_ they do for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity
+in the world, to what I _shall_ do?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI
+
+
+Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
+earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were
+together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram
+was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at
+the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,
+she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about
+being waited for, and a “Let Sir Thomas know” to the servant.
+
+Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
+losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
+letters, said, with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself
+infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of
+seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
+idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
+hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you in
+the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother
+is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you
+on your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters which announce it,
+this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.”
+
+Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
+expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
+her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She
+took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to
+inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the
+object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing
+two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom
+the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend
+to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great
+happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir
+Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his
+regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William
+Price’s commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
+out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.
+
+While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
+one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
+continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
+event—
+
+“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as it is, for I
+think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
+have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
+have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The
+post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s
+delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
+I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
+disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
+kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to
+me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
+Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
+warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
+difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
+another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
+knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
+trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
+such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the
+world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
+brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
+to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
+praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise
+of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I
+could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be
+followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
+voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed
+together.”
+
+“Has this been all _your_ doing, then?” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how
+very, very kind! Have you really—was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
+pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
+am stupefied.”
+
+Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
+earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
+last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
+of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the
+Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on.
+This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he
+had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the
+issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but
+this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his
+solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
+in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_
+_wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have
+remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her
+heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could
+listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying
+only when he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are
+infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and
+moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My
+uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.” But this could not be
+suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient.
+He was after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five
+minutes longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and
+was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected
+for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and
+found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which
+his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for
+William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled
+attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments
+unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling
+and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not
+but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in
+such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and
+entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not
+allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had
+been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part
+could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy
+and gratitude on William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful
+of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn
+back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she
+got up, and said only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray
+don’t! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very
+unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.” But he was still
+talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and,
+finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her,
+offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was
+so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and
+though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly
+stand. He pressed for an answer.
+
+“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not
+distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
+me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
+cannot bear, I must not listen to such—No, no, don’t think of me. But
+you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”
+
+She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
+speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
+no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
+a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
+mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
+necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
+was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
+utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness or
+apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
+intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
+
+She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
+miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
+belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
+that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
+made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted—she knew
+not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
+him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
+offers, if they meant but to trifle?
+
+But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
+without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
+rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
+have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
+she could esteem him for his friendship to William!
+
+She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
+great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s
+having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
+eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of
+his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or
+his conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir
+Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and
+communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
+as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she
+found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and
+dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though
+he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
+distressing to her to see him again so soon.
+
+She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
+approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible
+for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor
+entered the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any
+concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
+the first day of hearing of William’s promotion.
+
+Mr. Crawford was not only in the room—he was soon close to her. He had
+a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
+there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
+note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
+it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to
+dine there, screened her a little from view.
+
+“MY DEAR FANNY,—for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
+relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
+least the last six weeks—I cannot let my brother go without sending you
+a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful
+consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can
+be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance
+of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your
+sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier
+than he goes.
+
+
+Yours affectionately,
+M. C.”
+
+
+These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in
+too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
+Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
+her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
+She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness
+in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation
+every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and
+he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a
+something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from
+what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s
+dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir
+Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite,
+she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
+interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her
+eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
+immediately directed towards her.
+
+She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
+was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
+and there was pain in the connexion.
+
+She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
+despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the
+drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts
+finished the subject of William’s appointment in their own style.
+
+Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir
+Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep
+himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
+unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
+difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
+William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
+her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
+him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_
+limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his
+cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many
+things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to
+put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very
+glad she had contributed her mite towards it.”
+
+“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram,
+with most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only £10.”
+
+“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have
+gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey
+to London either!”
+
+“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”
+
+Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
+began to take the matter in another point.
+
+“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,
+what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
+little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
+uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
+my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
+would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say
+nothing of what _I_ do for them.”
+
+“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it;
+and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
+William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
+shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
+wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
+will have two shawls, Fanny.”
+
+Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
+earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.
+There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his
+words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against
+it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.
+How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen
+so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,
+infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious
+impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought
+so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was
+everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
+And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her
+high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of
+a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in
+either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be
+possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it
+toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
+and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the
+conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for
+once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to
+class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would
+have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she
+still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have
+expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.
+
+She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
+fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
+Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
+she carefully refused him every opportunity.
+
+At last—it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not
+remarkably late—he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
+sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
+“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
+disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
+be only a line.”
+
+“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
+embarrassment and of wanting to get away—“I will write directly.”
+
+She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of
+writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what
+in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and
+how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most
+distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there
+been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them
+in abundance: but something must be instantly written; and with only
+one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything
+really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and
+hand—
+
+“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
+congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
+of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
+the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
+notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
+manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
+differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
+of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour
+of your note,
+
+
+I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
+&c., &c.”
+
+
+The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
+she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
+coming towards her.
+
+“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,
+perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
+“you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I
+entreat.”
+
+“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
+moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to
+give _that_ to Miss Crawford.”
+
+The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
+averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
+nothing to do but to go in good earnest.
+
+Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
+pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
+with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s
+advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
+no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the
+language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
+arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being
+neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII
+
+
+Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
+morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
+sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.
+Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
+go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
+Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could
+not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had
+hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hear the day named;
+but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
+long.
+
+Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
+she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she
+accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early
+as the day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but
+she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way
+upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit,
+unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house,
+there seemed little danger of her being wanted.
+
+She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
+and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached
+the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able
+to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and
+would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.
+
+Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
+when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a
+heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her
+uncle’s; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as
+often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to
+speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas
+who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come
+in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all
+renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in
+French and English.
+
+She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
+to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
+deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
+said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day?”
+
+There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
+hesitated.
+
+“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.”
+
+“But you have a fire in general?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you
+had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In
+your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
+misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to
+sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.
+You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.”
+
+Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
+could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
+something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.
+
+“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
+to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
+advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up
+without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
+everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
+influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
+account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
+have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
+been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I am
+aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
+distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
+ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
+which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
+partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
+will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
+_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
+for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though
+their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant;
+and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will
+be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
+imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by
+failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and
+attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I
+must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.”
+
+Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’s
+pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
+
+“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I
+had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
+was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.”
+
+Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
+she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up
+quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
+pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford’s visit.
+
+Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
+make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
+who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
+so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
+feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been
+very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars
+of their conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his
+niece’s mind, conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
+far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes
+without Fanny’s daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained
+the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed
+her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
+was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a
+moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it, when,
+rising from his chair, he said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one
+part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis the
+most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by
+prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
+but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself, I must
+submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. Mr.
+Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in
+my room, and hoping to see you there.”
+
+There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
+astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
+hearing her exclaim—“Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
+him. Mr. Crawford ought to know—he must know that: I told him enough
+yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
+and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
+and quite out of my power to return his good opinion.”
+
+“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir Thomas, sitting down again.
+“Out of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know
+he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as
+much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could
+permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected
+to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion
+highly to be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so
+properly, and honourably—what are your scruples _now_?”
+
+“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
+moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; “you are quite
+mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
+encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot
+recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not
+listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and
+that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I
+said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I
+had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not
+like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be
+intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_.”
+
+She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.
+
+“Am I to understand,” said Sir Thomas, after a few moments’ silence,
+“that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Refuse him?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?”
+
+“I—I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.”
+
+“This is very strange!” said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm
+displeasure. “There is something in this which my comprehension does
+not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you,
+with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
+fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with
+address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an
+acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time. His sister,
+moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing _that_ for
+your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
+recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain
+when my interest might have got William on. He has done it already.”
+
+“Yes,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;
+and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her
+uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.
+
+“You must have been aware,” continued Sir Thomas presently, “you must
+have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford’s manners
+to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed
+his attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I
+have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be
+unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not
+quite know your own feelings.”
+
+“Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always—what I did not
+like.”
+
+Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. “This is beyond me,”
+said he. “This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen
+scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections—”
+
+He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,
+though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,
+however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;
+and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, “No, no, I
+know _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there
+is nothing more to be said.”
+
+And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His
+niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
+herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the
+truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
+betraying it.
+
+“Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford’s _choice_ seemed to
+justify” said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, “his
+wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an
+advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and
+would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon
+after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am
+sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.
+Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
+matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more
+likely to fix.” Here was a glance at Fanny. “Edmund, I consider, from
+his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
+his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he
+could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right?
+Do you agree with me, my dear?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the
+score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no
+service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure
+increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown,
+which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her
+eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, “Have
+you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+She longed to add, “But of his principles I have”; but her heart sunk
+under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
+non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on
+observations, which, for her cousins’ sake, she could scarcely dare
+mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so
+closely implicated in Mr. Crawford’s misconduct, that she could not
+give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them.
+She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so
+honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on
+her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it
+was not.
+
+Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling
+wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, “It is of
+no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this
+most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer
+waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my
+opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I
+had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what
+I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have
+shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my
+return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of
+temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit
+which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which
+in young women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence.
+But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you
+can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or
+deference for those who have surely some right to guide you, without
+even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different
+from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of
+your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to
+have had a moment’s share in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_
+might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment
+for you, is nothing to _you_. You think only of yourself, and because
+you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy
+imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at
+once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a
+little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your
+own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from
+you such an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably,
+nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a
+young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of
+fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most
+handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you
+may live eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by
+a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth part of his merits.
+Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria
+is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia’s hand, I should
+have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than
+I gave Maria’s to Mr. Rushworth.” After half a moment’s pause: “And I
+should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on
+receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it
+only _half_ the eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily,
+and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of any
+consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been much
+surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it
+a gross violation of duty and respect. _You_ are not to be judged by
+the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if
+your heart can acquit you of _ingratitude_—”
+
+He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he
+was, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost
+broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such
+accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
+Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all
+this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion.
+What was to become of her?
+
+“I am very sorry,” said she inarticulately, through her tears, “I am
+very sorry indeed.”
+
+“Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to
+be long sorry for this day’s transactions.”
+
+“If it were possible for me to do otherwise” said she, with another
+strong effort; “but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make
+him happy, and that I should be miserable myself.”
+
+Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of
+that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir
+Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of
+inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur
+favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew
+her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not
+improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, a
+little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a
+judicious mixture of all on the lover’s side, might work their usual
+effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love
+enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these
+reflections having passed across his mind and cheered it, “Well,” said
+he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, “well, child, dry
+up your tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no good. You
+must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting
+too long already. You must give him your own answer: we cannot expect
+him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him the
+grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which, unfortunately
+for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it.”
+
+But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going
+down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it
+better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered
+a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and
+saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought
+her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an
+immediate interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular
+meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and
+cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.
+
+Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was
+terrible. But her uncle’s anger gave her the severest pain of all.
+Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable
+for ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for
+her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but
+all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might
+have to endure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see
+it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She
+could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he
+really loved her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness
+together.
+
+In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready
+to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without
+austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was
+comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,
+“Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has
+passed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an
+account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the
+most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most
+favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my
+representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the
+greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.”
+
+Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. “Of course,”
+continued her uncle, “it cannot be supposed but that he should request
+to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too
+natural, a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed;
+perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For
+the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears;
+they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to
+shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but
+endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise
+you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the
+gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better
+for air and exercise. And, Fanny” (turning back again for a moment), “I
+shall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell
+your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the
+disappointment; say nothing about it yourself.”
+
+This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of
+kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt
+Norris’s interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
+Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.
+Crawford would be less overpowering.
+
+She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his
+advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did
+earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She
+wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to
+regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for
+exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts.
+Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth
+attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her
+from her aunt Norris.
+
+She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and
+going into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye
+was a fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at
+that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful
+gratitude. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of
+such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information
+of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every
+day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.
+
+“I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!” said she,
+in soliloquy. “Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!”
+
+She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they
+met at dinner. Her uncle’s behaviour to her was then as nearly as
+possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there
+should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that
+could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when
+she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
+without her aunt’s knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason
+she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of
+reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.
+
+“If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go as
+far as my house with some orders for Nanny,” said she, “which I have
+since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry
+myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me
+the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you
+were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose,
+whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.”
+
+“I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,” said Sir
+Thomas.
+
+“Oh!” said Mrs. Norris, with a moment’s check, “that was very kind of
+you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.
+Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the
+advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her
+fault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is
+a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before—she likes to
+go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes
+her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little
+spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I
+would advise her to get the better of.”
+
+As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be
+more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same
+sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried
+repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment
+enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he
+thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have
+his own children’s merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was
+talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the
+dinner.
+
+It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more
+composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could
+have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first
+place, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.
+For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
+to hope, secondly, that her uncle’s displeasure was abating, and would
+abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and
+felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how
+hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.
+
+When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,
+she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally
+concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything
+would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could
+not believe, that Mr. Crawford’s affection for her could distress him
+long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.
+In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be
+thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil
+consequences.
+
+While Fanny’s mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,
+soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to
+strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared
+ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,
+“Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma’am, in his own room.” Then it
+occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her
+mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she
+was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, “Stay, stay, Fanny!
+what are you about? where are you going? don’t be in such a hurry.
+Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me”
+(looking at the butler); “but you are so very eager to put yourself
+forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you
+mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir
+Thomas wants me, not Miss Price.”
+
+But Baddeley was stout. “No, ma’am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of
+its being Miss Price.” And there was a half-smile with the words, which
+meant, “I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.”
+
+Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work
+again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found
+herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+
+The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had
+designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the
+disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,
+which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love
+him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when
+constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present
+feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those
+feelings what he wished.
+
+He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating
+on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her
+affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and
+determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing
+her to love him.
+
+He would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded
+reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that
+could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her
+conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and
+delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
+indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his
+resolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack. Of
+_that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who had
+never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
+guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty
+had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
+overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and
+the novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into
+account.
+
+Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
+succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
+must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and
+he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a
+very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A
+little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He
+rather derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too
+easily. His situation was new and animating.
+
+To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
+find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he
+did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her
+as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told
+him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never
+should love him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the
+subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him never to
+mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let it be
+considered as concluded for ever. And when farther pressed, had added,
+that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to
+make mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted for
+each other by nature, education, and habit. All this she had said, and
+with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he
+immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their
+characters, or anything unfriendly in their situations; and positively
+declared, that he would still love, and still hope!
+
+Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
+manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it
+concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and
+softness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
+self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to
+herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as
+the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had
+been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom
+she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of
+being agreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr.
+Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love;
+whose feelings were apparently become all that was honourable and
+upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of
+attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and
+describing again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it,
+and in the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he
+sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the
+whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William’s
+promotion!
+
+Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
+She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in the
+grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
+approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment. She
+must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have a
+sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
+brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the
+whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with
+her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper
+of vanity and hope like Crawford’s, the truth, or at least the strength
+of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so
+irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
+assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.
+
+It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no
+look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his
+being less unreasonable than he professed himself.
+
+Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
+selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard
+for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was
+again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated
+before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
+where his own pleasure was concerned—And, alas! how always known no
+principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in. Had her
+own affections been as free—as perhaps they ought to have been—he never
+could have engaged them.
+
+So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
+over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering
+at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a
+nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of
+her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and
+the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.
+
+Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for
+a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw
+Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was
+disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
+hour’s entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
+little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was
+speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the
+lover; and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir
+Thomas was soon able to depend on it himself.
+
+Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
+that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford’s steadiness was honoured, and
+Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in
+the world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he
+had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency
+of his visits, at present or in future. In all his niece’s family and
+friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the
+influence of all who loved her must incline one way.
+
+Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
+with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.
+
+Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
+hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
+with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition
+he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should
+be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
+respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
+their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle,
+Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild
+gravity, intended to be overcoming, “Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr.
+Crawford again, and learn from him exactly how matters stand between
+you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event,
+you must feel that you have created an attachment of no common
+character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted with the
+transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally exists,
+you cannot be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in a
+perseverance of this sort against discouragement. With him it is
+entirely a matter of feeling: he claims no merit in it; perhaps is
+entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a
+respectable stamp. Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should
+have condemned his persevering.”
+
+“Indeed, sir,” said Fanny, “I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
+continue to—I know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
+feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I
+have told him so, that it never will be in my power—”
+
+“My dear,” interrupted Sir Thomas, “there is no occasion for this. Your
+feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be to
+you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the
+subject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to
+fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying
+to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and
+advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you
+but to bear with Mr. Crawford’s endeavours to convince you that they
+may not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are
+on safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls,
+as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see
+him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you can,
+dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves
+Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be
+often demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear
+Fanny, this subject is closed between us.”
+
+The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
+satisfaction. Her uncle’s kind expressions, however, and forbearing
+manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
+truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at
+the line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.
+Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.
+She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier
+than it now was.
+
+She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford’s attachment
+would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
+unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.
+How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is
+another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady’s
+exact estimate of her own perfections.
+
+In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
+obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for
+its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have
+avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
+opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He
+had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he
+loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be
+rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
+of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity
+of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business
+without delay; though, on Fanny’s account, he almost dreaded the effect
+of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He
+deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,
+by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those
+well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable
+things.
+
+Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest
+forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but
+did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
+bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received
+such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to
+Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford’s choice; and, independently
+of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she
+would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always
+trying to depress.
+
+Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
+deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
+her displeasure, and not to hear it.
+
+Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a
+prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that
+excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of
+fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing
+her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about
+before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel
+a sort of credit in calling her niece.
+
+“Well, Fanny,” said she, as soon as they were alone together
+afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be
+alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary
+animation; “Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this
+morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must
+_once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.” And
+looking at her complacently, she added, “Humph, we certainly are a
+handsome family!”
+
+Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to
+assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered—
+
+“My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have
+done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,
+should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that.”
+
+“No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as
+this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were
+married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be
+aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman’s duty to accept such a very
+unexceptionable offer as this.”
+
+This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
+which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight
+years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention
+would be. If her aunt’s feelings were against her, nothing could be
+hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite
+talkative.
+
+“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, “I am sure he fell in love
+with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You
+did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And
+you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent
+Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that
+evening.” And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon
+afterwards added, “And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than
+I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a
+puppy.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV
+
+
+Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
+awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the
+appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through
+the village as he rode into it. He had concluded—he had meant them to
+be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight
+purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with
+spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender
+associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her
+brother’s arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably
+friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking
+of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in
+inclination than any distance could express.
+
+Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for,
+had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport
+fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
+than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It
+was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
+properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful
+surprises at hand.
+
+William’s promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
+and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to
+help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and
+unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.
+
+After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny’s
+history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the
+present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.
+
+Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual
+in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her;
+and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by
+Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by
+her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she
+thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things
+afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable
+excess.
+
+He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her
+that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew
+from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that
+interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened
+every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father’s
+side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father’s at
+her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider
+him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be
+rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly
+unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
+desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while
+honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present
+indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas
+could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in
+believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual
+affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly
+fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning
+seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had
+not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.
+With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
+Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion.
+Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny’s embarrassment to make him
+scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or
+look, or movement.
+
+Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund’s return, Sir
+Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it
+was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had
+then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what
+degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her
+manners; and it was so little, so very, very little—every chance, every
+possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was
+not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else—that he was
+almost ready to wonder at his friend’s perseverance. Fanny was worth it
+all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion
+of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any
+woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his
+eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford
+saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his
+friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before,
+and at, and after dinner.
+
+In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
+promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his
+mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if
+there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing
+their apparently deep tranquillity.
+
+“We have not been so silent all the time,” replied his mother. “Fanny
+has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you
+coming.” And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the
+air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. “She often
+reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very
+fine speech of that man’s—what’s his name, Fanny?—when we heard your
+footsteps.”
+
+Crawford took the volume. “Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
+speech to your ladyship,” said he. “I shall find it immediately.” And
+by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find
+it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram,
+who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey,
+that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had
+Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for
+her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But
+taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five
+minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her
+pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had
+been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well,
+but in Mr. Crawford’s reading there was a variety of excellence beyond
+what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey,
+Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the
+happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will
+on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were
+dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be
+expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His
+acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his
+reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with
+greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback
+as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss
+Bertram.
+
+Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
+gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework,
+which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from
+her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes
+which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were
+turned and fixed on Crawford—fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in
+short, till the attraction drew Crawford’s upon her, and the book was
+closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into
+herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been
+enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially
+thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny’s secret feelings too.
+
+“That play must be a favourite with you,” said he; “you read as if you
+knew it well.”
+
+“It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,” replied Crawford;
+“but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand
+before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I
+have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But
+Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part
+of an Englishman’s constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so
+spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with
+him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of
+his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.”
+
+“No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,” said Edmund,
+“from one’s earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by
+everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
+Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but
+this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know
+him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly
+is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday
+talent.”
+
+“Sir, you do me honour,” was Crawford’s answer, with a bow of mock
+gravity.
+
+Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
+praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not
+be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content
+them.
+
+Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and strongly too. “It was
+really like being at a play,” said she. “I wish Sir Thomas had been
+here.”
+
+Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her
+incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her
+niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.
+
+“You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,” said her
+ladyship soon afterwards; “and I will tell you what, I think you will
+have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean
+when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a
+theatre at your house in Norfolk.”
+
+“Do you, ma’am?” cried he, with quickness. “No, no, that will never be.
+Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!” And
+he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,
+“That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.”
+
+Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to
+make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
+the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a
+ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than
+not.
+
+The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men
+were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the
+too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
+in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet
+in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
+of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
+necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice,
+giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes,
+the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis,
+of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of
+early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
+entertainment.
+
+“Even in my profession,” said Edmund, with a smile, “how little the art
+of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good
+delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,
+than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but
+among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the
+larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading
+was reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The
+subject is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and
+energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and
+besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical
+knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a
+larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge
+and criticise.”
+
+Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
+and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
+Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
+though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
+any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew
+to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and
+when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the
+properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be
+delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
+and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This
+would be the way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by all that
+gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least, she
+would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
+sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.
+
+“Our liturgy,” observed Crawford, “has beauties, which not even a
+careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also
+redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.
+For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I
+ought to be” (here was a glance at Fanny); “that nineteen times out of
+twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to
+have it to read myself. Did you speak?” stepping eagerly to Fanny, and
+addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying “No,” he added,
+“Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you
+might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_
+my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?”
+
+“No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to—even supposing—”
+
+She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
+prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of
+supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and
+went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.
+
+“A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well
+read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult
+to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of
+composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,
+thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear
+such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than
+half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the
+eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled
+to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect
+such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long
+worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or
+striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the
+taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one
+could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be
+such a man.”
+
+Edmund laughed.
+
+“I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
+life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience. I
+could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of
+estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of
+preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
+after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but
+not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.”
+
+Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and
+Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
+meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and
+sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack,
+that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as
+possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very
+sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into
+explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her
+ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the
+business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various
+advertisements of “A most desirable Estate in South Wales”; “To Parents
+and Guardians”; and a “Capital season’d Hunter.”
+
+Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
+as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund’s
+arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,
+gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and
+inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.
+
+“What did that shake of the head mean?” said he. “What was it meant to
+express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying to
+displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
+irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I
+was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one
+moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?”
+
+In vain was her “Pray, sir, don’t; pray, Mr. Crawford,” repeated twice
+over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager
+voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same
+questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.
+
+“How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can—”
+
+“Do I astonish you?” said he. “Do you wonder? Is there anything in my
+present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you
+instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me
+an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity.
+I will not leave you to wonder long.”
+
+In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
+nothing.
+
+“You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to
+engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that
+was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,
+read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
+you think I ought?”
+
+“Perhaps, sir,” said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking—“perhaps,
+sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well
+as you seemed to do at that moment.”
+
+Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to
+keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
+extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was
+only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to
+another. He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The
+opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her
+in her uncle’s room, none such might occur again before his leaving
+Mansfield. Lady Bertram’s being just on the other side of the table was
+a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and
+Edmund’s advertisements were still of the first utility.
+
+“Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant
+answers; “I am happier than I was, because I now understand more
+clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the
+whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an
+opinion, no wonder that—But we shall see.—It is not by protestations
+that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by
+telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for
+me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove
+that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You
+are infinitely my superior in merit; all _that_ I know. You have
+qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in
+any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond
+what—not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything
+like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not
+frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is
+out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the
+strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a
+return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will
+deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I
+declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes.
+Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay” (seeing her draw back displeased),
+“forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can
+I call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under
+any other? No, it is ‘Fanny’ that I think of all day, and dream of all
+night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing
+else can now be descriptive of you.”
+
+Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained
+from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public
+opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of
+approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long watching
+for, and long thinking strangely delayed.
+
+The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
+cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
+imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She
+was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.
+
+Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who
+might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to
+him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,
+he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened
+to without some profit to the speaker.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV
+
+
+Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
+whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
+between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
+never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve,
+he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his
+influence might do for his friend.
+
+A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords’
+departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more
+effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
+professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to
+sustain them as possible.
+
+Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.
+Crawford’s character in that point. He wished him to be a model of
+constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not
+trying him too long.
+
+Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he
+wanted to know Fanny’s feelings. She had been used to consult him in
+every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
+confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be
+of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did
+not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny
+estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of
+things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily
+learn to think she was wanting him to break through.
+
+“I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of
+speaking to her alone,” was the result of such thoughts as these; and
+upon Sir Thomas’s information of her being at that very time walking
+alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.
+
+“I am come to walk with you, Fanny,” said he. “Shall I?” Drawing her
+arm within his. “It is a long while since we have had a comfortable
+walk together.”
+
+She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.
+
+“But, Fanny,” he presently added, “in order to have a comfortable walk,
+something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together.
+You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know
+what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to
+hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?”
+
+Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, “If you hear of it from
+everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.”
+
+“Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell
+me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you
+wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.”
+
+“I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in
+talking of what I feel.”
+
+“Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare
+say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much
+alike as they have been used to be: to the point—I consider Crawford’s
+proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his
+affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should
+wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done
+exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement
+between us here?”
+
+“Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me.
+This is such a comfort!”
+
+“This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But
+how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me
+an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general
+on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was
+at stake?”
+
+“My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you.”
+
+“As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be
+sorry, I may be surprised—though hardly _that_, for you had not had
+time to attach yourself—but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit
+of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love
+him; nothing could have justified your accepting him.”
+
+Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.
+
+“So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
+who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
+Crawford’s is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
+creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
+must be a work of time. But” (with an affectionate smile) “let him
+succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved
+yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
+tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which
+I have always believed you born for.”
+
+“Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.” And she spoke
+with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at
+the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him
+reply, “Never! Fanny!—so very determined and positive! This is not like
+yourself, your rational self.”
+
+“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that I _think_ I
+never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never
+shall return his regard.”
+
+“I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can
+be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice
+of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your
+early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get
+your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds
+upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years’ growth have
+confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the
+very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced
+to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he
+had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had
+known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have
+won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not
+have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however,
+that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by
+his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that
+you have not the _wish_ to love him—the natural wish of gratitude. You
+must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own
+indifference.”
+
+“We are so totally unlike,” said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, “we
+are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I
+consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy
+together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more
+dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.”
+
+“You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are
+quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and
+literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent
+feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to
+Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You
+forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I
+allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his
+spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily
+dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His
+cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and
+his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your
+being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
+against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it.
+I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am
+perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean
+unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination
+for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent,
+to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly
+convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of
+course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the
+likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and
+continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct.”
+
+Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss
+Crawford’s power was all returning. He had been speaking of her
+cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite
+at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
+
+After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
+feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, “It is
+not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to
+myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us
+too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but
+there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say,
+cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of
+him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared
+to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly—I may speak of it now because
+it is all over—so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care
+how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria,
+which—in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which
+will never be got over.”
+
+“My dear Fanny,” replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, “let
+us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of
+general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to
+recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong
+together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest
+were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open.”
+
+“As a bystander,” said Fanny, “perhaps I saw more than you did; and I
+do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.”
+
+“Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the
+whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be
+capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be
+surprised at the rest.”
+
+“Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was
+paying her attentions.”
+
+“Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with
+Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope
+I do justice to my sisters’ good qualities, I think it very possible
+that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by
+Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was
+perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his
+society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and
+it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to—there could be
+nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions:
+his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you
+has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest
+honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic
+happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It
+proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to
+believe him, and feared he was not.”
+
+“I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious
+subjects.”
+
+“Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
+which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,
+with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,
+which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they
+are? Crawford’s _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
+been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been
+good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to
+attach himself to such a creature—to a woman who, firm as a rock in her
+own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to
+recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity.
+He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you
+will make him everything.”
+
+“I would not engage in such a charge,” cried Fanny, in a shrinking
+accent; “in such an office of high responsibility!”
+
+“As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything
+too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into
+different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess
+myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in
+Crawford’s well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first
+claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in
+Crawford.”
+
+Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
+on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund
+first began again—
+
+“I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
+particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing
+everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet
+I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as
+it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some
+woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those
+worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was
+very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires
+the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk
+about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious
+to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes
+before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and
+sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so
+much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.”
+
+“Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?”
+
+“Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by
+themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you,
+Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.”
+
+“It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.”
+
+“Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,
+however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must
+be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine
+her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks
+her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first
+moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and
+esteems you with all her heart.”
+
+“I knew she would be very angry with me.”
+
+“My dearest Fanny,” cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, “do
+not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked of
+rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for
+resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I
+wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you
+_should_ be Henry’s wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you
+as ‘Fanny,’ which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most
+sisterly cordiality.”
+
+“And Mrs. Grant, did she say—did she speak; was she there all the
+time?”
+
+“Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your
+refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse
+such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I
+said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the
+case—you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by
+a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is
+teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away from me.”
+
+“I _should_ have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection
+and exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a
+man’s not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at
+least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the
+perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as
+certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to
+like himself. But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to
+have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how was I to be
+prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me
+wholly by surprise. I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before
+had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him
+only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my
+situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming
+expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they
+do, must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then,
+was I to be—to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me?
+How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked
+for? His sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his
+deserts, the more improper for me ever to have thought of him. And,
+and—we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can
+imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this
+seems to imply.”
+
+“My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the
+truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them
+to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given
+exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend
+and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your
+warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm
+of her fondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human
+creatures the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and
+that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford’s addresses was
+against him. Their being so new and so recent was all in their
+disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to;
+and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of
+your character. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of
+encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in
+the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most
+kindly received at the end of about ten years’ happy marriage.”
+
+Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her
+feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong:
+saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying
+necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to
+another; and to have Miss Crawford’s liveliness repeated to her at such
+a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
+
+Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
+to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name of
+Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be
+agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed—“They
+go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either
+to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a
+trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I
+had almost promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those
+five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.”
+
+“You were near staying there?”
+
+“Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I
+received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going
+on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that
+had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
+enough.”
+
+“You spent your time pleasantly there?”
+
+“Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were
+all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with
+me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again.”
+
+“The Miss Owens—you liked them, did not you?”
+
+“Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am
+spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
+girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
+are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me
+too nice.”
+
+Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her
+looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led
+her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into
+the house.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI
+
+
+Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
+could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he
+was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure
+on Crawford’s side, and time must be given to make the idea first
+familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the
+consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of
+affection might not be very distant.
+
+He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
+and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther
+attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left
+to Crawford’s assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.
+
+Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund’s account of Fanny’s
+disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
+feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;
+for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
+help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
+necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
+his addresses properly before the young man’s inclination for paying
+them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
+quietly and hope the best.
+
+The promised visit from “her friend,” as Edmund called Miss Crawford,
+was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of
+it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of
+what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was
+in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her
+penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the
+dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny’s only
+support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as
+possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no
+solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden
+attack.
+
+She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when
+Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford
+looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than
+she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
+to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she
+hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was
+determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably
+soon, in a low voice, “I must speak to you for a few minutes
+somewhere”; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and
+all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission,
+on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of
+the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.
+
+They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was
+over on Miss Crawford’s side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny
+with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed
+hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but,
+“Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,” and
+had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of
+having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and
+took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for
+comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart,
+and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever
+that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at
+least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford’s ideas; by the
+strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East room
+again produced.
+
+“Ha!” she cried, with instant animation, “am I here again? The East
+room! Once only was I in this room before”; and after stopping to look
+about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she
+added, “Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your
+cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and
+prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we
+were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I,
+here were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?”
+
+Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely
+self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.
+
+“The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it
+so very—very—what shall I say? He was to be describing and recommending
+matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure and
+composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. ‘When two
+sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called
+a happy life.’ I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I
+have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was curious,
+very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I had the
+power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that
+week—that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be _that_;
+for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy
+spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas,
+that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most
+unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny,
+do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though
+I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He
+is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober
+sadness, I believe I now love you all.” And having said so, with a
+degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in
+her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a
+moment to recover herself. “I have had a little fit since I came into
+this room, as you may perceive,” said she presently, with a playful
+smile, “but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for
+as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have
+not the heart for it when it comes to the point.” And embracing her
+very affectionately, “Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being
+the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite
+impossible to do anything but love you.”
+
+Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her
+feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word
+“last.” She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she
+possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of
+such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, “I hate to leave
+you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we
+shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be
+connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear
+Fanny.”
+
+Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, “But you are
+only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very
+particular friend.”
+
+“Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But
+I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of
+the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the
+Bertrams in general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than
+one finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being
+able to trust and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows
+nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till
+after Easter, a much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put
+her off. And when I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady
+Stornaway, because _she_ was rather my most particular friend of the
+two, but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years.”
+
+After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each
+thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in
+the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first
+spoke again.
+
+“How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and
+setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea
+whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I
+came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table
+at work; and then your cousin’s astonishment, when he opened the door,
+at seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle’s returning that very
+evening! There never was anything quite like it.”
+
+Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she
+thus attacked her companion.
+
+“Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one
+who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a
+short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your
+power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and
+heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that
+will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is
+quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should
+come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to
+see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am
+well aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in
+consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the truth
+she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is
+a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get
+married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to
+such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an
+idea of the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity
+there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to
+answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and
+your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish
+Margaret were married, for my poor friend’s sake, for I look upon the
+Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it
+was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all
+delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich,
+and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and
+wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be
+as steady as himself. And my friend does not manage him well; she does
+not seem to know how to make the best of it. There is a spirit of
+irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In
+their house I shall call to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield
+Parsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence
+in my sister, and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes
+one feel there _is_ attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with
+the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as
+a wife, Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of
+perfection. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was
+nothing improper on her side: she did not run into the match
+inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She took three days to
+consider of his proposals, and during those three days asked the advice
+of everybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having, and
+especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world
+made her judgment very generally and deservedly looked up to by all the
+young people of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of
+Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial
+comfort. I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a
+very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord
+Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but
+much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. I _had_ my doubts
+at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air of a
+gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was
+dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to
+tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I
+should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can
+think of him with anything like indifference. But are you so insensible
+as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.”
+
+There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny’s face at that moment as
+might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.
+
+“Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its
+course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
+unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not
+possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some
+surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to
+please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you
+at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received
+it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I
+remember it perfectly.”
+
+“Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
+Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair.”
+
+“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am
+ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted
+to act on his proposal for both your sakes.”
+
+“I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was not half afraid at the
+time of its being so, for there was something in your look that
+frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at
+first—indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I
+had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the
+necklace. As to your brother’s behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a
+particularity: I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two
+or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it
+down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from
+wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss
+Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him
+and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but
+I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford amused himself
+in gallantries which did mean nothing.”
+
+“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared
+very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies’
+affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
+and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
+affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
+who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one’s power to pay off
+the debts of one’s sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman’s nature to
+refuse such a triumph.”
+
+Fanny shook her head. “I cannot think well of a man who sports with any
+woman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered
+than a stander-by can judge of.”
+
+“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
+has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But
+this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in
+love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife’s happiness as a
+tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
+And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a
+way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all
+his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man
+ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you.”
+
+Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
+
+“I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,” continued Mary
+presently, “than when he had succeeded in getting your brother’s
+commission.”
+
+She had made a sure push at Fanny’s feelings here.
+
+“Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.”
+
+“I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties
+he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;
+and there are so many young men’s claims to be attended to in the same
+way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put
+by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him.”
+
+Poor Fanny’s mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
+varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was
+always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr.
+Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been
+first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else,
+suddenly called her attention by saying: “I should like to sit talking
+with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so
+good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall
+nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here.
+And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that
+when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our
+hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve.”
+
+A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
+these words.
+
+“I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there
+tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the
+spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am
+sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to
+ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the
+other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for
+my being gone.”
+
+The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been
+asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it
+was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her
+own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent
+affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
+treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the
+more overcome by Miss Crawford’s. Besides, there was gratitude towards
+her, for having made their _tête-à-tête_ so much less painful than her
+fears had predicted.
+
+It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without
+detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,
+she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.
+
+In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat
+some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the
+strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him,
+because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he
+scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must
+grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he
+were the husband of some other woman.
+
+When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would
+not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,
+and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token
+of friendship had passed.
+
+On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII
+
+
+Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas’s next object was that he should be
+missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
+in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or
+fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
+form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
+nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched
+her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He
+hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.
+She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his
+discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and
+therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the
+present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had
+been.
+
+Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a
+little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
+produce any.
+
+What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend
+and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
+regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so
+little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.
+
+Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
+chief bane of Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future
+fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s
+should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant
+as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of
+heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more
+deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for
+Miss Crawford’s marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his
+side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His
+objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody
+could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were
+equally got over—and equally without apparent reason. It could only be
+imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded
+to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as
+some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed—perhaps within
+a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once
+with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be
+as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still
+remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her,
+independently, she believed, independently of self.
+
+In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some
+amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss
+Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any
+suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might
+love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny
+believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them;
+and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of
+Miss Crawford’s future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking
+that if Edmund’s influence in this season of love had already done so
+little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth
+would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.
+
+Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
+and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature that
+participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to
+adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But
+as such were Fanny’s persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and
+could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.
+
+Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own
+observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human
+nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and
+consequence on his niece’s spirits, and the past attentions of the
+lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards
+able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all
+this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow
+to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had
+obtained a ten days’ leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire,
+and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made,
+to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.
+
+He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there
+too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So
+the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before
+Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the
+freshness of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk
+into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more
+worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant
+a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned
+Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed
+Fanny’s chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all
+his glory in another light.
+
+This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to
+Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had
+occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and
+desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he
+consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but
+what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at
+a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to
+Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive “then so
+it shall be” closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring
+from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and
+above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in
+sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing
+her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her
+happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly
+wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that
+a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park
+would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster
+estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal
+comfort, of which she had the offer.
+
+It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s understanding, which he
+must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine
+years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her
+powers of comparing and judging. Her father’s house would, in all
+probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that
+she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the
+experiment he had devised.
+
+Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
+attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
+uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
+and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of
+returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with
+William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
+certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his
+remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must
+have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a
+quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she
+was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the
+moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised
+with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more
+largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were
+emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The
+remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered
+in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it
+seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since
+grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle,
+loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before;
+to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal
+of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the
+Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on
+their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that
+could be but half acknowledged.
+
+Edmund, too—to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be
+allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,
+unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual
+irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
+she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should
+be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
+without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield
+was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.
+
+The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable
+without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be
+missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of
+the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
+and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.
+
+But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any
+measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long
+talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny’s
+sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
+obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady
+Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought
+Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her
+own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
+unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
+necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done
+without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the
+not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the point
+attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting
+any such thing.
+
+Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He
+called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
+as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be
+very well spared—_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her
+as requested—and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.
+
+“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “I dare say you
+are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.”
+
+The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer
+herself; and her mother’s answer, though short, was so kind—a few
+simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of
+seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of
+happiness in being with her—convincing her that she should now find a
+warm and affectionate friend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no
+remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose
+to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated
+love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been
+unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could
+deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to
+forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the
+incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be
+leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what
+mother and daughter ought to be to each other.
+
+William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the
+greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he
+sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first
+cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush
+before she went out of harbour—the Thrush was certainly the finest
+sloop in the service—and there were several improvements in the
+dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.
+
+He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a
+great advantage to everybody.
+
+“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want some of your
+nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in
+confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You
+will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful
+to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind
+you. How right and comfortable it will all be!”
+
+By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very few
+days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days
+the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of
+their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.
+Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money
+was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less
+expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw
+Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck
+with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and
+suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and
+see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must
+say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it
+would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear
+sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the
+young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for
+them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would
+feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.
+
+William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.
+
+All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
+once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their
+suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or
+dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it
+ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection
+that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present;
+that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
+for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a
+week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to
+that of being useful to them.
+
+It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for
+nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own
+expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
+disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty
+years’ absence, perhaps, begun.
+
+Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence
+of Fanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as
+his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but
+he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of
+most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort,
+felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey
+which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his
+happiness for ever.
+
+He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know
+everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
+about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to
+be the last time in which Miss Crawford’s name would ever be mentioned
+between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was
+alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the
+evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
+correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added
+in a whisper, “And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
+worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to
+hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.” Had
+she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when
+she looked up at him, would have been decisive.
+
+For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund
+should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet
+gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the
+progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world
+of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been
+exhausted by her.
+
+Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
+evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was
+completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,
+much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because
+she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling
+sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could
+neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with
+_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her
+the affectionate farewell of a brother.
+
+All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in
+the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
+William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII
+
+
+The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
+soon produced their natural effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield
+Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was
+ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas’s carriage, she was able to
+take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with
+cheerful looks.
+
+Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
+Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William’s mind,
+and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
+higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in
+praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes
+for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first
+lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the
+first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as
+possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously
+distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the
+little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all
+their middle and later life together.
+
+Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made
+no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from
+his heart lamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards
+a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he
+was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and
+knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the
+slightest allusion.
+
+She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford.
+She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which
+had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had
+been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
+It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she
+had feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate,
+was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into
+reading from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would never rest till she
+had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to
+his admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.
+There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of
+recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could
+not but suppose it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced
+into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was
+bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging
+her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did, was
+cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised advantage.
+When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss
+Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the
+trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into
+nothing.
+
+With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
+in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
+rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered
+Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college as
+they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury,
+where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the
+enjoyments and fatigues of the day.
+
+The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
+events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the
+environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look
+around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the
+drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to
+fail as, guided by William’s powerful voice, they were rattled into a
+narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the
+door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.
+
+Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
+moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
+waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
+telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,
+“The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers
+has been here to—” She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven
+years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and
+while William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, “You are
+just in time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush
+went out of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight.
+And they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr.
+Campbell was here at four o’clock to ask for you: he has got one of the
+Thrush’s boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be
+here in time to go with him.”
+
+A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
+all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no
+objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in
+detailing farther particulars of the Thrush’s going out of harbour, in
+which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career
+of seamanship in her at this very time.
+
+Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
+house, and in her mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of true
+kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
+brought her aunt Bertram’s before her, and there were her two sisters:
+Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of
+the family, about five—both glad to see her in their way, though with
+no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.
+Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.
+
+She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
+was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood
+for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no
+other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she
+called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they
+should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long
+enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to
+welcome William. “Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But
+have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already;
+three days before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am
+to do about Sam’s things, they will never be ready in time; for she may
+have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now
+you must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a
+worry about you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a
+comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at
+once.”
+
+Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for
+the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to
+hurry away so soon.
+
+“To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
+have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat
+ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it.
+Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no
+matter; here’s Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the
+passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny
+yet.”
+
+In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
+again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
+solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.
+
+“Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I
+began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching
+for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what
+would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for
+some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would
+have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here
+before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand.
+It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were
+better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon
+as it can be got.”
+
+They both declared they should prefer it to anything. “Then, Betsey, my
+dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and
+tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could
+get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.”
+
+Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine
+new sister.
+
+“Dear me!” continued the anxious mother, “what a sad fire we have got,
+and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,
+my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told
+her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken
+care of the fire.”
+
+“I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,” said Susan, in a fearless,
+self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. “You know you had but just
+settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
+could not get Rebecca to give me any help.”
+
+Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
+came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca
+about the manner of carrying up his sister’s trunk, which he would
+manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his
+own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he
+kicked away his son’s portmanteau and his daughter’s bandbox in the
+passage, and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however,
+and he walked into the room.
+
+Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
+on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With
+a friendly shake of his son’s hand, and an eager voice, he instantly
+began—“Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the
+news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the word,
+you see! By G—, you are just in time! The doctor has been here
+inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for
+Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner’s
+about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if
+you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if
+you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will
+certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G—, I
+wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you
+would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever
+happens. But by G—, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the
+morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out
+of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,
+to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up,
+and made but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect
+beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody
+in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the
+platform two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the
+Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the
+sheer hulk.”
+
+“Ha!” cried William, “_that’s_ just where I should have put her myself.
+It’s the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is
+Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “it is so dark you do not see
+her.”
+
+With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
+received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
+that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a
+husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny
+shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and
+his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the
+Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
+more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
+absence and long journey.
+
+After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
+still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the
+kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William
+determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary
+preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might have his
+tea in comfort afterwards.
+
+As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
+and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and
+coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone
+out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny’s
+going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a
+particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly,
+but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the
+baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself.
+Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand
+and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had
+soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples
+ached.
+
+She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two
+brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public
+office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But
+though she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet
+_heard_ all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour
+brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from the
+landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He
+was in distress for something that he had left there, and did not find
+again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat,
+and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat,
+which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.
+
+Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all
+talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as
+well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send
+Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;
+the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could
+be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at
+intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each
+other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.
+
+Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of
+the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the
+fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew
+how to bear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan
+having disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and
+herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan
+of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to
+recollect her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself
+and the paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but
+she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her
+aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.
+
+She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a
+welcome, as—she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had
+she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long
+lost sight of! William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had
+been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about
+herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain
+her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much—the
+dear, dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest.
+Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now
+preeminently interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_
+only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at
+Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s house there would have been a
+consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a
+propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.
+
+The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly
+half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father’s, not at all
+calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping
+and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young
+dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the
+rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your
+confounded pipe, or I shall be after you.”
+
+This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five
+minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and
+sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than
+their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and
+panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking
+each other’s shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately
+under their father’s eye.
+
+The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for
+the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
+evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance
+informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the
+upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan
+looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister,
+as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and
+usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an
+office. “She had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to hurry Sally and
+help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not
+know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must
+want something after her journey.”
+
+Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very
+glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
+pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little
+unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
+brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
+Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
+were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
+sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
+like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.
+
+In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far
+behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant’s
+uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
+for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
+to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
+speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob
+out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.
+
+Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
+away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of
+his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of
+being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of
+getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.
+
+The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a
+very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
+whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
+washing of the young tea-maker’s, a cup and saucer; and after another
+quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising
+upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion
+together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready,
+William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in
+spite of their mother’s entreaty, determined to see their brother and
+Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same
+time to carry back his neighbour’s newspaper.
+
+Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
+when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and
+Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
+shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the
+kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the
+mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam
+ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the
+friends she had come from.
+
+A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest—“How did sister Bertram
+manage about her servants?” “Was she as much plagued as herself to get
+tolerable servants?”—soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and
+fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of
+all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the
+very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten
+in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to
+depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so
+thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help
+modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year
+was up.
+
+“Her year!” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
+before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.
+Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is
+quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope
+of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only
+get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult
+mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there
+is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.”
+
+Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be
+a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at
+Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very
+pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she
+went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There
+had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early
+days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at
+last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The
+sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she
+would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world.
+While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,
+was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at
+the same time from Susan’s.
+
+“What have you got there, my love?” said Fanny; “come and shew it to
+me.”
+
+It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
+trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother’s protection,
+and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
+hoping to interest Fanny on her side. “It was very hard that she was
+not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary
+had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to
+keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always
+letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey
+would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her
+that Betsey should not have it in her own hands.”
+
+Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
+was wounded by her sister’s speech and her mother’s reply.
+
+“Now, Susan,” cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, “now, how can
+you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish
+you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is
+to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you
+to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so
+cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little
+thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to
+keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but
+just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, ‘Let sister Susan
+have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.’ Poor little dear! she
+was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all
+through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs.
+Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor
+little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My
+own Betsey” (fondling her), “_you_ have not the luck of such a good
+godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people
+as you.”
+
+Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to
+say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
+book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
+at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
+had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home
+and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
+upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to
+have too small a print for a child’s eyes, and the other to be too
+cumbersome for her to carry about.
+
+Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
+invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at
+being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of
+sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again;
+the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum
+and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.
+
+There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
+furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of
+the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage
+and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to
+think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_
+house reckoned too small for anybody’s comfort.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX
+
+
+Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece’s feelings, when she wrote her
+first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a
+good night’s rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William
+again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and
+Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her
+father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully
+on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect
+consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half
+that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr.
+Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.
+
+Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,
+William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,
+and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and
+during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried
+way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free
+conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no
+acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and
+depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William’s
+affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped
+back again to the door to say, “Take care of Fanny, mother. She is
+tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you,
+take care of Fanny.”
+
+William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not
+conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of
+what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and
+impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it
+ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her
+father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent
+of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she
+had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no
+curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only the
+newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the
+harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was
+dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching
+to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained
+only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he
+scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.
+
+Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped
+much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of
+consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;
+but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming
+more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from
+her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was
+soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price’s attachment had no other source. Her
+heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor
+affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.
+She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the
+first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most
+injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and
+John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her
+maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These
+shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her
+servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy
+without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without
+altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or
+regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them
+better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them,
+without any power of engaging their respect.
+
+Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram
+than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.
+Norris’s inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition
+was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram’s; and a situation
+of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
+suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one
+which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made
+just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris
+would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small
+income.
+
+Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple
+to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was
+a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught
+nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement
+and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no
+conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her
+better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company
+that could lessen her sense of such feelings.
+
+Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,
+or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,
+from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about
+working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with
+perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped
+off at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great
+pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they
+would have managed without her.
+
+Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,
+for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any
+errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan,
+given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with
+ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by
+Fanny’s services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of
+the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least
+as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling
+and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and
+of endeavouring to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of
+making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite untameable by
+any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every
+afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house;
+and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday’s
+constant half-holiday.
+
+Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her
+greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then
+encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to
+despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan’s temper she had
+many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash
+squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at
+least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no
+means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push
+them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any
+repose to herself.
+
+Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach
+her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the
+contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved
+inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast
+to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above
+all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her
+remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything
+opposite to them _here_.
+
+The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and
+nervous like Fanny’s, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony
+could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At
+Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,
+no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course
+of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance;
+everybody’s feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever
+supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and
+as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they
+were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the
+ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here
+everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her
+mother’s, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram’s, only
+worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the
+servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in
+constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
+without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention
+when they spoke.
+
+In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end
+of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson’s celebrated
+judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield
+Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL
+
+
+Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now
+at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary’s next
+letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was
+not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great
+relief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was
+really glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present
+exile from good society, and distance from everything that had been
+wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her
+heart lived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was
+thoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagements was
+made in excuse for not having written to her earlier; “And now that I
+have begun,” she continued, “my letter will not be worth your reading,
+for there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or
+four lines _passionnées_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for
+Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or
+perhaps he only pretended the call, for the sake of being travelling at
+the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his
+absence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister’s in
+writing, for there has been no ‘Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?
+Is not it time for you to write to Fanny?’ to spur me on. At last,
+after various attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, ‘dear
+Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth’; they found me at home yesterday, and
+we were glad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see
+each other, and I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal
+to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was
+mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but
+she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole,
+Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken
+of. There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke
+of ‘Fanny,’ and spoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth’s
+day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on the
+28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best
+houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady
+Lascelle’s, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly
+she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her
+pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a
+house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she
+may, with moving the queen of a palace, though the king may appear best
+in the background; and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never
+_force_ your name upon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From
+all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenheim’s attentions to Julia
+continue, but I do not know that he has any serious encouragement. She
+ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine
+any liking in the case, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has
+nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! If his rents were but equal
+to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by
+parish duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be
+converted. I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one.
+Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me
+a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry’s eyes, when he comes back, and
+send me an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain
+for his sake.”
+
+There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
+unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it
+connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about
+whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have
+been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her
+correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher
+interest.
+
+As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
+deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father’s
+and mother’s acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she
+saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness
+and reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,
+everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received
+from introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies
+who approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her
+coming from a baronet’s family, were soon offended by what they termed
+“airs”; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine
+pelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of
+superiority.
+
+The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,
+the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any
+promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope
+of being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to
+herself, but the determined character of her general manners had
+astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she
+began to understand a disposition so totally different from her own.
+Susan saw that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That
+a girl of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should
+err in the method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became
+more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind which could so
+early distinguish justly, than to censure severely the faults of
+conduct to which it led. Susan was only acting on the same truths, and
+pursuing the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged, but
+which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from
+asserting. Susan tried to be useful, where _she_ could only have gone
+away and cried; and that Susan was useful she could perceive; that
+things, bad as they were, would have been worse but for such
+interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from
+some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.
+
+In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
+advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
+The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had
+never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to
+make her better bear with its excesses to the others.
+
+All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before
+her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her
+manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often
+ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often
+indefensible, Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they
+might be rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for
+her good opinion; and new as anything like an office of authority was
+to Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding or
+informing any one, she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan,
+and endeavour to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what
+was due to everybody, and what would be wisest for herself, which her
+own more favoured education had fixed in her.
+
+Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated
+in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of
+delicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred
+to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever
+on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was
+continually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself, her
+uncle having given her £10 at parting, made her as able as she was
+willing to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,
+except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing
+kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate
+herself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine
+that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It was
+made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and
+accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage over
+the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full
+possession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got
+one so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and
+no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which
+Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered:
+a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the
+means of opening Susan’s heart to her, and giving her something more to
+love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased
+as she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for
+at least two years, she yet feared that her sister’s judgment had been
+against her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so
+struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the
+house.
+
+Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for
+having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the
+worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to
+seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again
+the blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to
+a mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave
+advice, advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and
+given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect
+temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects not
+unfrequently. More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
+obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with
+sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a
+girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became—not
+that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
+against her better knowledge—but that so much better knowledge, so many
+good notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the
+midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such proper
+opinions of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to
+direct her thoughts or fix her principles.
+
+The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to each.
+By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the
+disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think
+it no misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but
+that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less
+because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of
+resemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was
+nothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the
+remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By
+degrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at
+first only in working and talking, but after a few days, the
+remembrance of the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny
+found it impossible not to try for books again. There were none in her
+father’s house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers
+found its way to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed
+at being anything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in
+every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any
+one’s improvement in view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read
+nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a share in her own first
+pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which she
+delighted in herself.
+
+In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the
+recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her
+fingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be
+useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
+whither, on the authority of her aunt’s last letter, she knew he was
+gone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification
+was hanging over her head. The postman’s knock within the neighbourhood
+was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
+the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI
+
+
+A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
+heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be
+drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each
+of them at times being held the most probable. Either his going had
+been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing
+Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!
+
+One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
+from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and
+calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
+usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
+felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca’s alertness in going to the
+door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.
+
+It was a gentleman’s voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
+pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.
+
+Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she
+found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her
+remembrance of the name, as that of “William’s friend,” though she
+could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a
+syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there
+only as William’s friend was some support. Having introduced him,
+however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this
+visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the
+point of fainting away.
+
+While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
+approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
+kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
+devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
+to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with
+a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his
+manner perfect.
+
+Mrs. Price’s manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of
+such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
+advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude—artless,
+maternal gratitude—which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,
+which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel
+that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of
+uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he
+found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no
+scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more
+ashamed of her father than of all the rest.
+
+They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
+and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart
+could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her
+life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable
+as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to
+the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of
+going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all
+that she had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the
+employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it
+late the night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the
+Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his
+acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind in
+coming.
+
+By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
+to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
+tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
+with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
+sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that
+he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having
+spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from
+Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town,
+had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him
+himself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and
+was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.
+
+Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
+nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and
+the words, “then by this time it is all settled,” passed internally,
+without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.
+
+After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
+interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of
+an early walk. “It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year
+a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody
+not to delay their exercise”; and such hints producing nothing, he soon
+proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters
+to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an
+understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of
+doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large
+family, find time for a walk. “Would she not, then, persuade her
+daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
+of attending them?” Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.
+“Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place;
+they did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the
+town, which they would be very glad to do.” And the consequence was,
+that Fanny, strange as it was—strange, awkward, and distressing—found
+herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street
+with Mr. Crawford.
+
+It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
+hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose appearance
+was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,
+ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.
+Crawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr.
+Crawford must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether.
+He must soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination
+for the match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his
+affection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as
+bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in
+the United Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of
+being sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by
+the vulgarity of her nearest relations.
+
+Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with
+any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
+and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different
+man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly
+respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His
+manners now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were
+grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached
+father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open
+air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his
+instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the
+consequence what it might, Fanny’s immediate feelings were infinitely
+soothed.
+
+The conclusion of the two gentlemen’s civilities was an offer of Mr.
+Price’s to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
+desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he
+had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
+longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
+the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow
+or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they
+were not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but
+for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without
+the smallest consideration for his daughters’ errands in the High
+Street. He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the
+shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long,
+for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for,
+that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more
+than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number of
+three-deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to
+proceed.
+
+They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
+would have been conducted—according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion—in a
+singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of
+it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and
+keep up with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together
+at their own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement
+occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely
+would not walk away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when
+Mr. Price was only calling out, “Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue,
+take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!” he would give them his
+particular attendance.
+
+Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
+intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
+lounger of Mr. Price’s, who was come to take his daily survey of how
+things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
+himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
+going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
+interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the
+yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all
+went to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford
+could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but
+he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan’s
+age was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady
+Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point
+before her. He must content himself with being only generally
+agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with the
+indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better-informed and
+conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he
+had been some time, and everything there was rising in importance from
+his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no society,
+without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance
+were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her.
+For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness
+of the parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular
+reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year,
+was given. It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a
+lease in which the welfare of a large and—he believed—industrious
+family was at stake. He had suspected his agent of some underhand
+dealing; of meaning to bias him against the deserving; and he had
+determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the
+case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had
+been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now
+able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing a
+duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had
+introduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before; he
+had begun making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence,
+though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This was
+aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so
+properly; here he had been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend
+of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her;
+and she was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was
+all frightened off by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping
+soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility
+or charity for Everingham: a somebody that would make Everingham and
+all about it a dearer object than it had ever been yet.
+
+She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
+willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
+wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
+well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
+and ought not to think of her.
+
+He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
+be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could
+not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention
+and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear
+or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew
+the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned
+it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties
+and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed
+her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of
+her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
+sweetest of all sweet tempers.
+
+He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
+forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
+always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a
+very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be
+so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the
+last. As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of
+superiority undescribable.
+
+“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he continued; “what a society
+will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
+may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so
+dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
+once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
+fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.”
+
+Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
+could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
+comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
+something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she
+must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon
+be quite unpardonable.
+
+When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had
+time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their
+walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny
+that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come
+down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he
+could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really
+sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which
+she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since
+she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to
+other people’s feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had
+never seen him so agreeable—so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to
+her father could not offend, and there was something particularly kind
+and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved.
+She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day;
+but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of
+talking of Mansfield was so very great!
+
+Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
+of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of
+taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of
+horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He
+was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had
+met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he
+should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
+morrow, etc., and so they parted—Fanny in a state of actual felicity
+from escaping so horrible an evil!
+
+To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
+deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s
+waiting, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint, and pulling
+everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
+enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice
+only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of
+luxury and epicurism.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII
+
+
+The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
+Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was
+asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
+had intended, and they all walked thither together.
+
+The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
+inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
+cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
+Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
+now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram’s sister as she
+was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
+the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so
+little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her
+mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should
+have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so
+slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and
+tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family
+of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
+discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by
+with a flower in her hat.
+
+In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not
+to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
+continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.
+
+Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
+throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
+staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
+acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
+Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.
+
+Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
+Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
+somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
+believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under
+his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made
+her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day
+and in the view which would be felt.
+
+The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in
+its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for
+a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of
+such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships
+at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the
+sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the
+ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
+of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the
+circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his
+arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
+strength for a two hours’ saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally
+did, upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the
+effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost
+ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr.
+Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up
+now.
+
+The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
+often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the
+wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not
+Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the
+charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had
+a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take
+advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of
+these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less
+blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not
+like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced
+that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore
+could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being
+again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her,
+must be so much greater.
+
+“You have been here a month, I think?” said he.
+
+“No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
+Mansfield.”
+
+“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
+month.”
+
+“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”
+
+“And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not?”
+
+“Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.”
+
+“And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?”
+
+“I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps
+I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched
+exactly at the two months’ end.”
+
+After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I
+know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of
+your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
+imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
+that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
+everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you,
+without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
+may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do.
+Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite
+enough. I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing
+himself to Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth
+unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know
+her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that
+she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of
+the country. If, therefore” (turning again to Fanny), “you find
+yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your
+returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended,
+_that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself
+at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my
+sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will
+immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the
+ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that
+would be felt on the occasion.”
+
+Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
+
+“I am perfectly serious,” he replied, “as you perfectly know. And I
+hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
+Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long
+only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well,’ and I
+know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
+considered as well.”
+
+Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
+that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
+what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He
+attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own
+house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
+to be waited for elsewhere.
+
+“I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still detaining Fanny after
+all the others were in the house—“I wish I left you in stronger health.
+Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of
+going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am
+sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of
+his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must
+come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not
+be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north:
+that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough
+with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to
+the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is
+inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly,
+and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards
+swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace
+him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple
+to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse
+than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a
+tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise
+already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise
+it?”
+
+“I advise! You know very well what is right.”
+
+“Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your
+judgment is my rule of right.”
+
+“Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we
+would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you
+a pleasant journey to-morrow.”
+
+“Is there nothing I can do for you in town?”
+
+“Nothing; I am much obliged to you.”
+
+“Have you no message for anybody?”
+
+“My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my
+cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I
+shall soon hear from him.”
+
+“Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
+myself.”
+
+He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed
+her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next
+three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best
+dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and
+_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.
+
+Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
+suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in
+her father’s house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
+more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’s
+puddings and Rebecca’s hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
+such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
+and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest
+meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and
+buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to
+be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
+might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being
+starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr.
+Crawford’s good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared
+to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.
+
+Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably
+secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.
+It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in
+one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
+by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and
+she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with
+Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
+herself for having them.
+
+Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
+friend or two of her father’s, as always happened if he was not with
+them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o’clock till
+half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was
+very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.
+Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within
+the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle
+she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast,
+she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and
+regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it
+not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very
+feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be
+fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so
+distressing to her?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII
+
+
+It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on
+the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price’s; and two
+days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following
+letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account,
+with the most anxious curiosity:—
+
+“I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to
+Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the
+dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
+on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet
+looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,
+and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.
+This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my
+information. He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be
+communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said
+walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister
+of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts,
+taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for
+writing much, but it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be
+a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying
+necessary information, which could not be delayed without risk of evil.
+My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you! You
+should listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were
+still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part of my
+great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and leave you to
+guess what you like. I have no news for you. You have politics, of
+course; and it would be too bad to plague you with the names of people
+and parties that fill up my time. I ought to have sent you an account
+of your cousin’s first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long
+ago; suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be, in a style
+that any of her connexions must have been gratified to witness, and
+that her own dress and manners did her the greatest credit. My friend,
+Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it would not make _me_
+miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high
+spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured and
+pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking
+as I did—at least, one sees many worse. He will not do by the side of
+your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? If I
+avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then,
+that we have seen him two or three times, and that my friends here are
+very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance. Mrs. Fraser (no bad
+judge) declares she knows but three men in town who have so good a
+person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he dined here the
+other day, there were none to compare with him, and we were a party of
+sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress nowadays to tell
+tales, but—but—but Yours affectionately.”
+
+“I had almost forgot (it was Edmund’s fault: he gets into my head more
+than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
+myself—I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear
+little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
+Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt
+always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral
+of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service
+and Henry’s, at an hour’s notice. I should like the scheme, and we
+would make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and
+perhaps you would not mind passing through London, and seeing the
+inside of St. George’s, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund
+from me at such a time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long
+letter! one word more. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into
+Norfolk again upon some business that _you_ approve; but this cannot
+possibly be permitted before the middle of next week; that is, he
+cannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for _we_ have a party that
+evening. The value of a man like Henry, on such an occasion, is what
+you can have no conception of; so you must take it upon my word to be
+inestimable. He will see the Rushworths, which I own I am not sorry
+for—having a little curiosity, and so I think has he—though he will not
+acknowledge it.”
+
+This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
+to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in
+greater suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was,
+that nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken.
+How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act
+without or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were
+quite what it had been before the last separation; whether, if
+lessened, it were likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were
+subjects for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and
+many days to come, without producing any conclusion. The idea that
+returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself
+cooled and staggered by a return to London habits, would yet prove
+herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up. She would
+try to be more ambitious than her heart would allow. She would
+hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would require a
+great deal, but she would finally accept.
+
+This was Fanny’s most frequent expectation. A house in town—that, she
+thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
+might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The
+woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an
+unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of
+Mrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was
+ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.
+Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.
+Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no
+concern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_
+go without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a
+meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of
+conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would
+not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no
+such inducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for
+better feelings than her own.
+
+She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
+this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by
+it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
+readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could not
+command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her
+message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
+would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
+usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually
+wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days
+more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.
+
+At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
+submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
+useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
+resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
+in them.
+
+Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
+delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
+much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
+information’s sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
+ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
+attentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny’s
+explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
+or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
+more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
+the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
+The early habit of reading was wanting.
+
+Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
+history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
+returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
+a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
+Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
+well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
+herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
+though, after a time, Susan’s very great admiration of everything said
+or done in her uncle’s house, and earnest longing to go into
+Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings
+which could not be gratified.
+
+Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder
+sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to
+feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness
+would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so
+capable of being made everything good should be left in such hands,
+distressed her more and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to
+invite her to, what a blessing it would be! And had it been possible
+for her to return Mr. Crawford’s regard, the probability of his being
+very far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest
+increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was really
+good-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort
+most pleasantly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV
+
+
+Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
+letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny’s
+hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
+minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
+the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
+contents—
+
+“My Dear Fanny,—Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told
+me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to
+write from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my
+silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been
+wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
+to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are
+much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of
+you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you
+enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will
+not be prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our
+confidences in you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is
+something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend, and that
+whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us, we are
+united in our love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how
+things now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can be said
+to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in
+London, and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attention from
+the Frasers that could be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not
+reasonable in carrying with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that
+of Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency
+of meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, I should have
+made no complaint, but from the very first she was altered: my first
+reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on
+leaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You know the
+weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments and
+expressions which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and
+surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their own bad
+sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a
+cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely from convenience,
+and though evidently unhappy in her marriage, places her disappointment
+not to faults of judgment, or temper, or disproportion of age, but to
+her being, after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintance,
+especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway, and is the determined
+supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only
+mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her intimacy with those two
+sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life and mine. They have been
+leading her astray for years. Could she be detached from them!—and
+sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affection appears to me
+principally on their side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she
+does not love them as she loves you. When I think of her great
+attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright
+conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature, capable of
+everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh
+construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is
+the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I
+did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should not
+say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not without a
+decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It is the
+influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of. It
+is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her
+own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes united
+could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better
+bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my
+profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to
+sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if
+I am refused, that, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices,
+I trust, are not so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly
+as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory,
+but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once
+begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her
+up. Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up
+Mary Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most
+dear to me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom,
+under any other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of
+Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of
+Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know
+how to bear it, and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart,
+and in the course of a few years—but I am writing nonsense. Were I
+refused, I must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for
+her. This is the truth. The only question is _how_? What may be the
+likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again
+after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns
+to Mansfield. Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield
+in June; but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write
+to her. I have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be
+at an early certainty is a material object. My present state is
+miserably irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter will be
+decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be able to write much
+that I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection
+before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result
+of reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My
+greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a
+distance unable to help my own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil
+of consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect
+decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it
+may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a little. This
+long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even
+the friendship of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
+Fraser’s party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and
+hear of him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his
+own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I
+could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without
+recollecting what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not
+meet as friends. There was marked coolness on her side. They scarcely
+spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.
+Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You
+will wish to hear my opinion of Maria’s degree of comfort as a wife.
+There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well
+together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there
+oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia
+seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but
+have less here. We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I
+miss you more than I can express. My mother desires her best love, and
+hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I
+am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely to be without you.
+My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after
+Easter, when he has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I
+hope, but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I
+may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for
+extensive improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I
+think I shall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants go
+to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not
+comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel
+out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my
+pen instead of hers.—Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.”
+
+“I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,” was
+Fanny’s secret declaration as she finished this. “What do they bring
+but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear
+it? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!”
+
+Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but
+she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
+quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject
+of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was
+almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. “There is no
+good in this delay,” said she. “Why is not it settled? He is blinded,
+and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths
+before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and
+miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be
+respectable!” She looked over the letter again. “‘So very fond of me!’
+’tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her
+friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have
+led _them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another;
+but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the
+less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. ‘The only
+woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.’ I firmly
+believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or
+refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever. ‘The loss of Mary I must
+consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.’ Edmund, you
+do not know me. The families would never be connected if you did not
+connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end
+of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.”
+
+Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
+guiding Fanny’s soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.
+His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
+touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a
+letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and
+which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.
+
+Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to
+say, which will include a large proportion of the female world at
+least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having
+such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants
+going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it,
+and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it
+fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as
+possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread
+over the largest part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram
+rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from
+the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas’s
+being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping
+correspondents, and formed for herself a very creditable, common-place,
+amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her: she
+could not do entirely without any; she must have something to write
+about, even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit of
+Dr. Grant’s gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant’s morning calls, it was very
+hard upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she
+could put them to.
+
+There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram’s
+hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund’s
+letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus—
+
+“My Dear Fanny,—I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming
+intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern”.
+
+This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to
+acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants’ intended journey,
+for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for
+the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness
+of her eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few
+hours before.
+
+Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where
+a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever;
+and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by
+himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of
+sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of
+being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his
+disorder increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought
+so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter
+despatched to Mansfield.
+
+“This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,” observed her
+ladyship, after giving the substance of it, “has agitated us
+exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed
+and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may
+be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother
+immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on
+this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall
+greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he will
+find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be
+apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield
+shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on
+every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able
+to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I have
+little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these
+distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.”
+
+Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and
+genuine than her aunt’s style of writing. She felt truly for them all.
+Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small
+party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,
+or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder
+whether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,
+but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate
+and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote
+again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and
+these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same
+diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all
+following and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of
+playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not
+see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably
+about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually
+conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered
+appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for
+Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real
+feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. “He is just
+come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see
+him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill.
+Poor Tom! I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so
+is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me.
+But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must
+consider his journey.”
+
+The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon
+over. Tom’s extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and
+experience those comforts of home and family which had been little
+thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being
+conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a
+week he was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very
+seriously frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her
+niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her
+time between suffering from that of to-day and looking forward to
+to-morrow’s. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,
+her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and
+the purity of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she
+considered how little useful, how little self-denying his life had
+(apparently) been.
+
+Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common
+occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody
+else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family
+above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief
+question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and
+now and then the quiet observation of, “My poor sister Bertram must be
+in a great deal of trouble.”
+
+So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
+little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as
+their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much
+for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three
+or four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and
+William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or
+perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris’s lips the cant of its being
+a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price
+to have them so well provided for.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV
+
+
+At about the week’s end from his return to Mansfield, Tom’s immediate
+danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his
+mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his
+suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never
+thinking beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no
+aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world
+for a little medical imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had
+been his complaint; of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram
+could think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt’s security, till
+she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a
+clearer idea of his brother’s situation, and acquaint her with the
+apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the physician
+with respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the
+frame on the departure of the fever. They judged it best that Lady
+Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped,
+would prove unfounded; but there was no reason why Fanny should not
+know the truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.
+
+A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom in
+a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram’s sheets of paper
+could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
+described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who
+was not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide
+in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or
+read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by
+her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation
+or his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all
+in all. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find
+that her estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the
+attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not
+only the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she
+now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and
+raise, and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be
+properly guided.
+
+The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than
+fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss
+Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her
+selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
+son.
+
+Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund’s
+letter had this postscript. “On the subject of my last, I had actually
+begun a letter when called away by Tom’s illness, but I have now
+changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom
+is better, I shall go.”
+
+Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any
+change, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
+mother’s letter was enough for Fanny’s information. Tom’s amendment was
+alarmingly slow.
+
+Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
+considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving
+Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her
+return—nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede her
+return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no
+notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed he
+could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to
+her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three
+months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and
+that her days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved
+them too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could
+yet say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?
+
+Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
+as to bring a line or two of Cowper’s Tirocinium for ever before her.
+“With what intense desire she wants her home,” was continually on her
+tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not
+suppose any schoolboy’s bosom to feel more keenly.
+
+When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
+home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
+been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to
+Mansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth;
+Mansfield was home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of
+her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to
+find her aunt using the same language: “I cannot but say I much regret
+your being from home at this distressing time, so very trying to my
+spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent
+from home so long again,” were most delightful sentences to her. Still,
+however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her
+careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle’s house. It was
+always: “When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to
+Mansfield, I shall do so and so.” For a great while it was so, but at
+last the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found
+herself talking of what she should do when she went home before she was
+aware. She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards
+her father and mother. She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign
+of displeasure, or even of hearing her. They were perfectly free from
+any jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish herself there as
+to be there.
+
+It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not
+known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and
+April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and
+progress of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body
+and mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that season
+which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing
+its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest
+divisions of her aunt’s garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle’s
+plantations, and the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures
+was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of
+closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,
+substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was
+infinitely worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble,
+compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her
+best friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were wanting
+her!
+
+Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
+creature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.
+To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it
+only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from
+the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
+officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to
+enhance her own importance, her being there would have been a general
+good. She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she
+could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel the
+blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be; and how
+many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many
+messages she might have carried.
+
+It astonished her that Tom’s sisters could be satisfied with remaining
+in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
+different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return
+to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to
+_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away. If
+Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was
+certainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one
+of her aunt’s letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but
+this was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she
+was.
+
+Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
+with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
+Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had
+been respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her
+friendship for herself had at least been blameless. Where was either
+sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her,
+that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had
+been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss
+Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,
+and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr.
+Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might
+never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following
+letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations—
+
+“Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence,
+and behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest
+request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being
+treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate
+answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you,
+no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to
+feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr.
+Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his
+illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a
+fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was
+chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is
+confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms
+are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of
+it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that
+discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I
+have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to
+hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I
+confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off
+in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel
+it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny,
+I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a
+physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be
+_two_ poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and
+bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could
+fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish
+precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted
+out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the
+loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like
+mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of
+my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you
+have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be
+ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not
+only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your
+conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the
+Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’ Had the Grants been at
+home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can
+apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R.
+has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be
+sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins
+who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and street. Could
+I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you,
+because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to
+have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I
+suppose Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt
+they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and
+her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit
+for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother;
+but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at
+hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would
+have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?—Yours ever,
+Mary.”
+
+“I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he
+brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a
+decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole
+Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy
+with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at
+Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but
+you. At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in
+contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce
+to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at
+Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all
+my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us
+all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble
+to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see
+them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite
+use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted
+there, that you cannot in conscience—conscientious as you are—keep
+away, when you have the means of returning. I have not time or patience
+to give half Henry’s messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and
+every one is unalterable affection.”
+
+Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
+reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
+would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
+whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,
+individually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps
+within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the
+greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be
+owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the
+present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister’s feelings, the
+brother’s conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless
+vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.
+Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,
+however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
+inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to
+determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She
+had a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,
+and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to
+her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he
+wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was a
+presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She
+thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. “Her uncle, she
+understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin’s illness had
+continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary, she
+must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she
+should be felt an encumbrance.”
+
+Her representation of her cousin’s state at this time was exactly
+according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would
+convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything
+she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it
+seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,
+was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate
+himself upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but
+money.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI
+
+
+As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real
+disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of
+Miss Crawford’s temper, of being urged again; and though no second
+letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling
+when it did come.
+
+On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
+writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste
+and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
+enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice
+that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into
+all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If
+two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can
+disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of
+Mr. and Miss Crawford’s having applied to her uncle and obtained his
+permission was giving her ease. This was the letter—
+
+“A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I
+write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it,
+should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some
+mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that
+Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment’s _etourderie_, thinks of
+nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing,
+whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up,
+and nothing proved but Rushworth’s folly. If they are gone, I would lay
+my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But
+why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may not repent
+it.—Yours, etc.”
+
+Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached
+her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange
+letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
+and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had
+just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to
+excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford’s apprehension, if she heard it.
+Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the
+parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so
+far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves
+to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it
+was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or
+at least should make any impression.
+
+As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own
+disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
+attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting
+any longer in addressing herself.
+
+It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to
+fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister
+still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some
+marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
+strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to
+regard a slight one.
+
+Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss
+Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her
+thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any
+human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much
+warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her
+cousin.
+
+The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.
+She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her
+father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,
+she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel
+that the subject was for a moment out of her head.
+
+She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in
+that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle
+was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She
+felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun’s rays
+falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still
+more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing
+in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a
+stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt
+that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in
+sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud
+of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked
+by her father’s head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers,
+where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and
+saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin
+blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than
+even Rebecca’s hands had first produced it. Her father read his
+newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual,
+while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and
+Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and
+considering over a particular paragraph: “What’s the name of your great
+cousins in town, Fan?”
+
+A moment’s recollection enabled her to say, “Rushworth, sir.”
+
+“And don’t they live in Wimpole Street?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Then, there’s the devil to pay among them, that’s all! There” (holding
+out the paper to her); “much good may such fine relations do you. I
+don’t know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too
+much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less.
+But, by G—! if she belonged to _me_, I’d give her the rope’s end as
+long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too
+would be the best way of preventing such things.”
+
+Fanny read to herself that “it was with infinite concern the newspaper
+had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of
+Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not
+long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to
+become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted
+her husband’s roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr.
+C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known
+even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.”
+
+“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny instantly; “it must be a mistake, it
+cannot be true; it must mean some other people.”
+
+She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a
+resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,
+could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she
+read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,
+how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to
+herself.
+
+Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.
+“It might be all a lie,” he acknowledged; “but so many fine ladies were
+going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for
+anybody.”
+
+“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price plaintively; “it would
+be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that
+carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I,
+Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes’ work.”
+
+The horror of a mind like Fanny’s, as it received the conviction of
+such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must
+ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of
+stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the
+horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of
+the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford’s letter, which she had read
+so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity
+with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being
+_hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with
+something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
+who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would
+try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could
+believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own
+mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and
+Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.
+
+Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no
+possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
+night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness
+to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event
+was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted
+from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman
+married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even
+_engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family,
+both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all
+intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross
+a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter
+barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_
+unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria’s_ decided
+attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it
+possibility: Miss Crawford’s letter stampt it a fact.
+
+What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views
+might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss
+Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such
+ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
+simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
+indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother’s
+sufferings, the father’s; there she paused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Edmund’s;
+there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
+horribly. Sir Thomas’s parental solicitude and high sense of honour and
+decorum, Edmund’s upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine
+strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to
+support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her
+that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing
+to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant
+annihilation.
+
+Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
+posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was
+no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there
+was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
+to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
+scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
+low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
+Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
+sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the
+London postmark, and came from Edmund.
+
+“Dear Fanny,—You know our present wretchedness. May God support you
+under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to
+be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
+blow—Julia’s elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left
+London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would
+have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy
+aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is
+still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose
+your returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother’s
+sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and
+hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you
+to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like;
+say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his
+kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may
+confuse it. You may imagine something of my present state. There is no
+end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the
+mail.—Yours, etc.”
+
+Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as
+this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She
+was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
+happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good
+to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be
+going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with
+leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as
+set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain,
+and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those
+whose distress she thought of most. Julia’s elopement could affect her
+comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
+occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call
+herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous,
+or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing
+joyful cares attending this summons to herself.
+
+There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for
+relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
+and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even
+the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of
+certainty), could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to
+be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
+father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
+ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The
+happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
+black communication which must briefly precede it—the joyful consent of
+her father and mother to Susan’s going with her—the general
+satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
+ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.
+
+The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs.
+Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find
+anything to hold Susan’s clothes, because Rebecca took away all the
+boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan,
+now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing
+nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were
+sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as
+much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.
+
+As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
+offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
+and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to
+prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
+travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
+agitated spirits—one all happiness, the other all varying and
+indescribable perturbation.
+
+By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
+entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately
+seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought
+back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was
+ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her
+instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these
+words, just articulate, “My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort
+now!” She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.
+
+He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
+voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
+the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. “Have you breakfasted?
+When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?” were questions following each
+other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When
+Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own
+mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should
+order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for
+their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had
+already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round
+the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad
+to get away even from Fanny.
+
+He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which
+he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was
+terrible to her.
+
+The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment,
+just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
+witness—but that he saw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the
+daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
+down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
+was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
+Fanny’s last meal in her father’s house was in character with her
+first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been
+welcomed.
+
+How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
+of Portsmouth, and how Susan’s face wore its broadest smiles, may be
+easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her
+bonnet, those smiles were unseen.
+
+The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund’s deep sighs often
+reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
+in spite of every resolution; but Susan’s presence drove him quite into
+himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never
+be long supported.
+
+Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
+his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
+first day’s journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
+subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
+little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was
+stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a large
+family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and
+Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny’s looks, and
+from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father’s house,
+attributing an undue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the
+recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive
+tone, “No wonder—you must feel it—you must suffer. How a man who had
+once loved, could desert you! But _yours_—your regard was new compared
+with——Fanny, think of _me_!”
+
+The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
+them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
+earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
+usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
+of both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with
+her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
+with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
+knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
+into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and
+new gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon
+silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere
+awake to the difference of the country since February; but when they
+entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest
+sort. It was three months, full three months, since her quitting it,
+and the change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on
+lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not
+fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is
+known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the
+sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however,
+was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him,
+but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with
+eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the
+lovely scenes of home must be shut out.
+
+It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be
+enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well
+situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.
+
+By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
+impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
+solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room
+to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,
+“Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII
+
+
+It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
+most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was
+really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the
+dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been
+wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of
+it almost overpowered her.
+
+She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
+everything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and
+all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown
+away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself
+useful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been
+all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her
+the smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for
+them than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary,
+helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only
+established her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were
+relieved, but there was no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome
+to his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having
+comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the
+person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as
+the daemon of the piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not
+have happened.
+
+Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more
+than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
+and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
+Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
+much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
+a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was
+more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
+ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
+with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
+many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
+indifference than she met with from the others.
+
+She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
+house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
+doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
+up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
+this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
+feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny
+devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more
+than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who
+seemed so much to want her.
+
+To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
+Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
+the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
+be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
+case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
+guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
+she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
+endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
+of guilt and infamy.
+
+Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a
+time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other
+subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but
+whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only
+in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
+never to be wiped off.
+
+Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
+aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
+to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
+reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as
+she wished of the circumstances attending the story.
+
+Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a
+family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
+agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for
+to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His
+having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth
+had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother,
+and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without
+any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole
+Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir
+Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
+attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon
+after the Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received
+a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing
+and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to
+recommend Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his
+influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was
+already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr.
+Rushworth uneasy.
+
+Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
+its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
+another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
+desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
+Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been in
+great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
+Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
+The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
+was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
+Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
+the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
+might be apprehended.
+
+This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
+family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
+had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what
+followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by
+that time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the
+mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was
+not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had
+been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against
+her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the
+personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from
+sensibility for her son.
+
+However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
+obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
+last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
+case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
+again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
+somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for
+a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.
+
+Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
+of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
+on the side of character.
+
+_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
+one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him.
+Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
+sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
+Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
+regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the
+additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its
+force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.
+She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it.
+Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but
+to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its
+completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and
+severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing,
+done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was
+yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
+regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
+conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
+into which she had thrown herself.
+
+Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in
+Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure
+against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris,
+would now be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would
+have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most
+material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
+uncle’s displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her
+justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must
+be on Edmund alone.
+
+She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
+present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
+others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
+deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,
+as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
+attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything
+but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.
+He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in
+addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or
+conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one
+interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived
+only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on
+others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home
+to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than
+theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas
+not in the secret of Miss Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to
+her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong
+to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.
+
+That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
+of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
+her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted
+to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve
+which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most
+consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him:
+never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be
+inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
+bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt
+to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state.
+He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech.
+Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again,
+or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had
+been.
+
+It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
+Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
+with her on Sunday evening—a wet Sunday evening—the very time of all
+others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
+everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after
+hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
+impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
+be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
+would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
+certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
+fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he
+entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the
+first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was
+quite convinced.
+
+How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
+delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
+her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
+opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
+see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
+and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of
+friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
+wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone
+to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for
+a few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last.
+But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met
+him, he said, with a serious—certainly a serious—even an agitated air;
+but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
+introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
+heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
+over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?’
+I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
+Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then
+added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense.’ So she
+began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
+repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon
+them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of
+each. She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a woman
+whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he
+adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a
+situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being
+really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear.
+Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom—no harsher name
+than folly given! So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it!
+No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest
+loathings? This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find
+a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!”
+
+After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate
+calmness. “I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She
+saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want
+of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the
+whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power
+of a servant; it was the detection, in short—oh, Fanny! it was the
+detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence
+which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give
+up every dearer plan in order to fly with her.”
+
+He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),
+“what could you say?”
+
+“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She went
+on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
+regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a—. There she spoke
+very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. ‘He has thrown
+away,’ said she, ‘such a woman as he will never see again. She would
+have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.’ My dearest
+Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
+retrospect of what might have been—but what never can be now. You do
+not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
+have done.”
+
+No look or word was given.
+
+“Thank God,” said he. “We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
+have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
+knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and
+warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
+the midst of it she could exclaim, ‘Why would not she have him? It is
+all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted
+him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage,
+and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other
+object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth
+again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in
+yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.’ Could you have believed
+it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened.”
+
+“Cruel!” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
+gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.”
+
+“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
+nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
+lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there
+being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to
+her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had
+been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would
+speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give
+unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot
+but think that for me, for my feelings, she would—. Hers are faults of
+principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind.
+Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not
+so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing
+her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so.”
+
+“Did you?”
+
+“Yes; when I left her I told her so.”
+
+“How long were you together?”
+
+“Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
+now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of
+it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.” He was obliged to pause
+more than once as he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry her,’
+said she; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut
+himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must
+give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with
+one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable
+difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and
+when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of
+respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a
+certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
+but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those
+who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
+liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is,
+that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
+interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any
+officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
+there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
+with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas
+trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he
+get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.’”
+
+After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
+him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
+subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
+again. At last, “Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have
+told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
+I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state
+of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to
+make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in
+almost every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our
+acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions,
+on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to
+conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That
+the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her
+brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended
+not to say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself,
+giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill
+consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance
+of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all,
+recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the
+continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as
+I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought;
+all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never
+understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been
+the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been
+too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best
+for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings,
+hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now. And yet,
+that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what
+she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase
+of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of
+tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as
+you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have
+repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished—more
+than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely
+red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short
+struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but
+habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a
+sort of laugh, as she answered, ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word.
+Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform
+everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next,
+it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists,
+or as a missionary into foreign parts.’ She tried to speak carelessly,
+but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in
+reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that
+she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most
+valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of
+ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and
+immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard
+the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she. I looked back. ‘Mr.
+Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the
+conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite
+in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it
+was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have
+since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I
+know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And
+what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in
+brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This
+has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done.”
+
+And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes she
+thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
+something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing
+thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that
+happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she
+had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how
+excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier.
+Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in
+adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what
+share his brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her
+wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable
+intimation. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast
+deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment;
+but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He
+submitted to believe that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only
+reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many
+counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been _more_
+attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
+more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
+also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible
+impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time
+would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
+sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as
+to his ever meeting with any other woman who could—it was too
+impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all
+that he had to cling to.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII
+
+
+Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
+as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
+themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.
+
+My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of
+knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have
+been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she
+felt, for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight
+that must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was
+useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir
+Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his then
+melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased
+regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still have been
+happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss
+Crawford.
+
+It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was
+suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and
+wishing for what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but
+it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease,
+and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few
+who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.
+
+Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
+own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he
+ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments
+had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in
+authorising it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the
+expedient, and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly
+wisdom. These were reflections that required some time to soften; but
+time will do almost everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs.
+Rushworth’s side for the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be
+found greater than he had supposed in his other children. Julia’s match
+became a less desperate business than he had considered it at first.
+She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of
+being really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him
+and be guided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his
+becoming less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and
+quiet; and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather
+more, and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being
+consulted and treated as the friend best worth attending to. There was
+comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without
+regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits.
+He was the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had
+learned to think: two advantages that he had never known before; and
+the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street,
+to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his
+unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which, at the age
+of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good companions, was
+durable in its happy effects. He became what he ought to be: useful to
+his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself.
+
+Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
+dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
+father’s ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
+him pain before—improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and
+sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well
+talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.
+
+These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
+their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
+and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from
+the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was
+never to be entirely done away.
+
+Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
+people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
+been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
+flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
+severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what
+was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he
+had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in
+his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and
+sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to
+attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of
+her praise.
+
+Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
+grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
+of education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
+have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
+principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught
+to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which
+can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their
+religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be
+distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object
+of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no moral
+effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had
+been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition;
+and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had
+never heard from any lips that could profit them.
+
+Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
+comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all
+the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought
+up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
+being acquainted with their character and temper.
+
+The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
+made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
+on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
+together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,
+and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the
+conviction rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like
+hatred, as to make them for a while each other’s punishment, and then
+induce a voluntary separation.
+
+She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his
+happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving
+him than that she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of
+such a mind in such a situation?
+
+Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
+marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
+the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,
+and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
+indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
+can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
+deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from
+the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
+could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
+second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if
+duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
+must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
+reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.
+
+Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
+momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
+with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home and
+countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
+Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering
+_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his
+scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her
+that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no
+young person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the
+society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have
+offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to
+notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be
+protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported by every
+encouragement to do right, which their relative situations admitted;
+but farther than _that_ he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own
+character, and he would not, by a vain attempt to restore what never
+could be restored, by affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to
+lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing such misery in
+another man’s family as he had known himself.
+
+It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote
+herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed
+for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up
+together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no
+judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their
+mutual punishment.
+
+Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
+comfort of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from
+the day of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from
+that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she
+had been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
+either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
+over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He
+had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there
+seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of
+himself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her,
+therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter
+remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning
+almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.
+
+She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to
+attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement,
+her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
+everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not
+even when she was gone for ever.
+
+That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a
+favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater
+to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered
+and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second
+place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
+Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,
+though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her
+so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.
+
+She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
+After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was
+over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him
+again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr.
+Rushworth’s house became Crawford’s object, she had had the merit of
+withdrawing herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to
+her other friends, in order to secure herself from being again too much
+attracted. This had been her motive in going to her cousin’s. Mr.
+Yates’s convenience had had nothing to do with it. She had been
+allowing his attentions some time, but with very little idea of ever
+accepting him; and had not her sister’s conduct burst forth as it did,
+and her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event,
+imagining its certain consequence to herself would be greater severity
+and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate
+horrors at all risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have
+succeeded. She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those of
+selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the only thing to be done.
+Maria’s guilt had induced Julia’s folly.
+
+Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
+indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once
+it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of
+happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one
+amiable woman’s affections, could he have found sufficient exultation
+in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and
+tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of
+success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.
+Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her.
+Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have
+been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which
+would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her
+first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have
+persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a
+reward very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from
+Edmund’s marrying Mary.
+
+Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to
+Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been
+deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.
+Fraser’s party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he
+was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both
+engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a
+mind unused to make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his
+Norfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it,
+or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth,
+was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive,
+and have established apparent indifference between them for ever; but
+he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose
+smiles had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to
+subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s
+account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria
+Bertram again in her treatment of himself.
+
+In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
+soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry, of
+flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
+discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them
+both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more
+strong than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing
+attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity,
+with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest
+inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams
+from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecy
+could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’s credit than he
+felt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been
+glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of
+her imprudence; and he went off with her at last, because he could not
+help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her
+infinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a
+very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a
+yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her
+mind, and the excellence of her principles.
+
+That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
+measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the
+barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is
+less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
+to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of
+sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small
+portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes to
+self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
+hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
+estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had
+rationally as well as passionately loved.
+
+After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
+continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood
+would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for
+some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the
+necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr.
+Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes,
+succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion
+for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an
+increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly
+acceptable to those who went and those who staid.
+
+Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with
+some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the
+same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society,
+secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer
+Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
+ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the last half-year,
+to be in need of the true kindness of her sister’s heart, and the
+rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr.
+Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
+dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though
+perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother
+again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle
+heir-apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her £20,000,
+any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at
+Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the
+domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund
+Bertram sufficiently out of her head.
+
+Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to
+wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed
+her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and
+observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with
+such another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very
+different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal
+better: whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as important to
+him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been;
+and whether it might not be a possible, a hopeful undertaking to
+persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be
+foundation enough for wedded love.
+
+I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be
+at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
+passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
+to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that
+exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and
+not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and
+became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.
+
+With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
+founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and
+completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more
+natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had
+been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a
+degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness,
+an object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his
+own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there
+now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to
+sparkling dark ones. And being always with her, and always talking
+confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which
+a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very
+long in obtaining the pre-eminence.
+
+Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
+happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or
+make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of
+opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
+dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits
+wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no
+reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of his late
+infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must
+be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for
+him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very
+steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not
+possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid,
+anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such
+tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of
+success, though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole
+delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness in knowing himself to
+have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great
+enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clothe it
+to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But
+there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no
+one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the
+assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself
+to entertain a hope.
+
+Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
+no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s
+wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary
+connexions, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and
+temper, and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all
+that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
+satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends
+finding their natural consolation in each other for all that had
+occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which met
+Edmund’s application, the high sense of having realised a great
+acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a
+contrast with his early opinion on the subject when the poor little
+girl’s coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing
+between the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction,
+and their neighbours’ entertainment.
+
+Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness
+had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich
+repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved
+it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error
+of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and
+deprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,
+their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at
+Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of
+almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.
+
+Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be
+parted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make
+her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because
+Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,
+delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of
+mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness
+of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be
+spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as
+her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance
+of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves
+made everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding the
+tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to
+restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
+and after Fanny’s removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over
+the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the
+most beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny’s excellence, in
+William’s continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
+well-doing and success of the other members of the family, all
+assisting to advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance
+and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to
+rejoice in what he had done for them all, and acknowledge the
+advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of
+being born to struggle and endure.
+
+With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
+friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as
+earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and
+attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and
+comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of
+Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they
+had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income,
+and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.
+
+On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
+which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
+to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon
+grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as
+everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had
+long been.
+
+FINIS.
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/AustenNovels/Austen_NorthangerAbbey.txt b/AustenNovels/Austen_NorthangerAbbey.txt
new file mode 100644
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+++ b/AustenNovels/Austen_NorthangerAbbey.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,7931 @@
+Northanger Abbey
+
+by Jane Austen
+
+
+ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY
+
+
+This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
+immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
+advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has
+never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it
+worth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish
+seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public
+have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those
+parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively
+obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years
+have passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and
+that during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have
+undergone considerable changes.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
+supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the
+character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition,
+were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being
+neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was
+Richard—and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable
+independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the least
+addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
+plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
+good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and
+instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody
+might expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children more—to see
+them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A
+family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there
+are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had
+little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain,
+and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
+thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and
+strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
+heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy’s plays, and greatly
+preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic
+enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
+watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she
+gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at
+least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she
+was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were
+quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything
+before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
+inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in
+teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her
+next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
+Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she learnt the fable of “The
+Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother
+wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it,
+for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet;
+so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear
+it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being
+accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave
+off. The day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest
+of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though
+whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or
+seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that
+way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
+one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French
+by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she
+shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
+unaccountable character!—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at
+ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
+stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
+with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
+hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
+world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
+
+Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
+mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
+improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
+gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
+dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she
+grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father
+and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a
+good-looking girl—she is almost pretty today,” were words which caught
+her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look
+_almost_ pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
+been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty
+from her cradle can ever receive.
+
+Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
+everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
+lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
+inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
+that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
+prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
+country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of
+information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
+gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
+had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
+she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
+must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
+serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
+lives.
+
+From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
+
+“bear about the mockery of woe.”
+
+
+From Gray, that
+
+“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
+
+
+From Thompson, that—
+
+“It is a delightful task
+“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
+
+
+And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
+the rest, that—
+
+“Trifles light as air,
+“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
+“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
+
+
+That
+
+“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
+“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
+“As when a giant dies.”
+
+
+And that a young woman in love always looks—
+
+“like Patience on a monument
+“Smiling at Grief.”
+
+
+So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came
+on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
+brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
+throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of
+her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance
+with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she
+had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
+lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she
+fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not
+know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached
+the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could
+call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
+and without having excited even any admiration but what was very
+moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange
+things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched
+out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
+baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
+reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one
+young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the
+squire of the parish no children.
+
+But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
+surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
+to throw a hero in her way.
+
+Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
+village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for
+the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured
+woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will
+not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
+invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
+and Catherine all happiness.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
+personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
+difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be
+stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following
+pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
+meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
+and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just
+removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
+pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as
+ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.
+
+When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
+Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
+alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
+terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
+in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
+the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
+wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
+the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
+ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
+the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
+so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
+their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to
+her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
+following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
+very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and
+I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I
+will give you this little book on purpose.”
+
+Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
+reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),
+must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
+of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
+Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
+transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of
+every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
+indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
+Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
+rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
+the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first
+separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her
+father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even
+putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
+guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.
+
+Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
+journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
+safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
+overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
+than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind
+her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.
+
+They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
+here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
+environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
+them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy
+already.
+
+They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
+
+It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
+reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
+tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
+probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
+wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her
+imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,
+ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.
+
+Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
+raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the
+world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither
+beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a
+great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind
+were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,
+intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted
+to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
+everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
+Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine;
+and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after
+three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and
+her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
+Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters
+were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into
+the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
+clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
+looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
+at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it
+was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.
+
+Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
+till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
+squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired
+directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.
+With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of
+her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the
+door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
+however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
+her friend’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
+assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along
+the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the
+crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
+imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find
+seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But
+this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence
+they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the
+same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of
+the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and
+by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves
+at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
+something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
+comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the
+dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and
+she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball:
+she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs.
+Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly,
+every now and then, “I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could
+get a partner.” For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for
+these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally
+ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no
+more.
+
+They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
+they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
+tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
+something of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed
+against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to
+interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
+could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
+syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in
+the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to
+join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw
+nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
+eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at
+which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do
+there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.
+
+Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on
+having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very
+shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a
+delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in
+the whole room, I assure you.”
+
+“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
+acquaintance here!”
+
+“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
+uncomfortable indeed.”
+
+“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
+they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their
+party.”
+
+“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
+acquaintance here.”
+
+“I wish we had _any;_—it would be somebody to go to.”
+
+“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
+directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”
+
+“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
+see.”
+
+“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had
+better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my
+head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
+
+“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
+there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you
+_must_ know somebody.”
+
+“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
+here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should
+be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What
+an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
+
+After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
+neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
+conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
+that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were
+discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.
+
+“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an
+agreeable ball.”
+
+“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a
+great yawn.
+
+“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could
+have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if
+the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys
+had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George
+Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”
+
+“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s
+consolation.
+
+The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave
+space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the
+time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
+the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five
+minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her
+charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her
+before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding
+her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
+called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
+had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have
+thought her exceedingly handsome.
+
+She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
+hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words
+had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
+than she had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt
+more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a
+true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
+of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
+perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited;
+some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be
+attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
+everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
+in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after
+every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody
+at all.
+
+They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
+more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced
+to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was
+Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall,
+had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if
+not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and
+Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for
+speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found
+him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He
+talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry
+in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.
+After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the
+objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto
+been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I
+have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were
+ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the
+theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have
+been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
+particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
+
+“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”
+
+“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set
+smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering
+air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
+
+“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
+
+“Really!” with affected astonishment.
+
+“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
+
+“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
+appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
+and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you
+never here before, madam?”
+
+“Never, sir.”
+
+“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
+
+“Have you been to the theatre?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
+
+“To the concert?”
+
+“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
+
+“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
+
+“Yes—I like it very well.”
+
+“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
+Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture
+to laugh. “I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make
+but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.”
+
+“My journal!”
+
+“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
+Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
+shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a
+queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and
+distressed me by his nonsense.”
+
+“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”
+
+“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
+
+“If you please.”
+
+“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
+a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary
+genius—hope I may know more of him. _That_, madam, is what I _wish_ you
+to say.”
+
+“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
+
+“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
+These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a
+journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your
+life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
+every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every
+evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
+and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to
+be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
+to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways
+as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling
+which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
+ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of
+writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done
+something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the
+practice of keeping a journal.”
+
+“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
+do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is—I should not
+think the superiority was always on our side.”
+
+“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
+usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
+particulars.”
+
+“And what are they?”
+
+“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
+very frequent ignorance of grammar.”
+
+“Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
+compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”
+
+“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
+letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better
+landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
+excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.”
+
+They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
+take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
+I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
+it cost but nine shillings a yard.”
+
+“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr.
+Tilney, looking at the muslin.
+
+“Do you understand muslins, sir?”
+
+“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
+an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of
+a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be
+a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five
+shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
+
+Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
+notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know
+one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
+sister, sir.”
+
+“I hope I am, madam.”
+
+“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
+
+“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do
+not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
+
+“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
+“strange.”
+
+“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told
+Miss Morland when she bought it.”
+
+“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
+other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a
+cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my
+sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more
+than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
+
+“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
+are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
+Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
+says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
+eight; and it is such a fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one
+can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”
+
+Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
+she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
+Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
+himself a little too much with the foibles of others. “What are you
+thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the
+ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head,
+your meditations are not satisfactory.”
+
+Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
+
+“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
+that you will not tell me.”
+
+“Well then, I will not.”
+
+“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
+tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
+advances intimacy so much.”
+
+They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
+side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
+acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her
+warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
+when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a
+slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
+celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
+in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must
+be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before
+the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr.
+Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr.
+Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common
+acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he
+had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and
+had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
+respectable family in Gloucestershire.
+
+ [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
+the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before
+the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
+was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
+himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
+fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
+out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
+wanted to see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath
+is,” said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
+parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be
+if we had any acquaintance here.”
+
+This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
+particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
+but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
+diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
+she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
+just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady
+of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at
+her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
+complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it
+is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your
+name Allen?” This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger
+pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the
+features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only
+once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their
+joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had
+been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen
+years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how
+time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they
+had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an
+old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as
+to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far
+more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very
+little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great
+advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
+when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
+daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that
+John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and
+all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than
+any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information
+to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
+ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all
+these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
+discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s
+pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
+
+“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
+smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her.
+“My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so
+delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a
+fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe
+Isabella is the handsomest.”
+
+The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
+short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
+strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
+eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her
+brother Miss Morland is!”
+
+“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
+known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or
+three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
+and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance
+with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother
+had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of
+the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the
+Christmas vacation with his family, near London.
+
+The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
+Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
+considered as already friends, through the friendship of their
+brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with
+all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof
+of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss
+Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was
+delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost
+forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is
+certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.
+
+Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
+discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
+between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
+quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss
+Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided
+advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of
+Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;
+could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of
+tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and
+lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the
+thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from
+Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they
+naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not
+the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her frequent expressions
+of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling
+of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing
+attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
+pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
+Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s
+house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and
+lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that
+they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their
+prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran
+directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street
+from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk,
+the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well
+she might, for the chance which had procured her such a friend.
+
+Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
+good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her
+eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by
+pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
+dressing in the same style, did very well.
+
+This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
+of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
+adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
+the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
+lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
+passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
+returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
+claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye
+for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked
+in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She
+hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine
+weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a
+doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its
+inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk
+about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.
+
+As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
+joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
+discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a
+genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
+throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
+the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in
+arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
+conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was
+Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was
+nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
+in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor
+Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor
+among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the
+morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do
+no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his
+stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so
+becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imagination
+around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more
+of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
+only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
+subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend,
+from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to
+think of him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered
+therefore to weaken. Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming
+young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with
+her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him
+the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very
+partial to the profession”; and something like a sigh escaped her as
+she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of
+that gentle emotion—but she was not experienced enough in the finesse
+of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery
+was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced.
+
+Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had found
+some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family
+of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
+had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself.
+Her daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquaintance
+in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
+Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
+families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
+satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of
+Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was
+scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of
+subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
+of her gowns.
+
+The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
+as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through
+every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no
+fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
+called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when
+they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not
+to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other
+enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and
+dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for
+I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with
+novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very
+performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining
+with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such
+works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own
+heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over
+its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be
+not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
+protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
+reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over
+every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which
+the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured
+body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and
+unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the
+world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
+ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And
+while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of
+England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some
+dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
+Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand
+pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
+undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
+performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
+“I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that _I_
+often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the
+common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss—?” “Oh! It is only a
+novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with
+affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or
+Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the
+greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough
+knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties,
+the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in
+the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged
+with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly
+would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances
+must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous
+publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a
+young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting
+in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and
+topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their
+language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea
+of the age that could endure it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
+the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days,
+is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the
+delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
+marked the reasonableness of that attachment.
+
+They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
+minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest
+creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you
+at least this age!”
+
+“Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was
+in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here
+long?”
+
+“Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half
+hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and
+enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first
+place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to
+set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into
+agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a
+shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with
+coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my
+dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
+morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”
+
+“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
+black veil.”
+
+“Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is
+behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”
+
+“Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told
+upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is
+Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like
+to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been
+to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”
+
+“Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have
+finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made
+out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”
+
+“Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”
+
+“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
+Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
+Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
+Those will last us some time.”
+
+“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
+horrid?”
+
+“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a
+sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every
+one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with
+her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I
+think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for
+not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”
+
+“Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?”
+
+“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are
+really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is
+not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told
+Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to
+tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow
+Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
+of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
+difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
+should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_
+are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
+
+“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
+
+“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
+what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something
+amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we
+parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am
+sure he is in love with you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
+Isabella laughed. “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it
+is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one
+gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking
+more seriously—“your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is
+really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with
+the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so
+uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can
+perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
+
+“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
+Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
+
+“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
+you would be miserable if you thought so!”
+
+“No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
+much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
+nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear
+Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.”
+
+“It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before;
+but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”
+
+“No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
+but new books do not fall in our way.”
+
+“Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
+remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.”
+
+“It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
+entertaining.”
+
+“Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
+But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head
+tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.
+The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know.”
+
+“But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently.
+
+“Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.
+They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
+spirit, and make them keep their distance.”
+
+“Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well
+to me.”
+
+“Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
+creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By
+the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
+forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you
+like them best dark or fair?”
+
+“I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
+I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.”
+
+“Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
+description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather
+dark hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to
+complexion—do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must
+not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
+answering that description.”
+
+“Betray you! What do you mean?”
+
+“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop
+the subject.”
+
+Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
+moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at
+that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s
+skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake!
+Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
+odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They
+really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the
+arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”
+
+Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
+was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
+young men.
+
+“They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
+impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
+determined I will not look up.”
+
+In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
+she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the
+pump-room.
+
+“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round.
+“One was a very good-looking young man.”
+
+“They went towards the church-yard.”
+
+“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say
+you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat?
+You said you should like to see it.”
+
+Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
+the two young men.”
+
+“Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them
+presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.”
+
+“But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our
+seeing them at all.”
+
+“I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
+notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil
+them.”
+
+Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
+to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling
+the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in
+pursuit of the two young men.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
+opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody
+acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap
+Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature,
+so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and
+the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties
+of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of
+pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are
+not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts.
+This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by
+Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and
+lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union
+Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding
+through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
+alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven
+along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the
+vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his
+companion, and his horse.
+
+“Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest
+them.” But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for
+she looked again and exclaimed, “Delightful! Mr. Morland and my
+brother!”
+
+“Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
+and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse was immediately
+checked with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the
+servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the
+equipage was delivered to his care.
+
+Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
+brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
+disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his
+side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while
+the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
+and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and
+embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more
+expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply
+engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as
+pretty as she could do herself.
+
+John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
+horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
+which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
+hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
+bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain
+face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless
+he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he
+were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be
+allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: “How long do you think we
+have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”
+
+“I do not know the distance.” Her brother told her that it was
+twenty-three miles.
+
+“_Three_-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe, “five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”
+Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,
+and milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer
+test of distance. “I know it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “by the
+time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of
+the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any
+man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in
+harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.”
+
+“You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
+came from Tetbury.”
+
+“Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This
+brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
+but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in
+your life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving
+off.) “Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only
+three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible
+if you can.”
+
+“He _does_ look very hot, to be sure.”
+
+“Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
+at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
+_cannot_ go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get
+on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?
+Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a
+Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran
+it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with
+it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the
+kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I
+chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford,
+last term: ‘Ah! Thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to want such a little
+thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired
+of it.’ ‘Oh! D—,’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how
+much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”
+
+“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”
+
+“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
+lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as
+new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
+threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”
+
+“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that
+I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.”
+
+“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but
+I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”
+
+“That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.
+
+“Oh! D—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
+I hate to be pitiful.”
+
+An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
+ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that
+the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
+respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well
+satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
+endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double
+recommendation of being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother,
+so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook
+and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far
+from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only
+three times.
+
+John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’
+silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find,
+however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
+people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
+Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
+time.”
+
+“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this; “but you forget that your
+horse was included.”
+
+“My horse! Oh, d—— it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you
+fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”
+
+“Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
+particularly fond of it.”
+
+“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
+propriety of accepting such an offer.
+
+“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.”
+
+“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”
+
+“Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;
+nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.
+No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
+while I am here.”
+
+“Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
+miles a day.”
+
+“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
+tomorrow; mind, I am engaged.”
+
+“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My
+dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will
+not have room for a third.”
+
+“A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
+about; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of
+you.”
+
+This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
+Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
+discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more
+than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of
+every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as
+long as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful
+female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition
+to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own
+sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question
+which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever
+read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”
+
+“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else
+to do.”
+
+Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her
+question, but he prevented her by saying, “Novels are all so full of
+nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out
+since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for
+all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”
+
+“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
+interesting.”
+
+“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her
+novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
+in _them_.”
+
+“Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
+hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
+
+“No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
+other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,
+she who married the French emigrant.”
+
+“I suppose you mean Camilla?”
+
+“Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at
+see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon
+found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be
+before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was
+sure I should never be able to get through it.”
+
+“I have never read it.”
+
+“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
+imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing
+at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”
+
+This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
+Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
+feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
+to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
+Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother!
+How do you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where
+did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
+Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must
+look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.” And this address
+seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she
+received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two
+younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
+tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
+they both looked very ugly.
+
+These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
+Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
+Isabella’s assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
+John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s
+engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
+been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
+youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
+reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
+in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
+consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
+the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
+door was closed on them, said, “Well, Catherine, how do you like my
+friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
+had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, “I do not
+like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very much; he seems
+very agreeable.”
+
+“He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle;
+but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like
+the rest of the family?”
+
+“Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.”
+
+“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman
+I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is
+so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
+and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your
+praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss
+Thorpe even you, Catherine,” taking her hand with affection, “may be
+proud of.”
+
+“Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
+to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her
+when you wrote to me after your visit there.”
+
+“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
+great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;
+such a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she
+is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in
+such a place as this—is not she?”
+
+“Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest
+girl in Bath.”
+
+“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
+beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here,
+my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe,
+it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am
+sure, are very kind to you?”
+
+“Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
+will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far
+on purpose to see _me_.”
+
+James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience
+for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed,
+Catherine, I love you dearly.”
+
+Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
+situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
+passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
+James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
+Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs.
+Allen, invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the
+latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and
+tippet. A pre-engagement in Edgar’s Buildings prevented his accepting
+the invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as
+he had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
+uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was
+then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened
+imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns
+of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on the
+delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
+bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
+engaged for the evening.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
+Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes
+and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
+having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the
+most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown,
+and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm
+in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought
+occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the
+hand or a smile of affection.
+
+The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
+James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
+importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the
+card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
+induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too.
+“I assure you,” said she, “I would not stand up without your dear
+sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated
+the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
+and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when
+Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of her,
+turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am
+afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to
+begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
+be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out.” Catherine,
+though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any
+opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press
+her friend’s hand and say, “Good-bye, my dear love,” before they
+hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was
+left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now
+remained. She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr.
+Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware
+that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she was
+sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down all
+the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the
+world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity,
+her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
+source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which
+peculiarly belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it
+what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too;
+she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.
+
+From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten
+minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.
+Tilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be
+moving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and
+the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed
+away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and
+as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and
+pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
+immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a
+fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being
+married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it
+had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not
+behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been
+used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.
+From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister’s
+now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike
+paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom, Catherine sat
+erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little
+redder than usual.
+
+Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
+approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.
+Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to
+her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye,
+instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She
+returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke
+both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged.
+“I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had
+left Bath.” He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted
+it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of
+seeing her.
+
+“Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it
+is just the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I
+tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
+should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is
+much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell
+him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.”
+
+“And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
+from finding it of service to him.”
+
+“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr.
+Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite
+stout.”
+
+“That circumstance must give great encouragement.”
+
+“Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
+tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”
+
+Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
+that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
+with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was
+accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and
+after a few minutes’ consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with
+him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe
+mortification to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her
+sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she really felt it, that had
+Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he
+might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy
+manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did not
+by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
+which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and
+dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
+terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking
+very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney.
+Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that
+gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was
+separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one
+mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this
+useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not
+necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady.
+From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a
+touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes
+directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. “I beg
+your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—but I cannot
+anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would
+not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”
+Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more
+happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to
+each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness,
+Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of
+the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably
+settled her young charge, returned to her party.
+
+Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
+countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,
+the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her
+manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor
+affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and
+at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,
+and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable
+vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at
+once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous
+of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she
+could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying
+it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by
+the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their
+doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance,
+by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she
+admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or
+played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.
+
+The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
+gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,
+“At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for
+you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you
+knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”
+
+“My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could
+not even see where you were.”
+
+“So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go
+and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir
+an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so
+immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
+Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon
+ceremony with such people.”
+
+“Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,”
+whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr.
+Tilney’s sister.”
+
+“Oh! Heavens! You don’t say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a
+delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is
+her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this
+instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to
+listen. We are not talking about you.”
+
+“But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?”
+
+“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
+curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
+satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”
+
+“And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”
+
+“Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
+you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you;
+therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear
+something not very agreeable.”
+
+In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original
+subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
+pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little
+suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to
+see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would
+have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. “I tell you, Mr.
+Morland,” she cried, “I would not do such a thing for all the world.
+How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
+brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I
+tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the
+rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change
+partners.”
+
+“Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as
+often done as not.”
+
+“Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,
+you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me;
+persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would
+quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”
+
+“No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better
+change.”
+
+“There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you
+will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set
+all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest
+Catherine, for heaven’s sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to
+regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked
+away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of
+repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once,
+made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the
+hope of finding him still with them—a hope which, when it proved to be
+fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. “Well, my dear,”
+said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, “I hope you have had
+an agreeable partner.”
+
+“Very agreeable, madam.”
+
+“I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”
+
+“Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen.
+
+“No, where is he?”
+
+“He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
+that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
+you, if he met with you.”
+
+“Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
+looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.
+
+“Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_,” said Mrs. Allen;
+and after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young
+man.”
+
+“Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I
+must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more
+agreeable young man in the world.”
+
+This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension
+of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment’s
+consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she
+thought I was speaking of her son.”
+
+Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so
+little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not
+incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her
+soon afterwards and said, “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are
+to stand up and jig it together again.”
+
+“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
+besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”
+
+“Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
+me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
+younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this
+half hour.”
+
+Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
+sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.
+Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his
+partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and
+James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the
+latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one
+squeeze, and one “dearest Catherine.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 9
+
+
+The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
+was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
+everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
+brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.
+This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of
+extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an
+earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her
+distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which
+lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in
+excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish
+of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
+almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the
+pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must
+be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for
+the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female
+intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited
+confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another
+friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled,
+she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain
+in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one;
+and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and
+ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for
+thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could
+never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if
+she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the
+street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud,
+whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about
+half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the
+window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being
+two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her
+brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
+running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you
+been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
+coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,
+and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out
+of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was
+not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a
+confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”
+
+“What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”
+
+“Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree
+together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are
+going up Claverton Down.”
+
+“Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
+Mrs. Allen for her opinion; “but really I did not expect you.”
+
+“Not expect me! That’s a good one! And what a dust you would have made,
+if I had not come.”
+
+Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
+away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
+expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended
+by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney
+again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and
+who thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe,
+as Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore
+obliged to speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you
+spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?”
+
+“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
+placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
+ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed
+the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
+praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig;
+and then receiving her friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried
+downstairs. “My dearest creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of
+friendship immediately called her before she could get into the
+carriage, “you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was
+afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a
+thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to
+be off.”
+
+Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
+her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! I quite
+dote on her.”
+
+“You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe, as he handed
+her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.
+He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest
+for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
+playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”
+
+Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
+too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened;
+so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted
+knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down
+by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
+horse’s head was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off
+they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a
+caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
+escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her
+companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her
+that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which
+he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity
+with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not
+help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should
+think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
+congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent
+a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the
+same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
+unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles
+an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the
+enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine
+mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of
+several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by
+Thorpe’s saying very abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not
+he?” Catherine did not understand him—and he repeated his question,
+adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you are with.”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”
+
+“And no children at all?”
+
+“No—not any.”
+
+“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?”
+
+“My godfather! No.”
+
+“But you are always very much with them.”
+
+“Yes, very much.”
+
+“Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
+and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
+nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?”
+
+“His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
+very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”
+
+“Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men’s being in liquor.
+Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
+_this_—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would
+not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a
+famous good thing for us all.”
+
+“I cannot believe it.”
+
+“Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
+hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to
+be. Our foggy climate wants help.”
+
+“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in
+Oxford.”
+
+“Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
+drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four
+pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable
+thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared
+about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the
+common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not
+often meet with anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it.
+But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking
+there.”
+
+“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “and that is, that
+you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I
+am sure James does not drink so much.”
+
+This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
+part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
+almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
+ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of
+wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s
+comparative sobriety.
+
+Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
+she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
+moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of
+the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all
+his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
+impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his
+rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of
+her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she
+readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled
+between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether
+the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his
+horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. “You do not really
+think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, venturing after some time to
+consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little
+variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break down?”
+
+“Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
+your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have
+been fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon
+my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the
+most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have
+got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
+thousand pounds.”
+
+“Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then pray let us
+turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do
+let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell
+him how very unsafe it is.”
+
+“Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if
+it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent
+falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how
+to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
+years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake
+for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a
+nail.”
+
+Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
+such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been
+brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to
+how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity
+will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom
+aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented
+with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit
+therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting
+at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
+affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the
+point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
+opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to
+her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
+those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to
+this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
+his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
+preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to
+be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer.
+By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of
+his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his
+own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle
+and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment
+had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he
+had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all
+his companions together; and described to her some famous day’s sport,
+with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
+dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in
+which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his
+own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into
+difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.
+
+Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and
+unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could
+not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
+endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a
+bold surmise, for he was Isabella’s brother; and she had been assured
+by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in
+spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over
+her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly
+to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in
+some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his
+powers of giving universal pleasure.
+
+When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella
+was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day
+for them to attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It
+was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither
+believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would
+believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland
+produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment
+longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and
+impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no
+two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine
+was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to
+please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend’s
+dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings
+entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding
+herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a
+moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
+such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were
+never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery,
+and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu
+and went on.
+
+Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of
+the morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you
+are,” a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to
+dispute; “and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”
+
+“So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”
+
+“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?”
+
+“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
+her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was
+hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly
+scarce.”
+
+“Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”
+
+“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
+Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.”
+
+“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”
+
+“Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
+very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin,
+and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very
+handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.”
+
+“And what did she tell you of them?”
+
+“Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”
+
+“Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?”
+
+“Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind
+of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and
+Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
+fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand
+pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all
+the clothes after they came from the warehouse.”
+
+“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”
+
+“Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
+however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;
+yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there
+was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter
+on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put
+by for her when her mother died.”
+
+“And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?”
+
+“I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he
+is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and
+likely to do very well.”
+
+Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.
+Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
+particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with
+both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
+nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it
+was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had
+lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
+pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 10
+
+
+The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the
+theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an
+opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand
+things which had been collecting within her for communication in the
+immeasurable length of time which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! My
+beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?” was her address on
+Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her. “Now, Mr. Morland,”
+for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall not speak another
+word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect
+it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need
+not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair
+in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you
+want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love
+with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but _that_ is a settled
+thing—even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming
+back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him!
+I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most
+delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know;
+you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for
+heaven’s sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him.”
+
+“No,” said Catherine, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”
+
+“Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
+gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
+thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother
+and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be
+here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon
+found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country
+to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it
+was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we
+differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly
+thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about
+it.”
+
+“No, indeed I should not.”
+
+“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
+You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
+nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond
+conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not
+have had you by for the world.”
+
+“Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark
+upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my
+head.”
+
+Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
+James.
+
+Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
+continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
+going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
+prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to
+delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,
+where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
+Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk
+over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
+newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new
+face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the
+Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in
+less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her
+usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant
+attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves
+from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time,
+till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,
+confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little
+share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
+sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was
+conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so
+much laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not
+unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give
+any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she
+was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed
+necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just
+entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
+a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had
+courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the
+day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her
+advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as
+long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all
+probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by
+either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before,
+under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
+spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might
+be something uncommon.
+
+“How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of
+Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once
+surprised and amused her companion.
+
+“Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”
+
+“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the
+other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been
+engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You
+cannot think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised
+I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”
+
+“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
+for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”
+
+“_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
+thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on
+Monday a Miss Smith?”
+
+“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”
+
+“I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”
+
+“Not very.”
+
+“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”
+
+Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
+go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said
+Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?”
+
+“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”
+
+“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly
+returned; and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of
+her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the
+smallest consciousness of having explained them.
+
+She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
+the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
+future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
+occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress
+is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about
+it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
+great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas
+before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating
+between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the
+shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.
+This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
+from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
+than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
+the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
+the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how
+little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their
+attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
+unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
+the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
+alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the
+better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a
+something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the
+latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the
+tranquillity of Catherine.
+
+She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
+from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
+exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
+avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
+not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
+dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
+young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
+young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have
+been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from
+the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been
+anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As
+soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
+fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as
+possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear
+him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she
+saw nothing of the Tilneys.
+
+“Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I
+am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively
+it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but
+you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature,
+and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
+moment.”
+
+Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
+away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.
+That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept
+her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her
+folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with
+the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,
+when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
+by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
+granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went
+with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she
+believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
+immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
+sought her on purpose!—it did not appear to her that life could supply
+any greater felicity.
+
+Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
+place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
+stood behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning
+of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”
+
+“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”
+
+“That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the
+room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,
+you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake
+of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever
+since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in
+the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my
+acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
+room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will
+quiz me famously.”
+
+“Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as
+that.”
+
+“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
+blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his
+curiosity. “Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure
+of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of
+mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A
+famous clever animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds
+to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse
+when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not
+do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have
+three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight
+hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in
+Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d—uncomfortable,
+living at an inn.”
+
+This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s
+attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
+a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,
+“That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
+you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
+of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
+agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness
+belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
+themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
+other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity
+and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do
+not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the
+partners or wives of their neighbours.”
+
+“But they are such very different things!”
+
+“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”
+
+“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
+house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a
+long room for half an hour.”
+
+“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
+light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could
+place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the
+advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it
+is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
+each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
+other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each
+to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had
+bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their
+own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their
+neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with
+anyone else. You will allow all this?”
+
+“Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still
+they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same
+light, nor think the same duties belong to them.”
+
+“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
+is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make
+the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.
+But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness,
+the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and
+the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties
+which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.”
+
+“No, indeed, I never thought of that.”
+
+“Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
+disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
+similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
+notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your
+partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who
+spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to
+address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing
+with him as long as you chose?”
+
+“Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if
+he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three
+young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”
+
+“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”
+
+“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,
+it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_
+to talk to anybody.”
+
+“Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
+with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
+making the inquiry before?”
+
+“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”
+
+“More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
+time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”
+
+“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”
+
+“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
+out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but
+beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world.’ You would
+be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every
+winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at
+last because they can afford to stay no longer.”
+
+“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
+London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired
+village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place
+as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a
+variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know
+nothing of there.”
+
+“You are not fond of the country.”
+
+“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
+certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath
+life. One day in the country is exactly like another.”
+
+“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”
+
+“Do I?”
+
+“Do you not?”
+
+“I do not believe there is much difference.”
+
+“Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”
+
+“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
+here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every
+street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.”
+
+Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
+
+“Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
+intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you
+will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all
+that you did here.”
+
+“Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to
+Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking
+of Bath, when I am at home again—I _do_ like it so very much. If I
+could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I
+should be too happy! James’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite
+delightful—and especially as it turns out that the very family we are
+just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can
+ever be tired of Bath?”
+
+“Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
+But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good
+deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish
+of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.” Here their
+conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too
+importunate for a divided attention.
+
+Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
+herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
+lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
+of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of
+life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
+presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his
+notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something
+wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did
+so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, “I
+see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows
+your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my
+father.”
+
+Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
+everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on
+their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
+follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a
+family they are!” was her secret remark.
+
+In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
+of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her
+arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
+environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
+eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
+find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
+that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. “I shall like
+it,” she cried, “beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
+off—let us go tomorrow.” This was readily agreed to, with only a
+proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was
+sure it would not. At twelve o’clock, they were to call for her in
+Pulteney Street; and “Remember—twelve o’clock,” was her parting speech
+to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established
+friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a
+fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening.
+Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she
+cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather
+early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her
+chair all the way home.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 11
+
+
+The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a
+few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
+favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she
+allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
+improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
+confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
+barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
+She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive.
+“She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the
+clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.”
+
+At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
+windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
+will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone.
+
+“I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.
+
+“No walk for me today,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
+nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”
+
+“Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”
+
+“Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.”
+
+“No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”
+
+After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine,
+as she stood watching at a window.
+
+“So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”
+
+“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
+umbrella!”
+
+“They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a
+chair at any time.”
+
+“It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be
+dry!”
+
+“Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
+the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put
+on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
+rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder
+he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”
+
+The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
+minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept
+on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as
+hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not
+be able to go, my dear.”
+
+“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
+after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do
+think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after
+twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such
+weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the
+south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin died!—such beautiful
+weather!”
+
+At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
+was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment,
+the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite
+by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she
+instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy
+appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon
+would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always
+thought it would clear up.” But whether Catherine might still expect
+her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney
+to venture, must yet be a question.
+
+It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the
+pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely
+watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach
+of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that
+had surprised her so much a few mornings back.
+
+“Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for
+me perhaps—but I shall not go—I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss
+Tilney may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon
+with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he
+was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. “Make haste! Make haste!”
+as he threw open the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no
+time to be lost—we are going to Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”
+
+“To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go
+with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every
+moment.” This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all;
+Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in,
+to give their assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this
+delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your
+brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at
+breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should
+have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable
+rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall
+do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
+country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
+shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner
+is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.”
+
+“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.
+
+“You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
+more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
+hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.”
+
+“Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. “What is that?”
+
+“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
+see.”
+
+“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”
+
+“The oldest in the kingdom.”
+
+“But is it like what one reads of?”
+
+“Exactly—the very same.”
+
+“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”
+
+“By dozens.”
+
+“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”
+
+“Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?”
+
+“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
+smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
+country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
+as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”
+
+“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street,
+I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”
+
+“I do not know indeed.”
+
+“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
+with last night, are not you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
+smart-looking girl.”
+
+“Did you indeed?”
+
+“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
+some very pretty cattle too.”
+
+“It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
+walk.”
+
+“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!
+You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the
+whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”
+
+Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an
+idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”
+
+“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
+up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”
+
+“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”
+
+“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is
+dryer, and call by and by?”
+
+“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
+hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
+going as far as Wick Rocks.”
+
+“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”
+
+“Just as you please, my dear.”
+
+“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
+Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose
+you go.” And in two minutes they were off.
+
+Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
+unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
+pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in
+degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
+acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
+without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later
+than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite
+of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the
+course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help
+thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To
+feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the
+delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
+Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console
+her for almost anything.
+
+They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
+without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
+meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
+false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
+Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
+“Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”
+
+“Who? Where?”
+
+“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
+Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s
+arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at
+her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss
+Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop,
+I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she
+speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys,
+who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight
+round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself
+whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of
+another street, she entreated him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr.
+Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss
+Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his
+horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as
+she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the
+point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How could
+you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them
+driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the
+world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them,
+too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall
+have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
+thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could
+you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself
+very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his
+life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney
+himself.
+
+Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
+agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in
+their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
+short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she
+still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be
+disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
+thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all
+the happiness which its walls could supply—the happiness of a progress
+through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
+magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the happiness
+of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low,
+grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
+extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total
+darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
+mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo
+from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know
+what was the matter. The others then came close enough for
+conversation, and Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is
+too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have
+been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than
+seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will
+never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it
+off till another day, and turn round.”
+
+“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
+turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.
+
+“If your brother had not got such a d—beast to drive,” said he soon
+afterwards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have
+trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have
+almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
+jade’s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his
+own.”
+
+“No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly, “for I am sure he could not
+afford it.”
+
+“And why cannot he afford it?”
+
+“Because he has not money enough.”
+
+“And whose fault is that?”
+
+“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
+incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a
+d—thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not
+afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
+endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
+consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less
+disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so;
+and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.
+
+As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and
+lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting
+off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady
+had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying
+no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went
+away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked
+slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on
+hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, “I am glad your
+brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a
+strange, wild scheme.”
+
+They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was
+disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of
+commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with
+Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn
+at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was
+spoken more than once. “How I pity the poor creatures that are going
+there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it
+will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would
+not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening
+now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I
+know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that
+is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
+sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you.
+I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think
+yourselves of such consequence.”
+
+Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
+tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they
+appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she
+offered. “Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” she whispered. “You
+will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but
+the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It
+was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I
+should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a
+friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;
+he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand
+you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would
+fifty times rather you should have them than myself.”
+
+And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
+true heroine’s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with
+tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night’s
+rest in the course of the next three months.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 12
+
+
+“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm
+in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have
+explained everything.”
+
+“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
+always wears white.”
+
+Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
+impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
+herself of General Tilney’s lodgings, for though she believed they were
+in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s
+wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
+was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
+away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
+conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
+resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see
+her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
+believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
+impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
+Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
+quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
+card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
+not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
+Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
+the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney _was_ at home,
+and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
+could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
+expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
+bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at
+a window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She
+was followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
+and they turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep
+mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself
+at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
+remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
+might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of
+unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
+rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.
+
+Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
+others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
+were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first
+place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the
+second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre
+accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;
+she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
+for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were
+habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she
+knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered everything else of the kind
+“quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own expectation of
+pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing
+her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
+wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
+sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the
+opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no
+longer excite genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention.
+Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box;
+and, for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry
+Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be
+suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn
+from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look
+towards her, and he bowed—but such a bow! No smile, no continued
+observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their
+former direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost
+have run round to the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her
+explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead
+of considering her own dignity injured by this ready
+condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
+show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to
+leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
+enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with
+somebody else—she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at
+least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of
+explaining its cause.
+
+The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be
+seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
+might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes
+he appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke
+with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such
+calmness was he answered by the latter: “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been
+quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have
+thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs.
+Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone
+out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten
+thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”
+
+“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.
+
+Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away;
+it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and
+he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We
+were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk
+after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look
+back on purpose.”
+
+“But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such
+a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to
+him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! You were
+not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have
+stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.”
+
+Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
+declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile,
+he said everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret,
+and dependence on Catherine’s honour. “Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was
+not angry,” cried Catherine, “because I know she was; for she would not
+see me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the
+next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted.
+Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”
+
+“I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
+has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
+incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
+that my father—they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
+hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off—made a point of her
+being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
+and meant to make her apology as soon as possible.”
+
+Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
+of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
+thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
+gentleman: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were _you_ less generous than your
+sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
+suppose it to be only a mistake, why should _you_ be so ready to take
+offence?”
+
+“Me! I take offence!”
+
+“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
+angry.”
+
+“I angry! I could have no right.”
+
+“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”
+He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.
+
+He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
+Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
+however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon
+as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
+she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the
+world.
+
+While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
+John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten
+minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and
+she felt something more than surprise when she thought she could
+perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse. What
+could they have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like
+her appearance: she found it was implied in his preventing her
+admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few
+minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father?” was her anxious
+inquiry, as she pointed them out to her companion. He knew nothing
+about it; but his father, like every military man, had a very large
+acquaintance.
+
+When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
+out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
+they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which
+had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by
+asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking
+with General Tilney: “He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout,
+active—looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I
+assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”
+
+“But how came you to know him?”
+
+“Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
+have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today
+the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we
+have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was
+almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me;
+and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever
+was made in this world—I took his ball exactly—but I could not make you
+understand it without a table; however, I _did_ beat him. A very fine
+fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he
+gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of?
+You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in
+Bath.”
+
+“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”
+
+“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, general,
+said I; I am quite of your mind.”
+
+Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
+General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
+however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it,
+continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her
+entreating him to have done.
+
+That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
+delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
+family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much
+more, for her than could have been expected.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 13
+
+
+Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
+passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
+and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
+and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
+week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
+the afternoon’s Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In
+a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom
+had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less
+anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided
+the weather were fair, the party should take place on the following
+morning; and they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in
+good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s approbation
+secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had left
+them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the
+plan was completed, and as soon as she came again, her agreement was
+demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
+Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The
+engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former
+attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had
+that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk
+tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account,
+retract. But that she _must_ and _should_ retract, was instantly the
+eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton tomorrow, they
+would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk
+for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was
+distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to
+Miss Tilney. I cannot go.” This availed nothing. The same arguments
+assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear
+of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had
+just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off
+the walk till Tuesday.”
+
+“No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
+engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
+her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
+endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
+seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so
+dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
+sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
+in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
+by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
+influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
+with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
+little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
+cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I cannot help being
+jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
+love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not
+in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
+stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own
+peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
+does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
+everything else.”
+
+Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
+part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?
+Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
+everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
+mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
+her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
+could not help saying, “Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out
+any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a
+friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.”
+
+This was the first time of her brother’s openly siding against her, and
+anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
+would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
+do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
+everybody might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate
+answer; “that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
+go to town on Tuesday.” Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
+a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
+cold resentment said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If
+Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
+not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.”
+
+“Catherine, you must go,” said James.
+
+“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
+either of them would like to go.”
+
+“Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my
+sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I
+do. I only go for the sake of driving you.”
+
+“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
+lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.
+
+The three others still continued together, walking in a most
+uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
+sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
+her arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at
+war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
+distressed, but always steady.
+
+“I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James;
+“you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the
+kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.”
+
+“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed
+I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”
+
+“I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great
+struggle.”
+
+Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
+opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
+by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have
+settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe
+conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
+
+“You have not!” cried Catherine.
+
+“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me
+to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to
+Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking
+with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as
+convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty
+good thought of mine—hey?”
+
+Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
+James too looked happy again.
+
+“A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our
+distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
+most delightful party.”
+
+“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must
+run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”
+
+Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
+remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry.
+When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday
+would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make
+any further objection.
+
+“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.
+If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss
+Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
+that Mr. Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into
+one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
+Isabella, do not hold me.”
+
+Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
+turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and
+were at home by this time.
+
+“Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are I will
+go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
+into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.” And
+with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have
+darted after her, but Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if
+she will go.”
+
+“She is as obstinate as—”
+
+Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a
+proper one.
+
+Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
+permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As
+she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
+disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
+but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
+apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney,
+to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
+and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
+withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
+merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some
+degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
+attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
+opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
+restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
+be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
+she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
+Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
+Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their
+lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
+remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that
+she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
+proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which
+happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
+drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her
+explanation, defective only in being—from her irritation of nerves and
+shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was instantly given. “I am
+come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never promised to go—I
+told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a great hurry to
+explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for
+the servant.”
+
+The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
+soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe _had_
+given the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself
+greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her
+in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
+much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of
+knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager
+declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as
+she could desire.
+
+The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to
+her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
+politeness as recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her
+think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
+anxious attention was the general’s civility carried, that not aware of
+her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
+with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
+apartment herself. “What did William mean by it? He should make a point
+of inquiring into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly
+asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
+favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.
+
+After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
+and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if
+she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of
+the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was
+greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
+would expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say
+no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded;
+but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given,
+they would not refuse to spare her to her friend. “Oh, no; Catherine
+was sure they would not have the least objection, and she should have
+great pleasure in coming.” The general attended her himself to the
+street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs,
+admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with
+the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful bows
+she had ever beheld, when they parted.
+
+Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to
+Pulteney Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity,
+though she had never thought of it before. She reached home without
+seeing anything more of the offended party; and now that she had been
+triumphant throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her
+walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt
+whether she had been perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and
+if she had given way to their entreaties, she should have been spared
+the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a
+scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps through her means.
+To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced
+person what her own conduct had really been, she took occasion to
+mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the
+Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. “Well,”
+said he, “and do you think of going too?”
+
+“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they
+told me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could
+I?”
+
+“No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
+are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
+in open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
+public places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe
+should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs.
+Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of
+thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects objectionable?”
+
+“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
+gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and
+getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
+direction. I hate an open carriage myself.”
+
+“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has
+an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them
+by young men, to whom they are not even related?”
+
+“Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
+
+“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before?
+I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with
+Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
+I was doing wrong.”
+
+“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
+Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
+one must not be over particular. Young people _will_ be young people,
+as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
+came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
+not like to be always thwarted.”
+
+“But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
+would have found me hard to persuade.”
+
+“As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr.
+Allen; “and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr.
+Thorpe any more.”
+
+“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife.
+
+Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
+moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper
+and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
+which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that
+Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
+spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from
+doing any such thing. “You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is
+old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to
+advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however,
+you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and
+you will be only getting ill will.”
+
+Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
+doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her
+own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the
+danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one
+of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
+Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in
+order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
+breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 14
+
+
+The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
+from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
+dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
+victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
+neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her
+at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
+recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
+disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
+fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
+determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
+beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
+from almost every opening in Bath.
+
+“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
+the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
+
+“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
+
+“Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
+of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
+Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
+books.”
+
+“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
+novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s
+works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
+when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
+finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”
+
+“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
+aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
+answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
+Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”
+
+“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
+the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get
+on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
+promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at
+a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you
+are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I
+reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”
+
+“I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
+liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
+novels amazingly.”
+
+“It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do—for they
+read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
+Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
+Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
+inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
+leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate
+simile.—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
+she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
+the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
+a good little girl working your sampler at home!”
+
+“Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
+the nicest book in the world?”
+
+“The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
+upon the binding.”
+
+“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
+is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
+fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
+the same liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not
+suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall
+be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”
+
+“I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong;
+but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”
+
+“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are
+taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It
+is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps
+it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or
+refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
+their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised
+in that one word.”
+
+“While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to
+you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise.
+Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the
+utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms
+we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind
+of reading?”
+
+“To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do
+not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
+interested in. Can you?”
+
+“Yes, I am fond of history.”
+
+“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
+nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
+kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
+nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I
+often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
+must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes’ mouths,
+their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and
+invention is what delights me in other books.”
+
+“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their
+flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
+am fond of history—and am very well contented to take the false with
+the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in
+former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I
+conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one’s own
+observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they
+are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn
+up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made—and probably
+with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than
+if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.”
+
+“You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I
+have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my
+small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity
+the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books,
+it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great
+volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look
+into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls,
+always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right
+and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s courage that could
+sit down on purpose to do it.”
+
+“That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what
+no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
+deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must
+observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no
+higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
+qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
+time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as I observed to be your own
+method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them to be now admitted as
+synonymous.”
+
+“You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had
+been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning
+their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how
+stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor
+mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every
+day of my life at home, you would allow that to _torment_ and to
+_instruct_ might sometimes be used as synonymous words.”
+
+“Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty
+of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
+particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may
+perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
+be tormented for two or three years of one’s life, for the sake of
+being able to read all the rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been
+taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain—or perhaps might not
+have written at all.”
+
+Catherine assented—and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s
+merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
+which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the
+eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
+being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
+Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing—nothing of taste:
+and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little
+profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to
+her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to
+contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
+before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
+top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of
+a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
+shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To
+come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
+administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
+always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
+knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
+
+The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
+set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
+of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
+larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
+great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
+too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more
+in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
+advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
+heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever
+young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the
+present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge,
+declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw;
+and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
+instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
+everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he
+became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
+He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens
+and perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
+scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
+rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a
+landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her
+with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
+and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the
+withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general,
+to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and
+government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from
+politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
+succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an
+end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered
+these words, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will
+soon come out in London.”
+
+Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
+hastily replied, “Indeed! And of what nature?”
+
+“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it
+is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”
+
+“Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?”
+
+“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
+London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect
+murder and everything of the kind.”
+
+“You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend’s
+accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known
+beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to
+prevent its coming to effect.”
+
+“Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires
+nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
+government cares not how much.”
+
+The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
+understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
+can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
+generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
+with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
+comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither
+sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want
+observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.”
+
+“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
+satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”
+
+“Riot! What riot?”
+
+“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
+there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
+dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
+duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a
+frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you
+understand? And you, Miss Morland—my stupid sister has mistaken all
+your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London—and
+instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
+done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
+immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
+in St. George’s Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
+streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light
+Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
+the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment
+of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
+brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
+sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means
+a simpleton in general.”
+
+Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
+have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
+understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
+rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in
+general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
+
+“I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.”
+
+“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
+
+“What am I to do?”
+
+“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
+her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of
+women.”
+
+“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the
+women in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I
+happen to be in company.”
+
+“That is not enough. Be more serious.”
+
+“Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
+women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
+never find it necessary to use more than half.”
+
+“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
+not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
+misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any
+woman at all, or an unkind one of me.”
+
+It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
+be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must
+always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as
+ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and
+though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her
+friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they
+parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen
+as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner
+on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen’s side,
+and the only difficulty on Catherine’s was in concealing the excess of
+her pleasure.
+
+The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
+friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James
+had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
+became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little
+effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
+anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the
+morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable
+yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked
+out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe
+as she was loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between two of the
+sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the
+morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken
+place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am
+sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well
+off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world,
+for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went
+with your brother, and John drove Maria.”
+
+Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of
+the arrangement.
+
+“Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to
+go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire
+her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go,
+if they pressed me ever so much.”
+
+Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish
+you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”
+
+“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
+would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
+when you overtook us.”
+
+Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
+friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
+without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
+not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
+wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella
+to resent her resistance any longer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 15
+
+
+Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
+in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a
+matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
+state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two
+youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s
+quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of
+asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria
+desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine
+immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful
+scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had
+been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive.
+Such was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded
+thus much in detail—that they had driven directly to the York Hotel,
+ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the
+pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
+spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying
+back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in
+the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not
+up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he
+could hardly get it along.
+
+Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
+Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was
+nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded
+with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she
+represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.
+
+“She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
+it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
+she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour
+again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a
+little matter that puts me out of temper.”
+
+Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
+happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without
+ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:
+“Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not
+deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.”
+
+Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
+
+“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose
+yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
+talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my
+note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my
+heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most
+charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will
+your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them
+I am so agitated!”
+
+Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
+darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,
+she cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
+you—can you really be in love with James?”
+
+This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
+fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having
+continually watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the
+course of their yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession
+of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James.
+Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder,
+and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances,
+the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated
+it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life
+can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not
+express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The
+happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the
+fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
+
+Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the
+connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
+tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
+Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
+more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
+
+This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
+
+“You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite
+doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
+the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland
+came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart
+was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
+done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
+introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”
+
+Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
+exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
+had never in her life thought him handsome.
+
+“I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
+her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought
+your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a
+wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless
+nights I have had on your brother’s account! I would not have you
+suffer half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
+will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it.
+I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking
+of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would
+be safe with _you_.”
+
+Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
+ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor
+refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
+sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was
+preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his
+situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation
+to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
+was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
+their son’s wishes. “It is impossible,” said she, “for parents to be
+more kind, or more desirous of their children’s happiness; I have no
+doubt of their consenting immediately.”
+
+“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
+expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.
+Your brother, who might marry anybody!”
+
+Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
+
+“Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
+nothing to signify.”
+
+“Oh! My sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would
+signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many.
+As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had
+I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your
+brother would be my only choice.”
+
+This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave
+Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
+acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than
+in uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her
+frequent declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”
+
+“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
+smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
+really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
+not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired
+village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
+Richmond.”
+
+“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
+be near us.”
+
+“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near
+_you_, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow
+myself to think of such things, till we have your father’s answer.
+Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it
+tomorrow. Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the
+letter. I know it will be the death of me.”
+
+A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
+was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.
+
+Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
+who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
+Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
+eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
+speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
+ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
+adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
+been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
+he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
+to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
+far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven’s
+sake, waste no more time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”
+
+The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
+inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours
+flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with
+everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to
+consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance
+imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and
+add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill
+up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger
+sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve
+seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
+unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
+inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her
+heart at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening
+was spent in a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on
+one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of
+undefined discovery, all equally acute.
+
+Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
+support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
+delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of
+reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
+desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a
+state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress be
+found? “I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind
+parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done
+to forward my happiness,” were the first three lines, and in one moment
+all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over
+Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits
+became almost too high for control, and she called herself without
+scruple the happiest of mortals.
+
+Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her
+visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
+satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear
+John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria”
+must immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two “dears” at
+once before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child
+had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only
+bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the
+finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his
+praise.
+
+The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
+little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
+deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
+could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s
+promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
+means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be
+resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
+disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of
+an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a
+rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end
+of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at
+Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a
+carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
+exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.
+
+When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
+only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set
+off. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the
+parlour, “I am come to bid you good-bye.” Catherine wished him a good
+journey. Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window,
+fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
+
+“Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine. He made no answer;
+but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this
+marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s.
+What do you think of it, Miss Morland? _I_ say it is no bad notion.”
+
+“I am sure I think it a very good one.”
+
+“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to
+matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song ‘Going to One
+Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I
+hope.”
+
+“Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”
+
+“And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
+laugh—“I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old
+song.”
+
+“May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
+Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home.”
+
+“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be
+together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a
+fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
+
+“Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that he
+waited for an answer.
+
+“That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget
+it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody
+living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only
+good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you
+have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”
+
+“Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a
+great deal better. Good morning to you.”
+
+“But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
+before it is long, if not disagreeable.”
+
+“Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
+
+“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, _you_ will not be sorry to see me.”
+
+“Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.
+Company is always cheerful.”
+
+“That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful
+company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only
+be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say
+I. And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a
+notion, Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most
+matters.”
+
+“Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to _most
+matters_, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind
+about.”
+
+“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what
+does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only
+have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and
+what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good
+income of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”
+
+“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one
+side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which
+has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune
+looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest
+thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at
+Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.” And away she went. It was not in
+the power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to
+communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to
+be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,
+leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address,
+and her explicit encouragement.
+
+The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her
+brother’s engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion
+in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How
+great was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of
+preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her
+brother’s arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was
+comprehended in a wish for the young people’s happiness, with a remark,
+on the gentleman’s side, in favour of Isabella’s beauty, and on the
+lady’s, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising
+insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James’s
+going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs.
+Allen. She could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but
+repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could
+have known his intention, wished she could have seen him before he
+went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best regards
+to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 16
+
+
+Catherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
+were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,
+though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly
+welcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of
+the party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in the
+examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment
+preparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding
+herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
+of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead
+of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a
+family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little
+agreeable; and, in spite of their father’s great civilities to her—in
+spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments—it had been a release
+to get away from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could
+not be General Tilney’s fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and
+good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
+doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry’s father. _He_ could not
+be accountable for his children’s want of spirits, or for her want of
+enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have been
+accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own
+stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a
+different explanation: “It was all pride, pride, insufferable
+haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very
+high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss
+Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of
+her house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such
+superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!”
+
+“But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no
+superciliousness; she was very civil.”
+
+“Oh! Don’t defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared so
+attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people’s feelings are
+incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?”
+
+“I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”
+
+“How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my
+aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
+Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.”
+
+“Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”
+
+“That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!
+Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John
+has the most constant heart.”
+
+“But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
+anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed
+to be his only care to entertain and make me happy.”
+
+“Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
+is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John’s
+judgment—”
+
+“Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
+them at the rooms.”
+
+“And must I go?”
+
+“Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.”
+
+“Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But
+do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know,
+will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I
+beg; _that_ is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me
+to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he
+guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I
+shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.”
+
+Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
+sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or
+sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.
+The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
+kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss
+Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.
+
+Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
+Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for
+the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she
+had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party.
+She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible
+that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in
+her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less
+prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly
+inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every
+thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for
+finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed
+that, whatever might be our heroine’s opinion of him, his admiration of
+her was not of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities
+between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. _He_ cannot be the
+instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats, by whom she
+will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will
+drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by
+presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of
+having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with
+Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and,
+in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.
+
+At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
+and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They
+retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did
+not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney
+must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now
+hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them
+forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without
+very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes’
+duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an
+hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry’s
+requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have
+any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be
+introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was
+very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was
+passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away.
+
+“Your brother will not mind it, I know,” said she, “because I heard him
+say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him
+to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
+might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not
+dance upon any account in the world.”
+
+Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
+understand the motive of other people’s actions.”
+
+“Why? What do you mean?”
+
+“With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What
+is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings,
+age, situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should
+_I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?”
+
+“I do not understand you.”
+
+“Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
+well.”
+
+“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
+
+“Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.”
+
+“But pray tell me what you mean.”
+
+“Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
+consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
+certainly bring on a disagreement between us.”
+
+“No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
+
+“Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of
+dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your
+being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”
+
+Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
+verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her
+for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much
+that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and
+almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,
+she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them
+hands across.
+
+Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of
+this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
+was not quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her
+astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.
+
+“I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
+dance.”
+
+“And did Isabella never change her mind before?”
+
+“Oh! But, because—And your brother! After what you told him from me,
+how could he think of going to ask her?”
+
+“I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised
+on your friend’s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother,
+his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I
+believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an
+open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by
+yourself.”
+
+“You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in
+general.”
+
+“It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be
+to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;
+and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by
+no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”
+
+The friends were not able to get together for any confidential
+discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about
+the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: “I do not wonder
+at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a
+rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would
+have given the world to sit still.”
+
+“Then why did not you?”
+
+“Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I
+abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he
+would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him
+to excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring
+to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think
+of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with
+me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to
+prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches
+and compliments; and so—and so then I found there would be no peace if
+I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,
+might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he
+would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so
+glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his
+nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye
+was upon us.”
+
+“He is very handsome indeed.”
+
+“Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him in
+general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid
+complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
+conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my
+way.”
+
+When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
+to discuss. James Morland’s second letter was then received, and the
+kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.
+Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds
+yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old
+enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no
+niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least
+equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.
+
+James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
+the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
+marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
+borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been
+as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was
+now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and
+heartily congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly
+settled.
+
+“It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. “Mr.
+Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs.
+Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as
+much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he
+_can_ do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be
+an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to
+begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate,
+you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear.”
+
+“It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be
+the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an
+income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For
+myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.”
+
+“I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
+the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young
+woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
+when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our
+dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so
+very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man;
+and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a
+suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am
+sure he must be a most liberal-minded man.”
+
+“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
+everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do
+what they like with their own money.” Catherine was hurt by these
+insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she, “that my father has promised
+to do as much as he can afford.”
+
+Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
+cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much
+smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that
+makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if
+our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should
+not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.
+There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are
+to pass before your brother can hold the living.”
+
+“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see
+into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
+present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
+noble honest affection.”
+
+Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
+believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of
+Isabella’s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as
+cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a
+minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was
+received with the most gratifying kindness.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 17
+
+
+The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
+whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
+Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with
+the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
+Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
+and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
+be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to
+produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
+made but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed,
+since James’s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had
+got so far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the
+felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the
+present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness
+being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a
+distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning
+which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured
+forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No
+sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay
+than Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon
+quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past
+suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present
+disappointment. Catherine’s countenance fell, and in a voice of most
+sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end
+of another week!”
+
+“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
+think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival
+whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a
+hurry to get home.”
+
+“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known
+this before—”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
+good—it would make me very happy if—”
+
+The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine
+was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.
+After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his
+daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
+successful in your application to your fair friend?”
+
+“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”
+
+“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
+daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter
+time to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as
+she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my
+steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being
+disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General
+Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain
+me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we
+should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be
+prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your
+friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost
+ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly
+appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as
+yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can
+be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond
+expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of
+this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour,
+for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no
+endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not
+wholly disagreeable.”
+
+Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s
+feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified
+heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
+tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her
+company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every
+present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
+acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s
+approbation, was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she,
+“and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not—”
+
+General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
+excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of
+his wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may
+expect philosophy from all the world.”
+
+Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities,
+and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this
+necessary reference to Fullerton would allow.
+
+The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
+the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were
+now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
+with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried
+home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the
+discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
+daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had
+been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their
+ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though
+not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of
+being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and
+fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for
+her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she
+had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met
+her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a
+return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it.
+The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The
+Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought
+of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
+their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor,
+she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose
+society she mostly prized—and, in addition to all the rest, this roof
+was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was
+next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney—and castles and abbeys
+made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill.
+To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the
+cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though
+to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible
+for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against
+her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned
+up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages,
+its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach,
+and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends,
+some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.
+
+It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
+possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so
+meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A
+distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their
+superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority of
+person.
+
+Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
+active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she
+was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a
+richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
+fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,
+of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the
+present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low
+in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 18
+
+
+With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
+or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more
+than a few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this,
+and to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one
+morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and
+scarcely had she felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship, before the
+object of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the
+way to a seat. “This is my favourite place,” said she as they sat down
+on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of
+everybody entering at either; “it is so out of the way.”
+
+Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
+one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how
+often she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a
+fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not
+be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.”
+
+“Psha! My dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a
+simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would
+be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of the place.
+And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is
+one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend
+upon a most particular description of it.”
+
+“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
+looking for? Are your sisters coming?”
+
+“I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
+know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are
+an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most
+absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with
+minds of a certain stamp.”
+
+“But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?”
+
+“Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My
+poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just
+had a letter from John; you can guess the contents.”
+
+“No, indeed, I cannot.”
+
+“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write
+about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with
+you.”
+
+“With _me_, dear Isabella!”
+
+“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and
+all that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty
+is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so
+overstrained! It is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such
+as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he
+left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so
+in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you
+received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge
+his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain
+to affect ignorance.”
+
+Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her
+astonishment at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every
+thought of Mr. Thorpe’s being in love with her, and the consequent
+impossibility of her having ever intended to encourage him. “As to any
+attentions on his side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was
+sensible of them for a moment—except just his asking me to dance the
+first day of his coming. And as to making me an offer, or anything like
+it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could not have
+misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be
+believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever
+passed between us. The last half hour before he went away! It must be
+all and completely a mistake—for I did not see him once that whole
+morning.”
+
+“But _that_ you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in
+Edgar’s Buildings—it was the day your father’s consent came—and I am
+pretty sure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time
+before you left the house.”
+
+“Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life
+of me, I cannot recollect it. I _do_ remember now being with you, and
+seeing him as well as the rest—but that we were ever alone for five
+minutes—However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass
+on his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,
+that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind
+from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for
+me—but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had
+the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and
+tell him I beg his pardon—that is—I do not know what I ought to say—but
+make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not
+speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but
+you know very well that if I could think of one man more than
+another—_he_ is not the person.” Isabella was silent. “My dear friend,
+you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so
+very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
+
+“Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being
+sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
+seems to be that you are determined against poor John—is not it so?”
+
+“I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant
+to encourage it.”
+
+“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.
+John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.
+But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
+foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of
+either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together?
+You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that
+will support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say,
+there is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it;
+he could not have received my last.”
+
+“You _do_ acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I
+never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
+till this moment?”
+
+“Oh! As to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
+determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been.
+All that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so
+will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than
+one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last
+person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be
+allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you
+know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
+
+“But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the
+same. You are describing what never happened.”
+
+“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
+her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into
+an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think
+anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your
+happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and
+who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you,
+for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially,
+they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why
+should a brother’s happiness be dearer to me than a friend’s? You know
+I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my
+dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you
+are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney
+says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of
+their own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he
+comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.”
+
+Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,
+earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice.
+He approached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements
+invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low,
+she could distinguish, “What! Always to be watched, in person or by
+proxy!”
+
+“Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
+do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit,
+you know, is pretty independent.”
+
+“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”
+
+“My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
+none of you any hearts.”
+
+“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
+
+“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
+disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you”
+(turning her back on him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now.”
+
+“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at
+once too much and too little.”
+
+Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
+longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her
+brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed
+their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so
+amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
+and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was
+expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must
+excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be
+stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their
+returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
+Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did
+she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
+in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;
+unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as
+certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or
+good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
+conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
+more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
+looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
+she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a
+hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her
+too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
+brother.
+
+The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
+thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as
+from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could
+mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
+convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In
+vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in
+wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in
+love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of
+his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had
+said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would
+never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for
+present ease and comfort.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 19
+
+
+A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
+suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of
+her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered
+creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate
+friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners
+was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
+unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
+absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would
+occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_
+might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But
+when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions
+as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share
+with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive
+to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what
+her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could
+not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of
+wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was
+the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his
+present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to
+_her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was
+greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a
+passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of
+his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed
+herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible
+with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not, upon
+reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother
+as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in
+her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind
+Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double
+unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension
+was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never
+understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney
+family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire
+was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would
+at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney
+had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party
+to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this,
+her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the
+subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe,
+and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.
+
+“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.
+
+“Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
+
+He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
+eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
+he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his
+own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence
+will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here,
+and it is only staying to be miserable.”
+
+Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do
+that.”
+
+“Then you will persuade him to go away?”
+
+“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
+endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
+engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”
+
+“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
+know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me
+so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
+
+“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”
+
+“Yes, very sure.”
+
+“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s
+admission of them, that gives the pain?”
+
+“Is not it the same thing?”
+
+“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended
+by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only
+who can make it a torment.”
+
+Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I
+am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
+brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and
+while my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost
+into a fever. You know she must be attached to him.”
+
+“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
+
+“Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
+another.”
+
+“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well,
+as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a
+little.”
+
+After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
+Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
+
+“I can have no opinion on that subject.”
+
+“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can
+he mean by his behaviour?”
+
+“You are a very close questioner.”
+
+“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
+
+“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”
+
+“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
+
+“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure
+you I can only guess at.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves.
+To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are
+before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless
+young man; he has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and
+he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.”
+
+“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “_you_ may
+be able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am
+sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not
+he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak
+to him, he would go.”
+
+“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for
+your brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not
+carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account
+or Miss Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her
+good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain
+Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him
+only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this—and you may
+be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, ‘Do not be
+uneasy,’ because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as
+little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of
+your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real
+jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
+disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open
+to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what
+is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will
+never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.”
+
+Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though
+Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a
+very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of
+absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what
+will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella
+Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor
+Tilney’s passion for a month.”
+
+Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
+approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her
+captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent
+of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject
+again.
+
+Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting
+interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in
+Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
+uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in
+excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness
+for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that
+at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat
+contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine
+remembered Henry’s instructions, and placed it all to judicious
+affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones
+may be fancied.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 20
+
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
+humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
+promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
+happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing
+it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
+themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
+attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
+seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
+her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful
+was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to
+preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first
+five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to
+Pulteney Street.
+
+Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her
+unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor
+could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure
+her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have
+felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her
+comfort—his continual solicitations that she would eat, and his
+often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste—though never
+in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a
+breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that
+she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew
+not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the
+general’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the
+displeasure he expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last
+came down. She was quite pained by the severity of his father’s
+reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her
+concern increased when she found herself the principal cause of the
+lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being
+disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a very uncomfortable
+situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney, without
+being able to hope for his goodwill.
+
+He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
+which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
+Isabella’s account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the
+real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being
+decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form her
+opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father
+remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits
+affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper
+to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are all off.”
+
+The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
+trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of
+Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for
+him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was
+to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,
+though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had
+so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to
+sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed
+her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk
+from being thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was
+closed upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in
+which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually
+perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger
+from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine’s spirits
+revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no
+restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an
+abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath
+without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
+it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which
+there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and
+loiter about without anything to see, next followed—and her admiration
+of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and
+four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their
+stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under
+this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly
+agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General Tilney,
+though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children’s
+spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation
+of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his
+angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more
+in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. At
+last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine
+then surprised by the general’s proposal of her taking his place in his
+son’s curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he
+was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”
+
+The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
+carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
+thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
+General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for
+her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry
+in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial
+convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;
+the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it
+was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget
+its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have
+been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
+disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own
+carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a
+minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
+Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making any disturbance, without
+parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
+gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And
+then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat
+looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being
+dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
+addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her
+own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her
+kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real
+friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he
+said, was uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and,
+in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
+companion at all.
+
+“But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”
+
+“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
+my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my
+father’s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”
+
+“How sorry you must be for that!”
+
+“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”
+
+“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the
+abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
+parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”
+
+He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the
+abbey.”
+
+“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one
+reads about?”
+
+“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such
+as ‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves
+fit for sliding panels and tapestry?”
+
+“Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
+would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been
+uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back
+to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”
+
+“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
+lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread
+our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.
+But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)
+introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart
+from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end
+of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient
+housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,
+into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about
+twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not
+your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too
+lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp
+to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as
+large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,
+presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within
+you?”
+
+“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.”
+
+“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And
+what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
+but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a
+ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the
+portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so
+incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your
+eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,
+gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
+To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that
+the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs
+you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this
+parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her
+receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when,
+with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,
+with increased alarm, that it has no lock.”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot
+really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.
+Well, what then?”
+
+“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
+surmounting your _unconquerable_ horror of the bed, you will retire to
+rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at
+farthest the _third_ night after your arrival, you will probably have a
+violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice
+to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains—and during
+the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
+you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging
+more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your
+curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will
+instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to
+examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a
+division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the
+minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately
+appear—which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you
+will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in
+your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
+
+“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.”
+
+“What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a
+secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the
+chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so
+simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted
+room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything
+very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in
+another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some
+instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the
+common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return
+towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted
+room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large,
+old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly
+examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by
+an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock
+its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time
+without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a
+considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret
+spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you
+seize it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the
+precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been
+able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou—whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands
+these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly
+expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”
+
+“Oh! No, no—do not say so. Well, go on.”
+
+But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able
+to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of
+subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy
+in the perusal of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew
+ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her
+attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really
+meeting with what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never
+put her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all
+afraid.”
+
+As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight
+of the abbey—for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects
+very different—returned in full force, and every bend in the road was
+expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey
+stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of
+the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But
+so low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through
+the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger,
+without having discerned even an antique chimney.
+
+She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a
+something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not
+expected. To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find
+herself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven
+so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle,
+alarm, or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent.
+She was not long at leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden
+scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to
+observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of
+her new straw bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was
+springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the
+shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her
+friend and the general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one
+awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment’s suspicion
+of any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The
+breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had
+wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a
+good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common
+drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was.
+
+An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she
+doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
+observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was
+in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where
+she had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times,
+was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome
+marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The
+windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from having
+heard the general talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with
+reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be
+sure, the pointed arch was preserved—the form of them was Gothic—they
+might be even casements—but every pane was so large, so clear, so
+light! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions,
+and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the
+difference was very distressing.
+
+The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
+smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where
+everything, being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.;
+flattering himself, however, that there were some apartments in the
+Abbey not unworthy her notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly
+gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped
+short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This
+seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away
+by Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest
+punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.
+
+Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
+staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many
+landing-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it
+had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which
+Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before
+Miss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope
+she would find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that
+she would make as little alteration as possible in her dress.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 21
+
+
+A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
+was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
+description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
+neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was
+carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those
+of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest
+fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
+altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on
+this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of
+anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.
+Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
+preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had
+conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on
+a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the
+fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything
+else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts
+crossed her:
+
+“This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An
+immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?
+Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into
+it—cost me what it may, I will look into it—and directly too—by
+daylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out.” She advanced
+and examined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some
+darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved
+stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at
+each end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken
+perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the
+lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it
+intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with
+certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe
+the last letter to be a _T;_ and yet that it should be anything else in
+that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of
+astonishment. If not originally theirs, by what strange events could it
+have fallen into the Tilney family?
+
+Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
+with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards
+to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for
+something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few
+inches; but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room
+made her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming
+violence. This ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her
+mistress to be of use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately
+dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense of what she ought to be
+doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this
+mystery, to proceed in her dressing without further delay. Her progress
+was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the
+object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared
+not waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many
+paces from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into
+her gown, her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of
+her curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be
+spared; and, so desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that,
+unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be
+thrown back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence
+did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave
+to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly
+folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession!
+
+She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
+anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the
+rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd
+expectation, was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a
+search. “That is a curious old chest, is not it?” said Miss Tilney, as
+Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to the glass. “It is
+impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to
+be first put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved,
+because I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and
+bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open.
+In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”
+
+Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her
+gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
+Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they
+ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General
+Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,
+on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,
+ordered “Dinner to be on table _directly!_”
+
+Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale
+and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and
+detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he
+looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for
+so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath
+from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the
+world: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress of
+having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
+herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the
+general’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored
+her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its
+dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use,
+and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on
+the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
+spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she
+spoke aloud her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious
+countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room,
+and further confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most
+people, he did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the
+necessaries of life; he supposed, however, “that she must have been
+used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen’s?”
+
+“No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s
+dining-parlour was not more than half as large,” and she had never seen
+so large a room as this in her life. The general’s good humour
+increased. Why, as he _had_ such rooms, he thought it would be simple
+not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might
+be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen’s house, he
+was sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.
+
+The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
+occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.
+It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue
+from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
+restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
+think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.
+
+The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
+afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained
+violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
+with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of
+the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt
+for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were
+characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless
+variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
+had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
+rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within
+walls so solemn! _She_ had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or
+drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had
+told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she
+could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom
+as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely
+fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled,
+especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from
+her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits
+were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. “How
+much better is this,” said she, as she walked to the fender—“how much
+better to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the
+cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been
+obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one
+by coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it
+is! If it had been like some other places, I do not know that, in such
+a night as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be
+sure, there is nothing to alarm one.”
+
+She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
+could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the
+divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
+humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
+behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare
+her, and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest
+conviction of the wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as she
+turned away from this examination, was not without its use; she scorned
+the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy
+indifference to prepare herself for bed. “She should take her time; she
+should not hurry herself; she did not care if she were the last person
+up in the house. But she would not make up her fire; _that_ would seem
+cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she were
+in bed.” The fire therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the
+best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of
+stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she
+was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet,
+which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her
+notice before. Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet
+which was to escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across
+her; and though there could be nothing really in it, there was
+something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence!
+She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not
+absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of
+the handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very
+much the effect of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange
+fancy to look into it; not, however, with the smallest expectation of
+finding anything, but it was so very odd, after what Henry had said. In
+short, she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the
+candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a very
+tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her utmost
+strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a
+bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely
+mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
+breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
+torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the
+awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on
+such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the
+consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate
+vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key, and after
+moving it in every possible way for some instants with the determined
+celerity of hope’s last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand:
+her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown
+open each folding door, the second being secured only by bolts of less
+wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye could not
+discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers appeared in
+view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in the centre,
+a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in all
+probability a cavity of importance.
+
+Catherine’s heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a
+cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers
+grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely
+empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a
+third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched,
+and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a
+treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
+escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The
+place in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had
+“never from the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any
+part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill
+success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly
+while she was about it.” It was some time however before she could
+unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of
+this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not
+vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a
+roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
+apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were
+indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks
+grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript,
+for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while
+she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of
+what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before
+she attempted to rest.
+
+The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
+alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet
+some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty
+in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might
+occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished
+in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect.
+Catherine, for a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done
+completely; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the
+rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room.
+A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to
+the moment. Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which
+succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant
+door struck on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more.
+A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
+and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some
+suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close
+her eyes in sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the
+question. With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every
+way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too
+abroad so dreadful! She had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but
+now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript
+so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning’s
+prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What could it contain? To
+whom could it relate? By what means could it have been so long
+concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to her lot to
+discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its contents,
+however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s
+first rays she was determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious
+hours which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed,
+and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were
+the noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals
+on her startled ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment
+in motion, and at another the lock of her door was agitated, as if by
+the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along
+the gallery, and more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of
+distant moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine
+had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the
+tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell fast asleep.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 22
+
+
+The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
+next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
+eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
+cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had
+succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
+consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the
+manuscript; and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s
+going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst
+from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the
+luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she
+must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of
+what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist
+entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling
+size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first.
+
+Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
+Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An
+inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that
+was before her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a
+washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same
+articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth
+presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced
+her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure
+scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and
+breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest,
+seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s
+bill! Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could
+then suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence she
+had taken them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and
+robbed her of half her night’s rest! She felt humbled to the dust.
+Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner
+of it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment
+against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her
+recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back
+could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so
+habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of
+unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
+
+How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry
+Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his
+own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with
+his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the
+smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred.
+Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those
+detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and
+folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before,
+returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty
+wish that no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to
+disgrace her even with herself.
+
+Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
+something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.
+In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
+flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the
+door’s having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its
+fastener, darted into her head, and cost her another blush.
+
+She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
+produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed
+to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss
+Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate
+hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch
+reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather
+distressing. For the world would she not have her weakness suspected,
+and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to
+acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. “But we have a
+charming morning after it,” she added, desiring to get rid of the
+subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
+What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”
+
+“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”
+
+“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take
+pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I
+saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent
+about flowers.”
+
+“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new
+source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon
+happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable
+in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you
+to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the
+love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment
+once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?”
+
+“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The
+pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in
+fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never
+within.”
+
+“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a
+hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
+teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has
+my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
+
+Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
+entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
+state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did
+not advance her composure.
+
+The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice
+when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the general’s
+choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it
+to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of
+his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as
+well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden
+or Sêve. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. The
+manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some
+beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly
+without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new
+set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of
+selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only
+one of the party who did not understand him.
+
+Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business
+required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the
+hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the
+breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
+another glimpse of his figure. “This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
+brother’s fortitude,” observed the general to Eleanor. “Woodston will
+make but a sombre appearance today.”
+
+“Is it a pretty place?” asked Catherine.
+
+“What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell
+the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it
+would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many
+recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the
+south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the
+walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago,
+for the benefit of my son. It is a family living, Miss Morland; and the
+property in the place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take care
+that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry’s income depend solely on
+this living, he would not be ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd,
+that with only two younger children, I should think any profession
+necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all
+wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not
+exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss
+Morland, would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give every
+young man some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an object,
+but employment is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see,
+who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
+private man in the county, has his profession.”
+
+The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
+silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.
+
+Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the
+house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though
+Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it
+was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any
+circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already
+eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The
+netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste,
+and she was ready to attend him in a moment. “And when they had gone
+over the house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure of
+accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden.” She curtsied her
+acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make
+those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
+this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so.
+Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his
+daughter think would most accord with her fair friend’s wishes? But he
+thought he could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland’s eyes
+a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But
+when did she judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He
+yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a
+moment.” He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious
+face, began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be taking them
+out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of
+pleasing her; but she was stopped by Miss Tilney’s saying, with a
+little confusion, “I believe it will be wisest to take the morning
+while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he
+always walks out at this time of day.”
+
+Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was
+Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
+general’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own.
+And was not it odd that he should _always_ take his walk so early?
+Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very
+provoking. She was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely
+any curiosity about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed!
+But now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such
+were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet
+in patient discontent.
+
+She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the
+abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole
+building enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich
+in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was
+shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the
+steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful
+even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to
+compare with it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that
+without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in
+wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude; and
+it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed
+till that hour.
+
+The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
+across a small portion of the park.
+
+The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
+could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent
+of all Mr. Allen’s, as well as her father’s, including church-yard and
+orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a
+village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to
+be at work within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks
+of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to
+tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to
+them before; and he then modestly owned that, “without any ambition of
+that sort himself—without any solicitude about it—he did believe them
+to be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was
+_that_. He loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of
+eating, he loved good fruit—or if he did not, his friends and children
+did. There were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as
+his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits.
+The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he
+supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself.”
+
+“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never
+went into it.”
+
+With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he
+could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in
+some way or other, by its falling short of his plan.
+
+“How were Mr. Allen’s succession-houses worked?” describing the nature
+of his own as they entered them.
+
+“Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use
+of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.”
+
+“He is a happy man!” said the general, with a look of very happy
+contempt.
+
+Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall,
+till she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the
+girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then
+expressing his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations
+about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their
+walk, if Miss Morland were not tired. “But where are you going,
+Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland
+will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”
+
+“This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always
+think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
+
+It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;
+and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,
+could not, even by the general’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping
+forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea
+of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He
+excused himself, however, from attending them: “The rays of the sun
+were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another
+course.” He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her
+spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less
+real than the relief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with
+easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.
+
+“I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh.
+“It was my mother’s favourite walk.”
+
+Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,
+and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself
+directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with
+which she waited for something more.
+
+“I used to walk here so often with her!” added Eleanor; “though I never
+loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to
+wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
+
+“And ought it not,” reflected Catherine, “to endear it to her husband?
+Yet the general would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she
+ventured to say, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
+
+“A great and increasing one,” replied the other, in a low voice. “I was
+only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as
+strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then
+know what a loss it was.” She stopped for a moment, and then added,
+with great firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though
+Henry—though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great
+deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to
+be often solitary.”
+
+“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
+
+“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a
+constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”
+
+“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture
+of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was
+it from dejection of spirits?”—were questions now eagerly poured forth;
+the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were
+passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney
+augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of her
+unhappiness in marriage, she felt persuaded. The general certainly had
+been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore
+have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something
+in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well to
+her.
+
+“Her picture, I suppose,” blushing at the consummate art of her own
+question, “hangs in your father’s room?”
+
+“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was
+dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon
+after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my
+bed-chamber—where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.”
+Here was another proof. A portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not
+valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
+
+Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
+feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously
+excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute
+aversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him
+odious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which
+Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was
+proof positive of the contrary.
+
+She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
+directly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous
+indignation, she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen
+to him, and even to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able,
+however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon
+began to walk with lassitude; the general perceived it, and with a
+concern for her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of
+him, was most urgent for returning with his daughter to the house. He
+would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted—but
+Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge
+against taking her friend round the abbey till his return. This second
+instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck
+Catherine as very remarkable.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 23
+
+
+An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of
+his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.
+“This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind
+at ease, or a conscience void of reproach.” At length he appeared; and,
+whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still
+smile with _them_. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s
+curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father
+being, contrary to Catherine’s expectations, unprovided with any
+pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to
+order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready
+to escort them.
+
+They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which
+caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read
+Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common
+drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both
+in size and furniture—the real drawing-room, used only with company of
+consequence. It was very noble—very grand—very charming!—was all that
+Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned
+the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise that
+had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the costliness or
+elegance of any room’s fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared
+for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When
+the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of
+every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an
+apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection
+of books, on which an humble man might have looked with pride.
+Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than
+before—gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge,
+by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed.
+But suites of apartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as
+was the building, she had already visited the greatest part; though, on
+being told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven
+rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could
+scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many
+chambers secreted. It was some relief, however, that they were to
+return to the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less
+importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional passages,
+not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides; and she was
+further soothed in her progress by being told that she was treading
+what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and
+observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to
+her—by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the
+general’s private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or
+being able to turn aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing
+through a dark little room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with
+his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.
+
+From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
+seen at five o’clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of
+pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss
+Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded
+by quick communication to the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the
+convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the
+stoves and hot closets of the present. The general’s improving hand had
+not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of
+the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and,
+when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the
+perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any time
+have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.
+
+With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
+fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,
+been removed by the general’s father, and the present erected in its
+place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not
+only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and
+enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been
+thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had
+swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for
+the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been
+spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the
+general allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement
+of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss
+Morland’s, a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the
+labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he
+should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of
+all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their
+multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few
+shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at
+Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious
+and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike
+her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some
+pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked
+off. Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these
+domestic arrangements from such as she had read about—from abbeys and
+castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the
+dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at
+the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs.
+Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began to be
+amazed herself.
+
+They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,
+and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be
+pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite
+direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered
+one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here
+shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their
+dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything
+that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to
+apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the
+last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally
+pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As
+they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few
+of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been
+honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured
+to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be “our
+friends from Fullerton.” She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply
+regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
+disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family.
+
+The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
+advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point
+of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach
+of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,
+as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were
+going?—And what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already
+seen all that could be worth her notice?—And did she not suppose her
+friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss
+Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the
+mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond
+them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a
+winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of
+something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the
+gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the
+house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general’s evident
+desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant.
+Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had
+trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what
+that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed
+the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out: “I was
+going to take you into what was my mother’s room—the room in which she
+died—” were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of
+intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should
+shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room
+in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had
+passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings
+of conscience.
+
+She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of
+being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the
+house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should
+have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be
+watched from home, before that room could be entered. “It remains as it
+was, I suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling.
+
+“Yes, entirely.”
+
+“And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”
+
+“She has been dead these nine years.” And nine years, Catherine knew,
+was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the
+death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.
+
+“You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”
+
+“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home. Her
+illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”
+
+Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
+sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry’s father—?
+And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
+suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with
+her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in
+silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt
+secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and
+attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy
+workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its
+fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the
+anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so
+repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice. “My father,” she
+whispered, “often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing
+unusual.”
+
+“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of
+a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and
+boded nothing good.
+
+After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made
+her peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among them, she was
+heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general
+not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.
+When the butler would have lit his master’s candle, however, he was
+forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. “I have many pamphlets
+to finish,” said he to Catherine, “before I can close my eyes, and
+perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after
+you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? _My_ eyes
+will be blinding for the good of others, and _yours_ preparing by rest
+for future mischief.”
+
+But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could
+win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must
+occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,
+after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.
+There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could
+be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.
+Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the
+pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the
+conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was
+at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural
+course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her
+reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other
+children, at the time—all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.
+Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be
+unravelled.
+
+In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her
+as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very
+spot of this unfortunate woman’s confinement—might have been within a
+few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what
+part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which
+yet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage,
+paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she
+well remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To
+what might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this
+conjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in
+which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as
+certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected
+range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of
+which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret
+means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous
+proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been
+conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!
+
+Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and
+sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
+supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.
+
+The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to
+be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it
+struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the
+general’s lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to
+the prison of his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she
+stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery,
+to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too
+early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the servants
+must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to
+watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet,
+she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once
+more. The clock struck twelve—and Catherine had been half an hour
+asleep.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 24
+
+
+The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of
+the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between
+morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise
+abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine’s
+curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after
+dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven
+o’clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a
+treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to
+interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to
+the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By
+that her eye was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of
+the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her
+by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other
+her destroyer, affected her even to tears.
+
+That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to
+face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so
+boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so
+fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed
+wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings
+equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember
+dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime
+to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of
+humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement
+closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could
+not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s actual
+decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes
+were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they
+were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine
+had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a
+waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried
+on.
+
+The succeeding morning promised something better. The general’s early
+walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and
+when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss
+Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige
+her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their
+first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It
+represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,
+justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were
+not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting
+with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,
+the very image, if not of Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of
+which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal
+resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for
+generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study
+for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this
+drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,
+would have left it unwillingly.
+
+Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
+endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s
+countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her
+inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again
+she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the
+important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to
+close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded
+figure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery, stood
+before her! The name of “Eleanor” at the same moment, in his loudest
+tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first
+intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An
+attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on
+perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye;
+and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by
+her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own
+room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have
+courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the
+greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend,
+and expecting a summons herself from the angry general to attend him in
+his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing
+a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and
+meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay
+with company; and she was named to them by the general as the friend of
+his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his
+resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of life for the
+present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to
+her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying to
+her, “My father only wanted me to answer a note,” she began to hope
+that she had either been unseen by the general, or that from some
+consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so.
+Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the
+company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it.
+
+In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution
+of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be
+much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the
+matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court
+her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the
+office of a friend. The general’s utmost anger could not be to herself
+what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the
+examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any
+companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions,
+from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily
+exempt; nor could she therefore, in _her_ presence, search for those
+proofs of the general’s cruelty, which however they might yet have
+escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in
+the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of
+the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as she
+wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expected on the
+morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage
+high; at four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and
+it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.
+
+It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before
+the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she
+hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding
+doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the
+one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no
+sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the
+room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance
+another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every
+feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome
+dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright
+Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the
+warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows!
+Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they
+were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly
+succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She
+could not be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in
+everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! This
+apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so
+awful, proved to be one end of what the general’s father had built.
+There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into
+dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the
+veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she
+had last read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper?
+No: whatever might have been the general’s crimes, he had certainly too
+much wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and
+desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy
+to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she
+had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where,
+made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would
+be unpleasant; but by the general (and he seemed always at hand when
+least wanted), much worse! She listened—the sound had ceased; and
+resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.
+At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed
+with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet
+to pass before she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move.
+With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the
+staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view. “Mr.
+Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He
+looked astonished too. “Good God!” she continued, not attending to his
+address. “How came you here? How came you up that staircase?”
+
+“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because
+it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
+should I not come up it?”
+
+Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more.
+He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which
+her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I
+not, in my turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask
+how _you_ came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road
+from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be
+from the stables to mine.”
+
+“I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s
+room.”
+
+“My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”
+
+“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till
+tomorrow.”
+
+“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but
+three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You
+look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those
+stairs. Perhaps you did not know—you were not aware of their leading
+from the offices in common use?”
+
+“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”
+
+“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms
+in the house by yourself?”
+
+“Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were
+coming here to these rooms—but only”—dropping her voice—“your father
+was with us.”
+
+“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have
+you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”
+
+“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”
+
+“It is only a quarter past four” showing his watch—“and you are not now
+in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at
+Northanger must be enough.”
+
+She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be
+detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first
+time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up
+the gallery. “Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”
+
+“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to
+write directly.”
+
+“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have
+heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of
+promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can
+deceive and pain you. My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not?
+Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!
+It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house,
+and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She
+sent you to look at it, I suppose?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After a
+short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As
+there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must
+have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character,
+as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I
+believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can
+boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a
+person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating
+tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose,
+has talked of her a great deal?”
+
+“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very
+interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was
+spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I
+thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her.”
+
+“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on
+hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of some
+negligence—some”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of
+something still less pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more
+fully than she had ever done before. “My mother’s illness,” he
+continued, “the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The
+malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious
+fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short,
+as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very
+respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great
+confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in
+the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and
+twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her
+disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly;
+and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received
+every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those
+about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor
+was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother
+in her coffin.”
+
+“But your father,” said Catherine, “was _he_ afflicted?”
+
+“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached
+to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for
+him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of
+disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she
+might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured
+her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not
+permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”
+
+“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very
+shocking!”
+
+“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror
+as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful
+nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been
+judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live.
+Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own
+understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of
+what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such
+atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated
+without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary
+intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a
+neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay
+everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been
+admitting?”
+
+They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she
+ran off to her own room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 25
+
+
+The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
+Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
+eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several
+disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most
+bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was
+sunk—but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all
+exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her
+imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he
+ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could
+they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.
+He had—she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning,
+shown something like affection for her. But now—in short, she made
+herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when
+the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an
+intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well. The
+formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
+difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more
+attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he
+looked as if he was aware of it.
+
+The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
+and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did
+not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope
+that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her
+Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what
+she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly
+be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created
+delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an
+imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one
+purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving
+to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared
+for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been
+created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it
+seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of
+reading which she had there indulged.
+
+Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were
+the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human
+nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked
+for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,
+they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the
+south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
+represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
+of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western
+extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some
+security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of
+the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated,
+servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be
+procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and
+Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
+not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But
+in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their
+hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good
+and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in
+Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter
+appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some
+actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared
+from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have
+entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not
+perfectly amiable.
+
+Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
+always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
+had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
+the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
+the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness
+of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
+was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
+supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
+became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
+improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects,
+indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention
+of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she did not love the sight of
+japan in any shape: but even _she_ could allow that an occasional
+memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.
+
+The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
+romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
+She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
+rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
+Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
+left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James.
+Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James
+had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and
+Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
+Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
+promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it
+so particularly strange!
+
+For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
+a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the
+tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
+letter, held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
+as if he had written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as
+she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to
+this purpose:
+
+“Dear Catherine,
+    “Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it
+    my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss
+    Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
+    again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you
+    more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where
+    lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything
+    but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank
+    God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my
+    father’s consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She
+    has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear
+    Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I
+    wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney
+    makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
+    circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
+    his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my
+    father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last,
+    if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me
+    as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I
+    bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved,
+    I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at,
+    for there could be no need of my being played off to make her
+    secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me
+    had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman!
+    Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
+
+
+“Believe me,” &c.
+
+
+Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
+countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her
+to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her
+through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it
+began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his
+father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could
+hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her
+cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her
+lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she
+did. The general, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no
+leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally
+visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her
+own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to
+come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but
+Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that
+moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg
+their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the
+others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of
+being of use or comfort to her.
+
+After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine
+felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her
+distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if
+particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly
+hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
+had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!
+She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
+were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
+looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,
+after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I
+hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are
+none of them ill?”
+
+“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My
+letter was from my brother at Oxford.”
+
+Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
+her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter
+again!”
+
+“I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I
+had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should
+have given it with very different feelings.”
+
+“It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is
+so unhappy! You will soon know why.”
+
+“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry
+warmly, “must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
+
+“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
+agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
+give me notice of it, that I may go away.”
+
+“Our brother! Frederick!”
+
+“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
+something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
+the same house with Captain Tilney.”
+
+Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
+astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
+which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips.
+
+“How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare!
+And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its
+ending so. Isabella—no wonder _now_ I have not heard from her—Isabella
+has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed
+there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
+bad in the world?”
+
+“I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he
+has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s
+disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
+must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that
+anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
+Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
+
+“It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself.
+Stay—There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line.
+
+“Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
+my brother?”
+
+“No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
+clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that
+she had blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.”
+
+He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
+attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say
+that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has
+chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy
+his situation, either as a lover or a son.”
+
+Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise,
+and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire
+into Miss Thorpe’s connections and fortune.
+
+“Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer.
+
+“What was her father?”
+
+“A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.”
+
+“Are they a wealthy family?”
+
+“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
+that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!
+He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to
+promote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked
+at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be
+to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must
+be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And
+how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his
+eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another
+man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his
+heart so proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
+
+“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
+against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.
+Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to
+suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was
+secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased
+man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
+and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,
+guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
+and knowing no disguise.”
+
+“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a
+smile.
+
+“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by
+our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the
+man she likes, she may be constant.”
+
+“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be
+very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
+Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
+arrivals.”
+
+“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
+some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she
+first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite
+disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s
+character in my life before.”
+
+“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.”
+
+“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
+James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”
+
+“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
+must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You
+feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you
+feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is
+becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to
+share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You
+would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that
+you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on
+whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any
+difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?”
+
+“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought
+I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
+love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
+again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
+thought.”
+
+“You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human
+nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know
+themselves.”
+
+Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
+relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
+on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
+produced it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 26
+
+
+From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
+people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young
+friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of
+consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the
+way of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general
+would, upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might
+be raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her
+feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as
+insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir
+of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself,
+at what point of interest were the demands of his younger brother to
+rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought led could only
+be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular
+partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well
+as his actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite
+in the general; and by a recollection of some most generous and
+disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more
+than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his
+disposition in such matters misunderstood by his children.
+
+They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not
+have the courage to apply in person for his father’s consent, and so
+repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely
+to come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her
+mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her
+own. But as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he
+made his application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella’s
+conduct, it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay
+the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the general by
+that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his
+objections on a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She
+proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so
+eagerly as she had expected. “No,” said he, “my father’s hands need not
+be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be
+forestalled. He must tell his own story.”
+
+“But he will tell only half of it.”
+
+“A quarter would be enough.”
+
+A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
+brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to
+them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected
+engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it. The
+general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick’s
+remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and
+had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland’s time
+at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on
+this head, feared the sameness of every day’s society and employments
+would disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in
+the country, talked every now and then of having a large party to
+dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the number of young
+dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time
+of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the
+country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning
+that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise
+there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was
+greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with
+the scheme. “And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this
+pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting,
+and shall probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”
+
+“Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is
+no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way.
+Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I
+can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s
+table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come
+on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor
+from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot
+in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my
+acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the
+country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me,
+Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small
+sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very
+worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I
+dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of
+the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and
+we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two
+hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall
+be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday,
+you may look for us.”
+
+A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this
+little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with
+Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about
+an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she
+and Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very
+moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are
+always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great
+disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the
+future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.
+Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on
+Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I
+must go away directly, two days before I intended it.”
+
+“Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?”
+
+“Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
+frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and
+prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”
+
+“Oh! Not seriously!”
+
+“Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”
+
+“But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?
+When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
+because _anything_ would do.”
+
+Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your
+sister’s account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general
+made such a point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if
+he had not said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent
+dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could
+not signify.”
+
+“I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As
+tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.”
+
+He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to
+Catherine to doubt her own judgment than Henry’s, she was very soon
+obliged to give him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her
+his going. But the inexplicability of the general’s conduct dwelt much
+on her thoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by
+her own unassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should
+say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most
+unaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but
+Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?
+
+From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.
+This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney’s
+letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very
+sure would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in
+gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and
+Eleanor’s spirits always affected by Henry’s absence! What was there to
+interest or amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the
+shrubberies—always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no
+more to her now than any other house. The painful remembrance of the
+folly it had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which
+could spring from a consideration of the building. What a revolution in
+her ideas! She, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was
+nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a
+well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better:
+Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday
+should ever come!
+
+It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
+came—it was fine—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise
+and four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable
+drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and
+populous village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed
+to say how pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an
+apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the
+village; but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever
+been at, and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the
+rank of a cottage, and at all the little chandler’s shops which they
+passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged
+from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone
+house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove
+up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large
+Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and
+make much of them.
+
+Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either
+to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general
+for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which
+she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment
+that it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too
+guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.
+
+“We are not calling it a good house,” said he. “We are not comparing it
+with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere
+parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
+habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
+words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so
+good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say
+otherwise; and anything in reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though,
+between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
+it is a patched-on bow.”
+
+Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
+by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and
+supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments
+was introduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his
+complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.
+
+The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
+handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to
+walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,
+belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually
+tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the
+drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
+Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a
+prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view
+from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed
+her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which
+she felt it. “Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a
+pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it
+is the prettiest room in the world!”
+
+“I trust,” said the general, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will
+very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”
+
+“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a
+sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! It is
+the prettiest cottage!”
+
+“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember
+that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
+
+Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced
+her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her
+choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like
+an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of
+fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating
+these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
+part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow,
+on which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was
+sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground
+she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher
+than the green bench in the corner.
+
+A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a
+visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game
+of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them
+to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At
+four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never
+had any day passed so quickly!
+
+She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
+to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was
+even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His
+son and daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had
+seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never
+before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being
+oiled.
+
+At six o’clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again
+received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
+throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject
+of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the
+wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little
+anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 27
+
+
+The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
+Isabella:
+
+_Bath, April_
+
+
+My dearest Catherine,
+    I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and
+    have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I
+    really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place
+    one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to
+    begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but
+    have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray
+    write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave
+    this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no
+    pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares
+    for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the
+    rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
+    quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
+    since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding.
+    Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did
+    or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring
+    fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can
+    imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
+    never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family
+    you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against
+    those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
+    and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice
+    to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly
+    abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must
+    mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly
+    disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards
+    he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have
+    been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the
+    fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and
+    I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
+    coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days
+    he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste,
+    but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street,
+    and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I
+    would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards;
+    but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a
+    contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of
+    the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
+    when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his
+    spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
+    direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in
+    my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or,
+    if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a
+    call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have
+    not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in
+    last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they
+    teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut
+    myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the
+    Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out.
+    I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but
+    now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
+    taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own.
+    Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it
+    the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it—it
+    happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me
+    so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last
+    man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know
+    I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s
+    favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in
+    writing to him and to me,
+
+
+Who ever am, etc.
+
+
+Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
+Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the
+very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
+loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her
+excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her
+behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her
+again.”
+
+On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
+their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
+reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
+indignation. When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she
+cried, “and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she
+could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
+character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
+been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
+do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and
+I wish I had never known her.”
+
+“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.
+
+“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
+had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
+understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
+he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
+then fly off himself?”
+
+“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe
+them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
+chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet
+injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him
+with you, we had better not seek after the cause.”
+
+“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
+
+“I am persuaded that he never did.”
+
+“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
+
+Henry bowed his assent.
+
+“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has
+turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,
+there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any
+heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with
+him?”
+
+“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
+lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
+case, she would have met with very different treatment.”
+
+“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”
+
+“And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by
+the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
+principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the
+cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”
+
+Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
+not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
+resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more
+of it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 28
+
+
+Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for
+a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
+should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and
+anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his
+children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave
+Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be
+sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every
+employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease
+and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their
+hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her
+thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general’s presence had
+imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such
+ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and
+more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming
+expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally
+beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been
+perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit;
+before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and
+perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was
+a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of
+such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor
+about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by
+the manner in which her proposal might be taken.
+
+Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult
+to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first
+opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s
+being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to
+start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and
+declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her
+company for a much longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes)
+to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised—and could not but
+think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to
+her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her
+return.” Catherine explained: “Oh! As to _that_, Papa and Mamma were in
+no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
+satisfied.”
+
+“Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?”
+
+“Oh! Because she had been there so long.”
+
+“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you
+think it long—”
+
+“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
+long again.” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her
+leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of
+uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise
+weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing
+her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was
+determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left
+her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do
+comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved
+her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished
+her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties
+were merely sportive irritations.
+
+Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly
+at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in
+London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave
+them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it
+had been while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but
+did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation,
+and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the
+time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at
+the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s
+departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
+as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a
+carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the
+idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation
+of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven! What can be the
+matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother,
+whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and
+accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
+
+Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she
+could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
+herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and
+the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of
+her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as
+would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never
+speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of
+the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as
+all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave
+to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it
+was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him,
+and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his
+arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
+
+At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
+listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,
+had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something
+moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was
+touching the very doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the
+lock proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the
+idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be
+again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised
+imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
+and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were
+tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and
+her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
+seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when
+there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s
+account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged
+her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over
+her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not—you
+must not indeed—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite
+well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such
+an errand!”
+
+“Errand! To me!”
+
+“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”
+
+A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her
+friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”
+
+“You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most
+compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.”
+Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she
+mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to
+make Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed
+there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
+endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes
+still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think
+the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a
+most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately
+been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to
+your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I
+tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and that the
+happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I
+must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My
+father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away
+on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a
+fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot
+attempt either.”
+
+“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
+she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way
+to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so
+suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my
+visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can
+you, when you return from this lord’s, come to Fullerton?”
+
+“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”
+
+“Come when you can, then.”
+
+Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something
+more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday—so soon
+as Monday; and you _all_ go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to
+take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know.
+Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father
+and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The
+general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then
+I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.”
+
+“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
+intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
+but half what you ought. But—how can I tell you?—tomorrow morning is
+fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your
+choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven
+o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.”
+
+Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
+my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you
+can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I
+myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest
+anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother
+say! After courting you from the protection of real friends to
+this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of
+the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear,
+dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty
+myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must
+have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal
+mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”
+
+“Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice.
+
+“Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I
+answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He
+certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him
+more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to
+ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
+which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly
+suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?”
+
+It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for
+Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very
+sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly
+have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know,
+must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I
+might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.”
+
+“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;
+but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,
+appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,
+the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;
+a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be
+taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!”
+
+“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
+part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can
+be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Eleanor saw that she
+wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should
+avoid any further conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in
+the morning.”
+
+Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence
+friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner
+was she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house,
+and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology
+that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence
+of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every
+hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say
+how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by
+such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore
+so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was
+mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
+end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in
+which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any
+reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance
+of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the
+earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
+to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might
+not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an
+intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the
+misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so
+painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any
+injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
+not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.
+
+Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
+sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
+imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
+of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
+source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully
+superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in fact,
+her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the
+contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
+situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,
+were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the
+wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout
+the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without
+curiosity or terror.
+
+Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or
+give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be
+done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her
+packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
+from the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so
+natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And
+she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology
+might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been
+useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
+put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between
+them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and
+trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
+Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more
+goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything
+was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute
+behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
+cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where
+breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from
+the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but she had
+no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between
+this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
+strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four
+and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but
+in circumstances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy,
+though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying
+everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going
+to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been
+there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections were long
+indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep
+in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first
+thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s
+colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was
+treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made
+her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
+impelled into resolution and speech.
+
+“You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear
+from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I
+shall not have an hour’s comfort. For _one_ letter, at all risks, all
+hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
+you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then,
+till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not
+expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under
+cover to Alice.”
+
+“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
+sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home
+safe.”
+
+Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
+importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at
+a distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying
+it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly
+said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.”
+
+There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
+though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
+after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
+with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
+it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to
+be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till
+that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
+this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
+without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
+must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
+another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
+together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon
+announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
+affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each
+other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
+without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by
+either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
+intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent
+friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
+restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could
+with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
+chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 29
+
+
+Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
+terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
+feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage,
+in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the
+walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of
+ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was
+capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
+travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily
+passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles,
+every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects
+on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every
+mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and
+when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to
+it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and
+agitation were excessive.
+
+The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
+of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had
+made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so
+spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his
+actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated
+her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by his too
+significant reference! And now—what had she done, or what had she
+omitted to do, to merit such a change?
+
+The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
+such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
+heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
+entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
+Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by
+any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of
+what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and
+injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his
+indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
+not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification
+so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
+
+Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
+the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
+prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
+and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her
+being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
+other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
+sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
+was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.
+To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to
+Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
+
+In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one
+article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose,
+the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she
+looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from
+noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of
+Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and
+though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she
+found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by
+another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion;
+for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the
+pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence
+such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would
+not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own
+grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and
+perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill
+will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt
+it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against
+them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s
+account, it would cut her to the heart.
+
+With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view
+of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles
+of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger;
+but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for
+the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great
+had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to
+distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay
+procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could
+require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about
+eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven
+o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.
+
+A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
+in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a
+countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
+phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
+behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
+delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
+must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
+widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
+disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
+A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
+attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall
+her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups,
+and speedy shall be her descent from it.
+
+But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
+advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
+biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
+nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
+carriage—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a
+rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
+window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to
+brighten every eye and occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for
+by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four
+years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy
+the glance that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that
+proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful
+property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.
+
+Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the
+door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
+the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as
+she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond
+anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed,
+she was even happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a
+short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at
+first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the
+tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor
+traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before
+any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to
+her.
+
+Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
+perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
+hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at
+all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden
+return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
+quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
+when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,
+for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
+romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and
+lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might
+have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what
+they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on
+such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
+feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
+what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
+suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
+ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as
+Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;
+and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange
+business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all
+their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the
+sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with
+youthful ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless
+trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not
+at all worth understanding.”
+
+“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
+engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”
+
+“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
+have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;
+Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
+Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I
+am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all
+over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young
+people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear
+Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but
+now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much
+changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you
+have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.”
+
+Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
+amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
+alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s
+next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her
+ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
+feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
+parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
+though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal
+to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
+any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
+parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
+excursion from home, was odd enough!
+
+As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
+Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her
+friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
+reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having
+never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
+commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The
+strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
+and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing
+Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to
+her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile
+regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a
+letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above
+all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see,
+was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and,
+after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that
+she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money
+therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than
+grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate
+heart.
+
+“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the
+letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens
+so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and
+you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,
+we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will
+be better worth keeping.”
+
+Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better
+worth keeping than Eleanor.”
+
+“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do
+not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in
+the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”
+
+Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of
+meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
+Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
+dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him
+with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget
+her; and in that case, to meet—! Her eyes filled with tears as she
+pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
+comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as
+another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on
+Mrs. Allen.
+
+The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they
+walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score
+of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but
+otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could
+not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not
+the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without
+fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of
+her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not
+last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,
+for the foolishness of his first choice.”
+
+This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
+listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and
+made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
+swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and
+spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not
+three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run
+backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay,
+and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed,
+and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it.
+Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being
+did she return!
+
+She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her
+unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally
+call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,
+on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it
+was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.
+“Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She
+travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till
+Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all
+of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out
+of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd
+man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great
+comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift
+very well for herself.”
+
+Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
+resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
+quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
+wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession
+hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not
+patience with the general”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I
+really have not patience with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr.
+Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
+digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
+the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately
+added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent
+in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
+can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath
+is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above
+half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to
+us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”
+
+“Yes, but _that_ did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes
+brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her
+existence there.
+
+“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
+nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I
+put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you
+know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that
+evening?”
+
+“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”
+
+“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
+always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a
+notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
+favourite gown on.”
+
+Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
+Mrs. Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the
+general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not
+suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His
+lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no
+wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”
+
+As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
+daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.
+and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
+unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
+her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
+earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but
+there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has
+very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every
+position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
+slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while
+Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
+justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting
+that _now_ Henry must have arrived at Northanger; _now_ he must have
+heard of her departure; and _now_, perhaps, they were all setting off
+for Hereford.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 30
+
+
+Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
+been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
+defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be
+greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for
+ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and
+again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she
+could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time
+in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In
+her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of
+herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all
+that she had been before.
+
+For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but
+when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,
+improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination
+for needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of,
+“My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do
+not know when poor Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend
+but you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for
+everything—a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have
+had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
+
+Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that
+“her head did not run upon Bath—much.”
+
+“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of
+you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never
+fret about trifles.” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you
+are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as
+Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed.
+Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at
+home, because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not
+quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French
+bread at Northanger.”
+
+“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
+I eat.”
+
+“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
+such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by
+great acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some
+day or other, because I am sure it will do you good.”
+
+Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to
+her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it
+herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
+from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
+needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
+in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
+repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of
+cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
+anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
+time before she could find what she looked for; and other family
+matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere
+she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped.
+Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created
+herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
+minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a
+young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect,
+he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious
+daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real
+sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging
+that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at
+Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s
+having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He
+did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far
+from comprehending him or his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs.
+Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly,
+pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of
+unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her
+daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always
+welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past.
+
+He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
+greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
+moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in
+silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
+civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather
+and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
+Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
+made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
+her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside
+the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.
+
+Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
+as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
+father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
+dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
+home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an
+hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken
+silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her
+mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
+Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her
+perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
+would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his
+respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would
+have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this
+window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
+bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her
+mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
+consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that
+he might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which
+it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine,
+would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their
+walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in
+wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give;
+but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
+Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think
+it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection;
+and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty
+equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now
+sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the
+excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must
+confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude,
+or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
+been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new
+circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an
+heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a
+wild imagination will at least be all my own.
+
+A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
+without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation
+of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed
+them to the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was
+suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned
+by parental authority in his present application. On his return from
+Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his
+impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland’s
+departure, and ordered to think of her no more.
+
+Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The
+affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
+listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution
+with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious
+rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and
+as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his
+father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
+delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay
+to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a
+deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride
+would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich
+than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her
+possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
+solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his
+daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
+seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
+resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
+
+John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one
+night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss
+Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her
+than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of
+General Tilney’s importance, had been joyfully and proudly
+communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of
+Morland’s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon
+marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the
+family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him
+believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected,
+his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as
+his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their
+fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the
+first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been
+gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the
+grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount
+of Mr. Morland’s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a
+rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the
+whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine,
+however, the peculiar object of the general’s curiosity, and his own
+speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or
+fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a
+pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s estate. Her intimacy there had made him
+seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to
+speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of
+Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had
+proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority.
+Thorpe’s interest in the family, by his sister’s approaching connection
+with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of
+which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient
+vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of
+the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland’s being under
+their care, and—as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge—of
+their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon
+formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the
+countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he
+almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
+interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be
+more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and
+Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their
+father’s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness,
+continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from
+some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son
+of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of
+his father’s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not
+till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea
+of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were
+false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested
+them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town,
+and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by
+Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent
+endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella,
+convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship
+which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that
+he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands—confessed himself
+to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and
+character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his
+father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the
+two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming
+eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the
+families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to
+the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to
+acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent
+support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too,
+almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own
+neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of
+discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not
+warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a
+forward, bragging, scheming race.
+
+The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
+look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he
+believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on
+whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more.
+Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the
+next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen.
+
+I leave it to my reader’s sagacity to determine how much of all this it
+was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how
+much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own
+conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be
+told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they
+must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that
+in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his
+wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his
+cruelty.
+
+Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as
+pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the
+narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation
+between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind.
+Henry’s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on
+comprehending his father’s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in
+them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary
+occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but
+of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in
+words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the
+sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in
+such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate
+Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice.
+He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss
+Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been
+directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no
+reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or
+influence the resolutions it prompted.
+
+He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
+engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
+Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his
+hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
+disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours
+were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,
+and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to
+Fullerton.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 31
+
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for
+their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
+considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an
+attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more
+natural than Catherine’s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it
+with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they
+alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
+manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having
+never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could
+be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
+needed no attestation. “Catherine would make a sad, heedless young
+housekeeper to be sure,” was her mother’s foreboding remark; but quick
+was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.
+
+There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that
+one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the
+engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady,
+and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could
+not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come
+forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily
+approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading
+stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and
+that once obtained—and their own hearts made them trust that it could
+not be very long denied—their willing approbation was instantly to
+follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more
+inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable
+fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his
+present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under
+every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
+daughter.
+
+The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They
+felt and they deplored—but they could not resent it; and they parted,
+endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each
+believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them
+again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what
+was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend
+his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked
+anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether
+the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence,
+let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did—they had been too
+kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter,
+as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another
+way.
+
+The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the
+portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its
+final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who
+will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we
+are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which
+their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable
+circumstance could work upon a temper like the general’s? The
+circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter
+with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course
+of the summer—an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good
+humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained
+his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him “to be a fool if
+he liked it!”
+
+The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such
+a home as Northanger had been made by Henry’s banishment, to the home
+of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to
+give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
+occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
+merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy
+felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
+and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from
+addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had
+removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his
+daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and
+patient endurance as when he first hailed her “Your Ladyship!” Her
+husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his
+wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming
+young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be
+unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
+before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question,
+therefore, I have only to add—aware that the rules of composition
+forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable—that
+this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him
+that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at
+Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most
+alarming adventures.
+
+The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother’s behalf
+was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
+which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they
+were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more
+misled by Thorpe’s first boast of the family wealth than by his
+subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were
+they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand
+pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that
+it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no
+means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at
+some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the
+disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
+greedy speculation.
+
+On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor’s marriage,
+permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the
+bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty
+professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon
+followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and
+everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the
+first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
+delays occasioned by the general’s cruelty, that they were essentially
+hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
+twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself
+moreover convinced that the general’s unjust interference, so far from
+being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive
+to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength
+to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may
+concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend
+parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
diff --git a/AustenNovels/Austen_Persuasion.txt b/AustenNovels/Austen_Persuasion.txt
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+
+Persuasion
+
+
+by
+
+Jane Austen
+
+Chapter 1
+
+
+Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,
+for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there
+he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed
+one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by
+contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any
+unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally
+into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations
+of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he
+could read his own history with an interest which never failed.  This
+was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
+
+           "ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.
+
+"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth,
+daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of
+Gloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born
+June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,
+1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791."
+
+Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's
+hands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of
+himself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth--
+"Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,
+Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset," and by inserting most
+accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.
+
+Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable
+family, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire;
+how mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff,
+representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of
+loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with
+all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two
+handsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and
+motto:--"Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset," and
+Sir Walter's handwriting again in this finale:--
+
+"Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the
+second Sir Walter."
+
+Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character;
+vanity of person and of situation.  He had been remarkably handsome in
+his youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man.  Few women
+could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could
+the valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held
+in society.  He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to
+the blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united
+these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and
+devotion.
+
+His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since
+to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any
+thing deserved by his own.  Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman,
+sensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be
+pardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never
+required indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, or
+concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for
+seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world
+herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children,
+to attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her
+when she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldest
+sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an
+awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a
+conceited, silly father.  She had, however, one very intimate friend, a
+sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment
+to herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on
+her kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help
+and maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had
+been anxiously giving her daughters.
+
+This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been
+anticipated on that head by their acquaintance.  Thirteen years had
+passed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near
+neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other
+a widow.
+
+That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well
+provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no
+apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably
+discontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but
+Sir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation.  Be it
+known then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one
+or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications),
+prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake.  For
+one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing,
+which he had not been very much tempted to do.  Elizabeth had
+succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights
+and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her
+influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most
+happily.  His two other children were of very inferior value.  Mary had
+acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles
+Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of
+character, which must have placed her high with any people of real
+understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no
+weight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne.
+
+To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued
+god-daughter, favourite, and friend.  Lady Russell loved them all; but
+it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.
+
+A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her
+bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had
+found little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate
+features and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in
+them, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had
+never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in
+any other page of his favourite work.  All equality of alliance must
+rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old
+country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore
+given all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or
+other, marry suitably.
+
+It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she
+was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been
+neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely
+any charm is lost.  It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome
+Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter
+might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be
+deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming
+as ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he
+could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance
+were growing.  Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the
+neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about
+Lady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.
+
+Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.
+Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and
+directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have
+given the idea of her being younger than she was.  For thirteen years
+had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at
+home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking
+immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and
+dining-rooms in the country.  Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had
+seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood
+afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled
+up to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the
+great world.  She had the remembrance of all this, she had the
+consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and
+some apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as
+handsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and
+would have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by
+baronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two.  Then might she again
+take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth,
+but now she liked it not.  Always to be presented with the date of her
+own birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister,
+made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it
+open on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and
+pushed it away.
+
+She had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially
+the history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.
+The heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose
+rights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed
+her.
+
+She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be,
+in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to
+marry him, and her father had always meant that she should.  He had not
+been known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, Sir
+Walter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not
+been met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making
+allowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their
+spring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr
+Elliot had been forced into the introduction.
+
+He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the
+law; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his
+favour was confirmed.  He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked
+of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came.  The
+following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable,
+again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and
+the next tidings were that he was married.  Instead of pushing his
+fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he
+had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of
+inferior birth.
+
+Sir Walter had resented it.  As the head of the house, he felt that he
+ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so
+publicly by the hand; "For they must have been seen together," he
+observed, "once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of
+Commons."  His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little
+regarded.  Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as
+unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter
+considered him unworthy of it:  all acquaintance between them had
+ceased.
+
+This very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of
+several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for
+himself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong
+family pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter
+Elliot's eldest daughter.  There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her
+feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal.  Yet so
+miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present
+time (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could
+not admit him to be worth thinking of again.  The disgrace of his first
+marriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it
+perpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse;
+but he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they
+had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most
+slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and
+the honours which were hereafter to be his own.  This could not be
+pardoned.
+
+Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares
+to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the
+prosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings
+to give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle,
+to fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no
+talents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.
+
+But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be
+added to these.  Her father was growing distressed for money.  She
+knew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the
+heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr
+Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts.  The Kellynch property was
+good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required
+in its possessor.  While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method,
+moderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but
+with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he
+had been constantly exceeding it.  It had not been possible for him to
+spend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was
+imperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only
+growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it
+became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his
+daughter.  He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town;
+he had gone so far even as to say, "Can we retrench?  Does it occur to
+you that there is any one article in which we can retrench?" and
+Elizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm,
+set seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed
+these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities,
+and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which
+expedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no
+present down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom.  But these
+measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real
+extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged
+to confess to her soon afterwards.  Elizabeth had nothing to propose of
+deeper efficacy.  She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her
+father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of
+lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or
+relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.
+
+There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose
+of; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no
+difference.  He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the
+power, but he would never condescend to sell.  No; he would never
+disgrace his name so far.  The Kellynch estate should be transmitted
+whole and entire, as he had received it.
+
+Their two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the
+neighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called to advise them;
+and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be
+struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and
+reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence
+of taste or pride.
+
+
+
+Chapter 2
+
+
+Mr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold
+or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted
+by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and
+only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent
+judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully
+expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see
+finally adopted.
+
+Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it
+much serious consideration.  She was a woman rather of sound than of
+quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this
+instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles.
+She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour;
+but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous
+for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was
+due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be.  She was a
+benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments,
+most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with
+manners that were held a standard of good-breeding.  She had a
+cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent;
+but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for
+rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those
+who possessed them.  Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the
+dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his
+claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging
+landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and
+her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to
+a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present
+difficulties.
+
+They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt.  But she was very
+anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and
+Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations,
+and she did what nobody else thought of doing:  she consulted Anne, who
+never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the
+question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in
+marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to
+Sir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty
+against importance.  She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete
+reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of
+indifference for everything but justice and equity.
+
+"If we can persuade your father to all this," said Lady Russell,
+looking over her paper, "much may be done.  If he will adopt these
+regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able
+to convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability
+in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the
+true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the
+eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle.  What will
+he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have
+done, or ought to do?  There will be nothing singular in his case; and
+it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as
+it always does of our conduct.  I have great hope of prevailing.  We
+must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has
+contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the
+feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father,
+there is still more due to the character of an honest man."
+
+This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be
+proceeding, his friends to be urging him.  She considered it as an act
+of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all
+the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure,
+and saw no dignity in anything short of it.  She wanted it to be
+prescribed, and felt as a duty.  She rated Lady Russell's influence
+highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own
+conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty
+in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.  Her
+knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the
+sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of
+both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle
+reductions.
+
+How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little
+consequence.  Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up
+with, were not to be borne. "What! every comfort of life knocked off!
+Journeys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and
+restrictions every where!  To live no longer with the decencies even of
+a private gentleman!  No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once,
+than remain in it on such disgraceful terms."
+
+"Quit Kellynch Hall."  The hint was immediately taken up by Mr
+Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's
+retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done
+without a change of abode.  "Since the idea had been started in the
+very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in
+confessing his judgement to be entirely on that side.  It did not
+appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of
+living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient
+dignity to support.  In any other place Sir Walter might judge for
+himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in
+whatever way he might choose to model his household."
+
+Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of
+doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was
+settled, and the first outline of this important change made out.
+
+There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in
+the country.  All Anne's wishes had been for the latter.  A small house
+in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's
+society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes
+seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her
+ambition.  But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something
+very opposite from her inclination fixed on.  She disliked Bath, and
+did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.
+
+Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt
+that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to
+dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred.  It was a much safer
+place for a gentleman in his predicament:  he might there be important
+at comparatively little expense.  Two material advantages of Bath over
+London had of course been given all their weight:  its more convenient
+distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending
+some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of
+Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for
+Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should
+lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.
+
+Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes.  It
+would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in
+his own neighbourhood.  Anne herself would have found the
+mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's
+feelings they must have been dreadful.  And with regard to Anne's
+dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising,
+first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school
+there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be
+not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards
+spent there with herself.
+
+Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must
+suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the
+warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided;
+and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits
+good.  Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits
+were not high.  A larger society would improve them.  She wanted her to
+be more known.
+
+The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for
+Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very
+material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the
+beginning.  He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the
+hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir
+Walter's have found too much.  Kellynch Hall was to be let.  This,
+however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own
+circle.
+
+Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to
+design letting his house.  Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word
+"advertise," but never dared approach it again.  Sir Walter spurned the
+idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint
+being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the
+supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most
+unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour,
+that he would let it at all.
+
+How quick come the reasons for approving what we like!  Lady Russell
+had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir
+Walter and his family were to remove from the country.  Elizabeth had
+been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted.
+It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an
+unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional
+burden of two children.  She was a clever young woman, who understood
+the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall;
+and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been
+already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady
+Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of
+caution and reserve.
+
+Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and
+seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because
+Elizabeth deserved it.  She had never received from her more than
+outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had
+never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against
+previous inclination.  She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying
+to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the
+injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut
+her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth
+the advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in
+vain:  Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in
+more decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs
+Clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her
+affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her
+but the object of distant civility.
+
+From situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very
+unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;
+and a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of
+more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an
+object of first-rate importance.
+
+
+
+Chapter 3
+
+
+"I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter," said Mr Shepherd one
+morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, "that the
+present juncture is much in our favour.  This peace will be turning all
+our rich naval officers ashore.  They will be all wanting a home.
+Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants,
+very responsible tenants.  Many a noble fortune has been made during
+the war.  If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--"
+
+"He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd," replied Sir Walter; "that's
+all I have to remark.  A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him;
+rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many
+before; hey, Shepherd?"
+
+Mr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added--
+
+"I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business,
+gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with.  I have had a little
+knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess
+that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make
+desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with.
+Therefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if
+in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which
+must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult
+it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the
+notice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John
+Shepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody
+would think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot
+has eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and
+therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise
+me if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get
+abroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since
+applications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our
+wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave
+to add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the
+trouble of replying."
+
+Sir Walter only nodded.  But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the
+room, he observed sarcastically--
+
+"There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would
+not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description."
+
+"They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune,"
+said Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present:  her father had driven her
+over, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay's health as a drive to
+Kellynch: "but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might
+be a very desirable tenant.  I have known a good deal of the
+profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful
+in all their ways!  These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if
+you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe.  Everything in and
+about the house would be taken such excellent care of!  The gardens and
+shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now.  You
+need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being
+neglected."
+
+"As to all that," rejoined Sir Walter coolly, "supposing I were induced
+to let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the
+privileges to be annexed to it.  I am not particularly disposed to
+favour a tenant.  The park would be open to him of course, and few navy
+officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range;
+but what restrictions I might impose on the use of the
+pleasure-grounds, is another thing.  I am not fond of the idea of my
+shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss
+Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden.  I am very
+little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary
+favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier."
+
+After a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say--
+
+"In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything
+plain and easy between landlord and tenant.  Your interest, Sir Walter,
+is in pretty safe hands.  Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant
+has more than his just rights.  I venture to hint, that Sir Walter
+Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be
+for him."
+
+Here Anne spoke--
+
+"The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an
+equal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the
+privileges which any home can give.  Sailors work hard enough for their
+comforts, we must all allow."
+
+"Very true, very true.  What Miss Anne says, is very true," was Mr
+Shepherd's rejoinder, and "Oh! certainly," was his daughter's; but Sir
+Walter's remark was, soon afterwards--
+
+"The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any
+friend of mine belonging to it."
+
+"Indeed!" was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
+
+"Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of
+objection to it.  First, as being the means of bringing persons of
+obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which
+their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it
+cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old
+sooner than any other man.  I have observed it all my life.  A man is
+in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one
+whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of
+becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other
+line.  One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men,
+striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father
+we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was
+to give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most
+deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of
+mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles,
+nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top.  'In
+the name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine
+who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley).  'Old fellow!' cried Sir
+Basil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin.  What do you take his age to be?'
+'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil,
+'forty, and no more.'  Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not
+easily forget Admiral Baldwin.  I never saw quite so wretched an
+example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is
+the same with them all:  they are all knocked about, and exposed to
+every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen.  It
+is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach
+Admiral Baldwin's age."
+
+"Nay, Sir Walter," cried Mrs Clay, "this is being severe indeed.  Have
+a little mercy on the poor men.  We are not all born to be handsome.
+The sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I
+have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth.  But then, is not
+it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other?  Soldiers,
+in active service, are not at all better off:  and even in the quieter
+professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the
+body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time.
+The lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours,
+and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--" she stopt a
+moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--"and even the
+clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose
+his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere.  In
+fact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is
+necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who
+are not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the
+country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and
+living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more;
+it is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good
+appearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose
+something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young."
+
+It seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's
+good will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with
+foresight; for the very first application for the house was from an
+Admiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in
+attending the quarter sessions at Taunton; and indeed, he had received
+a hint of the Admiral from a London correspondent.  By the report which
+he hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of
+Somersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing
+to settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to
+look at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which,
+however, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing--(it was just as
+he had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter's concerns could not
+be kept a secret,)--accidentally hearing of the possibility of
+Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his (Mr Shepherd's)
+connection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to
+make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long
+conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man
+who knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in
+his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most
+responsible, eligible tenant.
+
+"And who is Admiral Croft?" was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry.
+
+Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and
+mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed,
+added--
+
+"He is a rear admiral of the white.  He was in the Trafalgar action,
+and has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I
+believe, several years."
+
+"Then I take it for granted," observed Sir Walter, "that his face is
+about as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery."
+
+Mr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale,
+hearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not
+much, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not
+likely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a
+comfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must
+pay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that
+consequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter
+had asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the
+deputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes
+took out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.
+
+Mr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the
+circumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him peculiarly
+desirable as a tenant.  He was a married man, and without children; the
+very state to be wished for.  A house was never taken good care of, Mr
+Shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture
+might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as
+where there were many children.  A lady, without a family, was the very
+best preserver of furniture in the world.  He had seen Mrs Croft, too;
+she was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all
+the time they were talking the matter over.
+
+"And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be,"
+continued he; "asked more questions about the house, and terms, and
+taxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with
+business; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite
+unconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say,
+she is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me
+so herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at
+Monkford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot
+recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my
+dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at
+Monkford: Mrs Croft's brother?"
+
+But Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not
+hear the appeal.
+
+"I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no
+gentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent."
+
+"Bless me! how very odd!  I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose.
+A name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so
+well by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I
+remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man
+breaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the
+fact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an
+amicable compromise.  Very odd indeed!"
+
+After waiting another moment--
+
+"You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?" said Anne.
+
+Mr Shepherd was all gratitude.
+
+"Wentworth was the very name!  Mr Wentworth was the very man.  He had
+the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two
+or three years.  Came there about the year ---5, I take it.  You
+remember him, I am sure."
+
+"Wentworth?  Oh! ay,--Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford.  You misled
+me by the term gentleman.  I thought you were speaking of some man of
+property:  Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected;
+nothing to do with the Strafford family.  One wonders how the names of
+many of our nobility become so common."
+
+As Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no
+service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all
+his zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their
+favour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had
+formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of
+renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the
+happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary
+taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir
+Walter's estimate of the dues of a tenant.
+
+It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an
+evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them
+infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest
+terms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the
+treaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still
+remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.
+
+Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the
+world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials,
+than Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer.  So far went his
+understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in
+the Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not
+too high.  "I have let my house to Admiral Croft," would sound
+extremely well; very much better than to any mere Mr--; a Mr (save,
+perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of
+explanation.  An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same
+time, can never make a baronet look small.  In all their dealings and
+intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.
+
+Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her
+inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to
+have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to
+suspend decision was uttered by her.
+
+Mr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an
+end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to
+the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her
+flushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a
+gentle sigh, "A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here."
+
+
+
+Chapter 4
+
+
+He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however
+suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his
+brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St
+Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in
+the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half
+a year at Monkford.  He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,
+with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an
+extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.
+Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for
+he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the
+encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.  They were
+gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.
+It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the
+other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his
+declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.
+
+A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.
+Troubles soon arose.  Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually
+withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the
+negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a
+professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.  He thought it
+a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered
+and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.
+
+Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw
+herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement
+with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no
+hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain
+profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the
+profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to
+think of!  Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off
+by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a
+state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!  It must not
+be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from
+one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be
+prevented.
+
+Captain Wentworth had no fortune.  He had been lucky in his profession;
+but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing.  But
+he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour,
+he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that
+would lead to everything he wanted.  He had always been lucky; he knew
+he should be so still.  Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth,
+and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been
+enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently.  His
+sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on
+her.  She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil.  It only added a
+dangerous character to himself.  He was brilliant, he was headstrong.
+Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to
+imprudence a horror.  She deprecated the connexion in every light.
+
+Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could
+combat.  Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible
+to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word
+or look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had
+always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion,
+and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain.
+She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing:  indiscreet,
+improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it.  But it was
+not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end
+to it.  Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more
+than her own, she could hardly have given him up.  The belief of being
+prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief
+consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every
+consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional
+pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and
+of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.  He had
+left the country in consequence.
+
+A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;
+but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it.  Her
+attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of
+youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting
+effect.
+
+More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful
+interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much,
+perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too
+dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place
+(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty
+or enlargement of society.  No one had ever come within the Kellynch
+circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he
+stood in her memory.  No second attachment, the only thoroughly
+natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been
+possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste,
+in the small limits of the society around them.  She had been
+solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young
+man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger
+sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove
+was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general
+importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of
+good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have
+asked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have
+rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the
+partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so
+permanently near herself.  But in this case, Anne had left nothing for
+advice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her
+own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the
+anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some
+man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held
+her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.
+
+They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change,
+on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never
+alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently
+from what she had been made to think at nineteen.  She did not blame
+Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her;
+but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to
+apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain
+immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.  She was persuaded
+that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every
+anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and
+disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in
+maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it;
+and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than
+the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,
+without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it
+happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be
+reasonably calculated on.  All his sanguine expectations, all his
+confidence had been justified.  His genius and ardour had seemed to
+foresee and to command his prosperous path.  He had, very soon after
+their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would
+follow, had taken place.  He had distinguished himself, and early
+gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures,
+have made a handsome fortune.  She had only navy lists and newspapers
+for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in
+favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.
+
+How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were
+her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful
+confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems
+to insult exertion and distrust Providence!  She had been forced into
+prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the
+natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.
+
+With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not
+hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch
+without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh,
+were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea.  She often told
+herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently
+to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no
+evil.  She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and
+apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in
+the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of
+it.  She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives
+in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all
+the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion
+among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the
+event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew
+over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the
+past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no
+syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that
+among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had
+received any information of their short-lived engagement.  That brother
+had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and,
+moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no
+human creature's having heard of it from him.
+
+The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her
+husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at
+school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some,
+and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.
+
+With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself
+and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch,
+and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not
+involve any particular awkwardness.
+
+
+
+Chapter 5
+
+
+On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch
+Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady
+Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it
+most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing
+them.
+
+This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided
+the whole business at once.  Each lady was previously well disposed for
+an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the
+other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good
+humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as
+could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into
+his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances
+of his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good
+breeding.
+
+The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were
+approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr
+Shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single
+preliminary difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth."
+
+Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the
+best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say,
+that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should
+not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with
+sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through
+the park, "I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite
+of what they told us at Taunton.  The Baronet will never set the Thames
+on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him."--reciprocal
+compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.
+
+The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter
+proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there
+was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.
+
+Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any
+use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were
+going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon,
+and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might
+convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of
+her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was
+unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading
+the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and
+grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the
+autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything
+considered, she wished to remain.  It would be most right, and most
+wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.
+
+Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty.  Mary, often
+a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own
+complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was
+the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a
+day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it
+was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her
+company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.
+
+"I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's reasoning; and
+Elizabeth's reply was, "Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody
+will want her in Bath."
+
+To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least
+better than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be
+thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and
+certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own
+dear country, readily agreed to stay.
+
+This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and
+it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till
+Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be
+divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.
+
+So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by
+the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her,
+which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and
+Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in
+all the business before her.  Lady Russell was extremely sorry that
+such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved,
+and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being
+of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore
+aggravation.
+
+Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the
+imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell.  With a
+great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often
+wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results
+the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than
+possible.  She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea
+of the kind.  Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a
+clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in
+her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking,
+and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners,
+infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might
+have been.  Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that
+she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her
+sister.  She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the
+event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than
+herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for
+giving no warning.
+
+She spoke, and seemed only to offend.  Elizabeth could not conceive how
+such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered
+for each party's perfectly knowing their situation.
+
+"Mrs Clay," said she, warmly, "never forgets who she is; and as I am
+rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can
+assure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly
+nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more
+strongly than most people.  And as to my father, I really should not
+have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our
+sakes, need be suspected now.  If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman,
+I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that
+anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a
+degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy.  But poor Mrs Clay
+who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably
+pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect
+safety.  One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her
+personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times.  That tooth
+of her's and those freckles.  Freckles do not disgust me so very much
+as they do him.  I have known a face not materially disfigured by a
+few, but he abominates them.  You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's
+freckles."
+
+"There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne, "which an
+agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to."
+
+"I think very differently," answered Elizabeth, shortly; "an agreeable
+manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.
+However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this
+point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you
+to be advising me."
+
+Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of
+doing good.  Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be
+made observant by it.
+
+The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter,
+Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good
+spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the
+afflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show
+themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate
+tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.
+
+Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt
+this break-up of the family exceedingly.  Their respectability was as
+dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by
+habit.  It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still
+worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape
+the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out
+of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined
+to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.
+Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at
+Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey.
+
+Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had
+been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses
+superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the
+mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,
+substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage,
+enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained
+round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had
+received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for
+his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French
+windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the
+traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and
+premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.
+
+Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as
+well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually
+meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's
+house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary
+alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost
+a matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary
+had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and
+properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits;
+but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for
+solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot
+self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of
+fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to
+both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of
+being "a fine girl." She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty
+little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been
+gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two
+children; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with--
+
+"So, you are come at last!  I began to think I should never see you.  I
+am so ill I can hardly speak.  I have not seen a creature the whole
+morning!"
+
+"I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne.  "You sent me such a
+good account of yourself on Thursday!"
+
+"Yes, I made the best of it; I always do:  but I was very far from well
+at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have
+been all this morning:  very unfit to be left alone, I am sure.
+Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not
+able to ring the bell!  So, Lady Russell would not get out.  I do not
+think she has been in this house three times this summer."
+
+Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.  "Oh!
+Charles is out shooting.  I have not seen him since seven o'clock.  He
+would go, though I told him how ill I was.  He said he should not stay
+out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.  I
+assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning."
+
+"You have had your little boys with you?"
+
+"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable
+that they do me more harm than good.  Little Charles does not mind a
+word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad."
+
+"Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne, cheerfully.  "You
+know I always cure you when I come.  How are your neighbours at the
+Great House?"
+
+"I can give you no account of them.  I have not seen one of them
+to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the
+window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how
+ill I was, not one of them have been near me.  It did not happen to
+suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out
+of their way."
+
+"You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone.  It is
+early."
+
+"I never want them, I assure you.  They talk and laugh a great deal too
+much for me.  Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell!  It was quite unkind of
+you not to come on Thursday."
+
+"My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of
+yourself!  You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were
+perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you
+must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the
+last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so
+busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have
+left Kellynch sooner."
+
+"Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?"
+
+"A great many things, I assure you.  More than I can recollect in a
+moment; but I can tell you some.  I have been making a duplicate of the
+catalogue of my father's books and pictures.  I have been several times
+in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him
+understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.  I have
+had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide,
+and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what
+was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary,
+of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as
+a sort of take-leave.  I was told that they wished it.  But all these
+things took up a great deal of time."
+
+"Oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me
+one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday."
+
+"Did you go then?  I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you
+must have been obliged to give up the party."
+
+"Oh yes! I went.  I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter
+with me till this morning.  It would have been strange if I had not
+gone."
+
+"I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant
+party."
+
+"Nothing remarkable.  One always knows beforehand what the dinner will
+be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a
+carriage of one's own.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so
+crowded!  They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr
+Musgrove always sits forward.  So, there was I, crowded into the back
+seat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my
+illness to-day may be owing to it."
+
+A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on
+Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's.  She could soon sit
+upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by
+dinner-time.  Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end
+of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and
+then she was well enough to propose a little walk.
+
+"Where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready.  "I suppose you
+will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see
+you?"
+
+"I have not the smallest objection on that account," replied Anne.  "I
+should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so
+well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves."
+
+"Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.  They ought
+to feel what is due to you as my sister.  However, we may as well go
+and sit with them a little  while, and when we have that over, we can
+enjoy our walk."
+
+Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;
+but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that,
+though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither
+family could now do without it.  To the Great House accordingly they
+went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour,
+with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters
+of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a
+grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in
+every direction.  Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the
+wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue
+satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an
+overthrow of all order and neatness!  The portraits themselves seemed
+to be staring in astonishment.
+
+The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration,
+perhaps of improvement.  The father and mother were in the old English
+style, and the young people in the new.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a
+very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated,
+and not at all elegant.  Their children had more modern minds and
+manners.  There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up,
+excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen
+and twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock
+of accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies,
+living to be fashionable, happy, and merry.  Their dress had every
+advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely
+good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence
+at home, and favourites abroad.  Anne always contemplated them as some
+of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we
+all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for
+the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more
+elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them
+nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement
+together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known
+so little herself with either of her sisters.
+
+They were received with great cordiality.  Nothing seemed amiss on the
+side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well
+knew, the least to blame.  The half hour was chatted away pleasantly
+enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have
+their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's
+particular invitation.
+
+
+
+Chapter 6
+
+
+Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal
+from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three
+miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and
+idea.  She had never been staying there before, without being struck by
+it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in
+seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at
+Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading
+interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now
+submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own
+nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for
+certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which
+had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,
+she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in
+the separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: "So, Miss
+Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you
+think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an
+answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope we shall be in
+Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a
+good situation:  none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in the anxious
+supplement from Mary, of--"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,
+when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!"
+
+She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think
+with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one
+such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.
+
+The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own
+horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully
+occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,
+dress, dancing, and music.  She acknowledged it to be very fitting,
+that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of
+discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the
+one she was now transplanted into.  With the prospect of spending at
+least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to
+clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of
+Uppercross as possible.
+
+She had no dread of these two months.  Mary was not so repulsive and
+unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;
+neither was there anything among the other component parts of the
+cottage inimical to comfort.  She was always on friendly terms with her
+brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and
+respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of
+interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.
+
+Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was
+undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,
+or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a
+dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,
+with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved
+him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more
+consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and
+elegance to his habits and pursuits.  As it was, he did nothing with
+much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without
+benefit from books or anything else.  He had very good spirits, which
+never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with
+her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the
+whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she
+had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both
+parties), they might pass for a happy couple.  They were always
+perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination
+for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he
+had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such
+a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having
+many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.
+
+As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than
+his wife's, and his practice not so bad.  "I could manage them very
+well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often
+heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in
+turn to Mary's reproach of "Charles spoils the children so that I
+cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation
+to say, "Very true."
+
+One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her
+being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too
+much in the secret of the complaints of each house.  Known to have some
+influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least
+receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.  "I wish you
+could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was
+Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: "I do
+believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was
+anything the matter with me.  I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might
+persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever
+own."
+
+Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great
+House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she
+humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much
+trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross
+for the rest of the day."  And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity
+of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing
+Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children.  They are
+quite different creatures with you!  But to be sure, in general they
+are so spoilt!  It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of
+managing them.  They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,
+poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more
+how they should be treated--!  Bless me! how troublesome they are
+sometimes.  I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them
+at our house so often as I otherwise should.  I believe Mrs Charles is
+not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is
+very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking
+every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can
+only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them."
+
+She had this communication, moreover, from Mary.  "Mrs Musgrove thinks
+all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in
+question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper
+house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are
+gadding about the village, all day long.  I meet them wherever I go;
+and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing
+something of them.  If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest
+creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells
+me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs
+Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of
+my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall
+tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,
+that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear
+strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own
+knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is
+enough to ruin any servants she comes near.  Mrs Charles quite swears
+by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the
+watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of
+mentioning it."
+
+Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to
+give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great
+House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was
+to be considered so much at home as to lose her place.  And one day
+when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after
+talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no
+scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about
+their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you
+are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would
+be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if
+she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma.
+Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be
+more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it.  It is not that
+mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken
+notice of by many persons."
+
+How was Anne to set all these matters to rights?  She could do little
+more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to
+the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between
+such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant
+for her sister's benefit.
+
+In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well.  Her
+own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed
+three miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a
+constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family,
+since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment
+in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage.  It
+was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every
+morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed
+they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs
+Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the
+talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.
+
+She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but
+having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit
+by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought
+of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well
+aware.  She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to
+herself; but this was no new sensation.  Excepting one short period of
+her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the
+loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or
+encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.  In music she had
+been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's
+fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total
+indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for
+their sakes, than mortification for her own.
+
+The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.
+The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by
+everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors
+by invitation and by chance, than any other family.  They were more
+completely popular.
+
+The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,
+in an unpremeditated little ball.  There was a family of cousins within
+a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on
+the Musgroves for all their pleasures:  they would come at any time,
+and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much
+preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country
+dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always
+recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove
+more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done,
+Miss Anne! very well done indeed!  Lord bless me!  how those little
+fingers of yours fly about!"
+
+So passed the first three weeks.  Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart
+must be in Kellynch again.  A beloved home made over to others; all the
+precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own
+other eyes and other limbs!  She could not think of much else on the
+29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening
+from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,
+exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to
+Kellynch?  I am glad I did not think of it before.  How low it makes
+me!"
+
+The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be
+visited.  Mary deplored the necessity for herself.  "Nobody knew how
+much she should suffer.  She should put it off as long as she could;"
+but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on
+an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of
+imaginary agitation, when she came back.  Anne had very sincerely
+rejoiced in there being no means of her going.  She wished, however to
+see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.
+They came:  the master of the house was not at home, but the two
+sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the
+share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very
+agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well
+able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to
+catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.
+
+Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,
+and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person.  She had
+bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though
+her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her
+having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have
+lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty.
+Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust
+of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to
+coarseness, however, or any want of good humour.  Anne gave her credit,
+indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all
+that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had
+satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of
+introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge
+or suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort.  She was
+quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,
+till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,--
+
+"It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the
+pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country."
+
+Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion
+she certainly had not.
+
+"Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added Mrs Croft.
+
+She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs
+Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,
+that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She
+immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be
+thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame
+at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their
+former neighbour's present state with proper interest.
+
+The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she
+heard the Admiral say to Mary--
+
+"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you
+know him by name."
+
+He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to
+him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too
+much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,
+&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had
+begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that
+the same brother must still be in question.  She could not, however,
+reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether
+anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the
+Crofts had previously been calling.
+
+The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at
+the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to
+be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the
+youngest Miss Musgrove walked in.  That she was coming to apologize,
+and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the
+first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa
+made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more
+room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.
+
+"And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it.  I am
+come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this
+evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!
+And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse
+her more than the piano-forte.  I will tell you why she is out of
+spirits.  When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here
+afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,
+Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or
+something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most
+unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that
+Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's
+captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while
+before he died, poor fellow!  And upon looking over his letters and
+things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be
+the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!
+So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon
+such gloomy things."
+
+The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,
+that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,
+hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his
+twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and
+unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any
+time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard
+of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death
+abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.
+
+He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for
+him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a
+thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done
+anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,
+living or dead.
+
+He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those
+removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such
+midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on
+board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the
+Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only
+two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him
+during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two
+disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for
+money.
+
+In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little
+were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and
+incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made
+scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have
+been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of
+Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary
+bursts of mind which do sometimes occur.
+
+She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the
+re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son
+gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had
+affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for
+him than she had known on first hearing of his death.  Mr Musgrove was,
+in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the
+cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew
+on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful
+companions could give them.
+
+To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name
+so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it
+might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain
+Wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their
+coming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say
+whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to
+Anne's nerves.  She found, however, that it was one to which she must
+inure herself.  Since he actually was expected in the country, she must
+teach herself to be insensible on such points.  And not only did it
+appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their
+warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high
+respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been
+six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not
+perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two
+perticular about the schoolmaster," were bent on introducing
+themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of
+his arrival.
+
+The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.
+
+
+
+Chapter 7
+
+
+A very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at
+Kellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his
+praise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by
+the end of another week.  It had been a great disappointment to Mr
+Musgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was
+he to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own
+roof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his
+cellars.  But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and
+then, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she
+could feel secure even for a week.
+
+Captain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility,
+and she was all but calling there in the same half hour.  She and Mary
+were actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she
+afterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were
+stopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in
+consequence of a bad fall.  The child's situation put the visit
+entirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference,
+even in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on
+his account.
+
+His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in
+the back, as roused the most alarming ideas.  It was an afternoon of
+distress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to
+send for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to
+support and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest
+child to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe;
+besides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the
+other house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened,
+enquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.
+
+Her brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of
+his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary.
+Till he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the
+worse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where;
+but now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt
+and felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the
+father and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be
+able to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then
+it was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so
+far to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of
+Captain Wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and
+mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with
+him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him
+than any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all
+a favourite before.  How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to
+stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and
+how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's
+farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the
+morrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a
+manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he
+ought.  And in short, he had looked and said everything with such
+exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both
+turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and
+apparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.
+
+The same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls
+came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make
+enquiries; and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about
+his heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would
+be now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry
+to think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the
+little boy, to give him the meeting.  "Oh no; as to leaving the little
+boy," both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm
+to bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help
+adding her warm protestations to theirs.
+
+Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; "the
+child was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to
+Captain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he
+would not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour." But
+in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with "Oh! no, indeed,
+Charles, I cannot bear to have you go away.  Only think if anything
+should happen?"
+
+The child had a good night, and was going on well the next day.  It
+must be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the
+spine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles
+Musgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer
+confinement.  The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as
+possible; but what was there for a father to do?  This was quite a
+female case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no
+use at home, to shut himself up.  His father very much wished him to
+meet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against
+it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public
+declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress
+directly, and dine at the other house.
+
+"Nothing can be going on better than the child," said he; "so I told my
+father, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right.
+Your sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all.  You
+would not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.
+Anne will send for me if anything is the matter."
+
+Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.
+Mary knew, from Charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite
+determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him.  She
+said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as
+there was only Anne to hear--
+
+"So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick
+child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening!  I knew how
+it would be.  This is always my luck.  If there is anything
+disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles
+is as bad as any of them.  Very unfeeling!  I must say it is very
+unfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy.  Talks of
+his being going on so well!  How does he know that he is going on well,
+or that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence?  I did not
+think Charles would have been so unfeeling.  So here he is to go away
+and enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be
+allowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else
+to be about the child.  My being the mother is the very reason why my
+feelings should not be tried.  I am not at all equal to it.  You saw
+how hysterical I was yesterday."
+
+"But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm--of the
+shock.  You will not be hysterical again.  I dare say we shall have
+nothing to distress us.  I perfectly understand Mr Robinson's
+directions, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at
+your husband.  Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his
+province.  A sick child is always the mother's property:  her own
+feelings generally make it so."
+
+"I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that
+I am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be
+always scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw,
+this morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin
+kicking about.  I have not nerves for the sort of thing."
+
+"But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole
+evening away from the poor boy?"
+
+"Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I?  Jemima is so
+careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was.  I really
+think Charles might as well have told his father we would all come.  I
+am not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is.  I was
+dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day."
+
+"Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself,
+suppose you were to go, as well as your husband.  Leave little Charles
+to my care.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain
+with him."
+
+"Are you serious?" cried Mary, her eyes brightening.  "Dear me!  that's
+a very good thought, very good, indeed.  To be sure, I may just as well
+go as not, for I am of no use at home--am I?  and it only harasses me.
+You, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest
+person.  You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you
+at a word.  It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with
+Jemima.  Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as
+much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with
+Captain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone.  An
+excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne.  I will go and tell Charles,
+and get ready directly.  You can send for us, you know, at a moment's
+notice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing
+to alarm you.  I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel
+quite at ease about my dear child."
+
+The next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door,
+and as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole
+conversation, which began with Mary's saying, in a tone of great
+exultation--
+
+"I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than
+you are.  If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should
+not be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like.  Anne will
+stay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him.  It is
+Anne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great
+deal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday."
+
+"This is very kind of Anne," was her husband's answer, "and I should be
+very glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be
+left at home by herself, to nurse our sick child."
+
+Anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her
+manner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at
+least very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left
+to dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening,
+when the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to
+let him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this
+being the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off
+together in high spirits.  They were gone, she hoped, to be happy,
+however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself,
+she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever
+likely to be hers.  She knew herself to be of the first utility to the
+child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a
+mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?
+
+She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting.  Perhaps
+indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances.  He
+must be either indifferent or unwilling.  Had he wished ever to see her
+again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what
+she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long
+ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone
+had been wanting.
+
+Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance,
+and their visit in general.  There had been music, singing, talking,
+laughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain
+Wentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other
+perfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with
+Charles.  He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though
+that had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come
+to the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs
+Charles Musgrove's way, on account of the child, and therefore,
+somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles's being to meet him
+to breakfast at his father's.
+
+Anne understood it.  He wished to avoid seeing her.  He had inquired
+after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight
+acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged,
+actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they
+were to meet.
+
+The morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the
+other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary
+and Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to
+say that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs,
+that his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters
+meaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing
+also to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though
+Charles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could
+make it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without
+his running on to give notice.
+
+Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive
+him, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the
+most consoling, that it would soon be over.  And it was soon over.  In
+two minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were
+in the drawing-room.  Her eye half met Captain Wentworth's, a bow, a
+curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that
+was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy
+footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few
+minutes ended it.  Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready,
+their visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too,
+suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the
+sportsmen:  the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast
+as she could.
+
+"It is over! it is over!" she repeated to herself again and again, in
+nervous gratitude.  "The worst is over!"
+
+Mary talked, but she could not attend.  She had seen him.  They had
+met.  They had been once more in the same room.
+
+Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling
+less.  Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been
+given up.  How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an
+interval had banished into distance and indistinctness!  What might not
+eight years do?  Events of every description, changes, alienations,
+removals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past--
+how natural, how certain too!  It included nearly a third part of her
+own life.
+
+Alas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings
+eight years may be little more than nothing.
+
+Now, how were his sentiments to be read?  Was this like wishing to
+avoid her?  And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly
+which asked the question.
+
+On one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have
+prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss
+Musgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had
+this spontaneous information from Mary:--
+
+"Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so
+attentive to me.  Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they
+went away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known
+you again.'"
+
+Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way,
+but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar
+wound.
+
+"Altered beyond his knowledge."  Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep
+mortification.  Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for
+he was not altered, or not for the worse.  She had already acknowledged
+it to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of
+her as he would.  No:  the years which had destroyed her youth and
+bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no
+respect lessening his personal advantages.  She had seen the same
+Frederick Wentworth.
+
+"So altered that he should not have known her again!"  These were words
+which could not but dwell with her.  Yet she soon began to rejoice that
+she had heard them.  They were of sobering tendency; they allayed
+agitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier.
+
+Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but
+without an idea that they would be carried round to her.  He had
+thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had
+spoken as he felt.  He had not forgiven Anne Elliot.  She had used him
+ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a
+feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident
+temper could not endure.  She had given him up to oblige others.  It
+had been the effect of over-persuasion.  It had been weakness and
+timidity.
+
+He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman
+since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural
+sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again.  Her
+power with him was gone for ever.
+
+It was now his object to marry.  He was rich, and being turned on
+shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly
+tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the
+speed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow.  He had a heart
+for either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in
+short, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne
+Elliot.  This was his only secret exception, when he said to his
+sister, in answer to her suppositions:--
+
+"Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match.  Anybody
+between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking.  A little beauty,
+and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost
+man.  Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society
+among women to make him nice?"
+
+He said it, she knew, to be contradicted.  His bright proud eye spoke
+the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his
+thoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to
+meet with.  "A strong mind, with sweetness of manner," made the first
+and the last of the description.
+
+"That is the woman I want," said he.  "Something a little inferior I
+shall of course put up with, but it must not be much.  If I am a fool,
+I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than
+most men."
+
+
+
+Chapter 8
+
+
+From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the
+same circle.  They were soon dining in company together at Mr
+Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt
+with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning
+of other dinings and other meetings.
+
+Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the
+proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of
+each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement
+could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions
+which conversation called forth.  His profession qualified him, his
+disposition lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That
+happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course
+of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not
+falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering
+towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her
+knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any
+more than herself.  There must be the same immediate association of
+thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.
+
+They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the
+commonest civility required.  Once so much to each other!  Now nothing!
+There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the
+drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to
+cease to speak to one another.  With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral
+and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could
+allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could
+have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so
+in unison, no countenances so beloved.  Now they were as strangers;
+nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.  It
+was a perpetual estrangement.
+
+When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.
+There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the
+party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss
+Musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the
+manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and
+their surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation
+and arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant
+ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been
+ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be
+living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if
+there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.
+
+From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs
+Musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying--
+
+"Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare
+say he would have been just such another by this time."
+
+Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove
+relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore,
+could not keep pace with the conversation of the others.
+
+When she could let her attention take its natural course again, she
+found the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy
+list, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down
+together to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the
+ships that Captain Wentworth had commanded.
+
+"Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp."
+
+"You will not find her there.  Quite worn out and broken up.  I was the
+last man who commanded her.  Hardly fit for service then.  Reported fit
+for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West
+Indies."
+
+The girls looked all amazement.
+
+"The Admiralty," he continued, "entertain themselves now and then, with
+sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed.
+But they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that
+may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to
+distinguish the very set who may be least missed."
+
+"Phoo! phoo!" cried the Admiral, "what stuff these young fellows talk!
+Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day.  For an old built
+sloop, you would not see her equal.  Lucky fellow to get her!  He knows
+there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at
+the same time.  Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more
+interest than his."
+
+"I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;" replied Captain Wentworth,
+seriously.  "I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can
+desire.  It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a
+very great object, I wanted to be doing something."
+
+"To be sure you did.  What should a young fellow like you do ashore for
+half a year together?  If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be
+afloat again."
+
+"But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, "how vexed you must have been
+when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you."
+
+"I knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling.
+"I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the
+fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about
+among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which
+at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself.  Ah! she was a dear
+old Asp to me.  She did all that I wanted.  I knew she would.  I knew
+that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be
+the making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time
+I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very
+entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn,
+to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted.  I brought her into
+Plymouth; and here another instance of luck.  We had not been six hours
+in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights,
+and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch
+with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition.
+Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant
+Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the
+newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought
+about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss
+Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations
+of pity and horror.
+
+"And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if
+thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met
+with our poor boy. Charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), "do ask
+Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother.  I
+always forgot."
+
+"It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know.  Dick had been left ill at
+Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain
+Wentworth."
+
+"Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of
+mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to
+hear him talked of by such a good friend."
+
+Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case,
+only nodded in reply, and walked away.
+
+The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could
+not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his
+own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little
+statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class,
+observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man
+ever had.
+
+"Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia!  How fast I made
+money in her.  A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together
+off the Western Islands.  Poor Harville, sister!  You know how much he
+wanted money:  worse than myself.  He had a wife.  Excellent fellow.  I
+shall never forget his happiness.  He felt it all, so much for her
+sake.  I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the
+same luck in the Mediterranean."
+
+"And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs Musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us,
+when you were put captain into that ship.  We shall never forget what
+you did."
+
+Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in
+part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts,
+looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.
+
+"My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor
+Richard."
+
+"Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady,
+and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care!  Ah!
+it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you.  I assure
+you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you."
+
+There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this
+speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome
+mouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's
+kind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get
+rid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to
+be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another
+moment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly
+afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were
+sitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with
+her, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and
+natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was
+real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.
+
+They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily
+made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove.  It was no
+insignificant barrier, indeed.  Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable,
+substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good
+cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the
+agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered
+as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some
+credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat
+sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.
+
+Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary
+proportions.  A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep
+affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world.  But, fair
+or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will
+patronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will
+seize.
+
+The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room
+with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came
+up to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might
+be interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with--
+
+"If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you
+would have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her
+daughters."
+
+"Should I?  I am glad I was not a week later then."
+
+The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry.  He defended himself;
+though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on
+board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few
+hours might comprehend.
+
+"But, if I know myself," said he, "this is from no want of gallantry
+towards them.  It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all
+one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on
+board such as women ought to have.  There can be no want of gallantry,
+Admiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high,
+and this is what I do.  I hate to hear of women on board, or to see
+them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family
+of ladies anywhere, if I can help it."
+
+This brought his sister upon him.
+
+"Oh! Frederick!  But I cannot believe it of you.--All idle
+refinement!--Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house
+in England.  I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and
+I know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war.  I
+declare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at
+Kellynch Hall," (with a kind bow to Anne), "beyond what I always had in
+most of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether."
+
+"Nothing to the purpose," replied her brother.  "You were living with
+your husband, and were the only woman on board."
+
+"But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and
+three children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth.  Where was this
+superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?"
+
+"All merged in my friendship, Sophia.  I would assist any brother
+officer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's
+from the world's end, if he wanted it.  But do not imagine that I did
+not feel it an evil in itself."
+
+"Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable."
+
+"I might not like them the better for that perhaps.  Such a number of
+women and children have no right to be comfortable on board."
+
+"My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly.  Pray, what would
+become of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one
+port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?"
+
+"My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all
+her family to Plymouth."
+
+"But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if
+women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures.  We none of
+us expect to be in smooth water all our days."
+
+"Ah! my dear," said the Admiral, "when he had got a wife, he will sing
+a different tune.  When he is married, if we have the good luck to live
+to another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many
+others, have done.  We shall have him very thankful to anybody that
+will bring him his wife."
+
+"Ay, that we shall."
+
+"Now I have done," cried Captain Wentworth.  "When once married people
+begin to attack me with,--'Oh! you will think very differently, when
+you are married.'  I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say
+again, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it."
+
+He got up and moved away.
+
+"What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!" said Mrs Musgrove
+to Mrs Croft.
+
+"Pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many
+women have done more.  I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have
+been once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides
+being in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar.
+But I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West
+Indies.  We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies."
+
+Mrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse
+herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her
+life.
+
+"And I do assure you, ma'am," pursued Mrs Croft, "that nothing can
+exceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the
+higher rates.  When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more
+confined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of
+them; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been
+spent on board a ship.  While we were together, you know, there was
+nothing to be feared.  Thank God!  I have always been blessed with
+excellent health, and no climate disagrees with me.  A little
+disordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but
+never knew what sickness was afterwards.  The only time I ever really
+suffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself
+unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by
+myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North
+Seas.  I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of
+imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I
+should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing
+ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience."
+
+"Aye, to be sure.  Yes, indeed, oh yes!  I am quite of your opinion,
+Mrs Croft," was Mrs Musgrove's hearty answer.  "There is nothing so bad
+as a separation.  I am quite of your opinion.  I know what it is, for
+Mr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are
+over, and he is safe back again."
+
+The evening ended with dancing.  On its being proposed, Anne offered
+her services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with
+tears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be
+employed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.
+
+It was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than
+Captain Wentworth.  She felt that he had every thing to elevate him
+which general attention and deference, and especially the attention of
+all the young women, could do.  The Miss Hayters, the females of the
+family of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the
+honour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they
+both seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued
+appearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have
+made it credible that they were not decided rivals.  If he were a
+little spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could
+wonder?
+
+These were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers
+were mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together,
+equally without error, and without consciousness.  Once she felt that
+he was looking at herself,  observing her altered features, perhaps,
+trying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed
+him; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly
+aware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his
+having asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced?  The answer
+was, "Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing.  She had rather
+play.  She is never tired of playing."  Once, too, he spoke to her.
+She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat
+down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss
+Musgroves an idea of.  Unintentionally she returned to that part of the
+room; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness--
+
+"I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;" and though she
+immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced
+to sit down again.
+
+Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches.  His cold
+politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.
+
+
+
+Chapter 9
+
+
+Captain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as
+he liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral's fraternal
+kindness as of his wife's.  He had intended, on first arriving, to
+proceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in
+that country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this
+off.  There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of
+everything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so
+hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to
+remain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of
+Edward's wife upon credit a little longer.
+
+It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day.  The Musgroves could
+hardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the
+morning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs
+Croft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in
+their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about
+in a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig,
+lately added to their establishment.
+
+Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the
+Musgroves and their dependencies.  It was unvarying, warm admiration
+everywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established,
+when a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal
+disturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.
+
+Charles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable,
+pleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a
+considerable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's
+introduction.  He was in orders; and having a curacy in the
+neighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's
+house, only two miles from Uppercross.  A short absence from home had
+left his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period,
+and when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners,
+and of seeing Captain Wentworth.
+
+Mrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters.  They had each had money, but
+their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of
+consequence.  Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was
+insignificant compared with Mr Musgrove's; and while the Musgroves were
+in the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would,
+from their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living,
+and their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at
+all, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course
+excepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was
+very superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest.
+
+The two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no
+pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a
+consciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them
+pleased to improve their cousins.  Charles's attentions to Henrietta
+had been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation.
+"It would not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,"--
+and Henrietta did seem to like him.
+
+Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but
+from that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.
+
+Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet
+quite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached.  Henrietta was
+perhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not
+now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most
+likely to attract him.
+
+Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire
+confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the
+young men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its
+chance.  There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark
+about them in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage:
+the young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and
+Captain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss
+Musgroves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when
+Anne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to
+which was the one liked best.  Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for
+Henrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be
+extremely delightful.
+
+Charles "had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he
+had once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had
+not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war.  Here was a
+fortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might
+be done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as
+likely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy.  Oh! it
+would be a capital match for either of his sisters."
+
+"Upon my word it would," replied Mary.  "Dear me!  If he should rise to
+any very great honours!  If he should ever be made a baronet!  'Lady
+Wentworth' sounds very well.  That would be a noble thing, indeed, for
+Henrietta!  She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not
+dislike that.  Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth!  It would be but a new
+creation, however, and I never think much of your new creations."
+
+It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very
+account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an
+end to.  She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought
+it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between
+the families renewed--very sad for herself and her children.
+
+"You know," said she, "I cannot think him at all a fit match for
+Henrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made,
+she has no right to throw herself away.  I do not think any young woman
+has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient
+to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to
+those who have not been used to them.  And, pray, who is Charles
+Hayter?  Nothing but a country curate.  A most improper match for Miss
+Musgrove of Uppercross."
+
+Her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having
+a regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw
+things as an eldest son himself.
+
+"Now you are talking nonsense, Mary," was therefore his answer.  "It
+would not be a great match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair
+chance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in
+the course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he
+is the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty
+property.  The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and
+fifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best
+land in the country.  I grant you, that any of them but Charles would
+be a very shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he
+is the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured,
+good sort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he
+will make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different
+sort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible
+man--good, freehold property.  No, no; Henrietta might do worse than
+marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain
+Wentworth, I shall be very well satisfied."
+
+"Charles may say what he pleases," cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he
+was out of the room, "but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry
+Charles Hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and
+therefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon
+put him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that he
+has.  She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday.  I wish
+you had been there to see her behaviour.  And as to Captain Wentworth's
+liking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he
+certainly does like Henrietta a great deal the best.  But Charles is so
+positive!  I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might
+have decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did,
+unless you had been determined to give it against me."
+
+A dinner at Mr Musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things
+should have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the
+mixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition
+in little Charles.  She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth;
+but an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the
+advantages of a quiet evening.
+
+As to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that
+he should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the
+happiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he
+should prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta.  Either of
+them would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured
+wife.  With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be
+pained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a
+heart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if
+Henrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the
+alteration could not be understood too soon.
+
+Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his
+cousin's behaviour.  She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly
+estranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and
+leave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross:  but there
+was such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain
+Wentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause.  He had been absent
+only two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even
+to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his
+present curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead.  It had then
+seemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who
+for more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties
+of his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should
+be quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as
+good as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of
+it.  The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of
+going six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better
+curacy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr
+Shirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get
+through without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to
+Louisa, but had been almost everything to Henrietta.  When he came
+back, alas!  the zeal of the business was gone by.  Louisa could not
+listen at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held
+with Dr Shirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain
+Wentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to
+give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude
+of the negotiation.
+
+"Well, I am very glad indeed:  but I always thought you would have it;
+I always thought you sure.  It did not appear to me that--in short, you
+know, Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise.
+Is he coming, Louisa?"
+
+One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne
+had not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at
+the Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles,
+who was lying on the sofa.
+
+The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived
+his manners of their usual composure:  he started, and could only say,
+"I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I
+should find them here," before he walked to the window to recollect
+himself, and feel how he ought to behave.
+
+"They are up stairs with my sister:  they will be down in a few
+moments, I dare say," had been Anne's reply, in all the confusion that
+was natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do
+something for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment,
+and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.
+
+He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, "I
+hope the little boy is better," was silent.
+
+She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy
+her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very
+great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little
+vestibule.  She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the
+house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters
+easy--Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight
+of Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of
+Anne.
+
+She only attempted to say, "How do you do?  Will you not sit down?  The
+others will be here presently."
+
+Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not
+ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to
+his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the
+newspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.
+
+Another minute brought another addition.  The younger boy, a remarkable
+stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for
+him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and
+went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his
+claim to anything good that might be giving away.
+
+There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his
+aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten
+himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was
+about Charles, she could not shake him off.  She spoke to him, ordered,
+entreated, and insisted in vain.  Once she did contrive to push him
+away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back
+again directly.
+
+"Walter," said she, "get down this moment.  You are extremely
+troublesome.  I am very angry with you."
+
+"Walter," cried Charles Hayter, "why do you not do as you are bid?  Do
+not you hear your aunt speak?  Come to me, Walter, come to cousin
+Charles."
+
+But not a bit did Walter stir.
+
+In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being
+released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent
+down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened
+from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew
+that Captain Wentworth had done it.
+
+Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless.  She
+could not even thank him.  She could only hang over little Charles,
+with most disordered feelings.  His kindness in stepping forward to her
+relief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little
+particulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her
+by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to
+avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her
+conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of
+varying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,
+till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make
+over her little patient to their cares, and leave the room.  She could
+not stay.  It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and
+jealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could stay
+for none of it.  It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well
+inclined towards Captain Wentworth.  She had a strong impression of his
+having said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's
+interference, "You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to
+teaze your aunt;" and could comprehend his regretting that Captain
+Wentworth should do what he ought to have done himself.  But neither
+Charles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her,
+till she had a little better arranged her own.  She was ashamed of
+herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a
+trifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude
+and reflection to recover her.
+
+
+
+Chapter 10
+
+
+Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.
+Anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough
+to have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home,
+where she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for
+while she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not
+but think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and
+experience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either.  They
+were more in love with him; yet there it was not love.  It was a little
+fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with
+some.  Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta
+had sometimes the air of being divided between them.  Anne longed for
+the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of
+pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to.  She
+did not attribute guile to any.  It was the highest satisfaction to her
+to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was
+occasioning.  There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner.
+He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of
+Charles Hayter.  He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for
+accepting must be the word) of two young women at once.
+
+After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the
+field.  Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a
+most decided change.  He had even refused one regular invitation to
+dinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some
+large books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be
+right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.
+It was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal
+from Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of
+seeing him to-morrow.  Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was
+wise.
+
+One morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth
+being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were
+sitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters
+from the Mansion-house.
+
+It was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through
+the little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that
+they were going to take a long walk, and therefore concluded Mary could
+not like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with some
+jealousy at not being supposed a good walker, "Oh, yes, I should like
+to join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;" Anne felt
+persuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what
+they did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the
+family habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be
+communicated, and everything being to be done together, however
+undesired and inconvenient.  She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but
+in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss
+Musgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as
+she might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the
+interference in any plan of their own.
+
+"I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long
+walk," said Mary, as she went up stairs.  "Everybody is always
+supposing that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been
+pleased, if we had refused to join them.  When people come in this
+manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?"
+
+Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.  They had taken
+out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.
+Their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready
+for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure.  Could Anne have
+foreseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some
+feelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too
+late to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the
+direction chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the
+walk as under their guidance.
+
+Anne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the
+narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep
+with her brother and sister.  Her pleasure in the walk must arise from
+the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year
+upon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to
+herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of
+autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind
+of taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet,
+worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of
+feeling.  She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like
+musings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach
+of Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves,
+she should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable.
+It was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate
+footing, might fall into.  He was more engaged with Louisa than with
+Henrietta.  Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her
+sister.  This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one
+speech of Louisa's which struck her.  After one of the many praises of
+the day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth
+added:--
+
+"What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister!  They meant to
+take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of
+these hills.  They talked of coming into this side of the country.  I
+wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day.  Oh! it does happen very
+often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as
+lieve be tossed out as not."
+
+"Ah! You make the most of it, I know," cried Louisa, "but if it were
+really so, I should do just the same in her place.  If I loved a man,
+as she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should
+ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven
+safely by anybody else."
+
+It was spoken with enthusiasm.
+
+"Had you?" cried he, catching the same tone; "I honour you!" And there
+was silence between them for a little while.
+
+Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again.  The sweet
+scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet,
+fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining
+happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone
+together, blessed her memory.  She roused herself to say, as they
+struck by order into another path, "Is not this one of the ways to
+Winthrop?" But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.
+
+Winthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be
+met with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after
+another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the
+ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting
+the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again,
+they gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted
+Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter,
+at the foot of the hill on the other side.
+
+Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them;
+an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and
+buildings of a farm-yard.
+
+Mary exclaimed, "Bless me! here is Winthrop.  I declare I had no idea!
+Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired."
+
+Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking
+along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary
+wished; but "No!" said Charles Musgrove, and "No, no!" cried Louisa
+more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the
+matter warmly.
+
+Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution
+of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently,
+though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too.  But this
+was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when
+he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at
+Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, "Oh! no,
+indeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any
+sitting down could do her good;" and, in short, her look and manner
+declared, that go she would not.
+
+After a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations,
+it was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and
+Henrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and
+cousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the
+hill.  Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she
+went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta,
+Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying
+to Captain Wentworth--
+
+"It is very unpleasant, having such connexions!  But, I assure you, I
+have never been in the house above twice in my life."
+
+She received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile,
+followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne
+perfectly knew the meaning of.
+
+The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa
+returned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step
+of a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood
+about her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a
+gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by
+degrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she
+quarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better
+somewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a
+better also.  She turned through the same gate, but could not see them.
+Anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the
+hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot
+or other.  Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was
+sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on
+till she overtook her.
+
+Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon
+heard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if
+making their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the
+centre.  They were speaking as they drew near.  Louisa's voice was the
+first distinguished.  She seemed to be in the middle of some eager
+speech.  What Anne first heard was--
+
+"And so, I made her go.  I could not bear that she should be frightened
+from the visit by such nonsense.  What! would I be turned back from
+doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right,
+by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may
+say?  No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded.  When I have
+made up my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have
+made up hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near
+giving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!"
+
+"She would have turned back then, but for you?"
+
+"She would indeed.  I am almost ashamed to say it."
+
+"Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand!  After the hints
+you gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last
+time I was in company with him,  I need not affect to have no
+comprehension of what is going on.  I see that more than a mere dutiful
+morning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her
+too, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in
+circumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not
+resolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this.
+Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of
+decision and firmness, I see.  If you value her conduct or happiness,
+infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can.  But this, no
+doubt, you have been always doing.  It is the worst evil of too
+yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be
+depended on.  You are never sure of a good impression being durable;
+everybody may sway it.  Let those who would be happy be firm.  Here is
+a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough, "to exemplify:
+a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has
+outlived all the storms of autumn.  Not a puncture, not a weak spot
+anywhere.  This nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, "while so
+many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still
+in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed
+capable of."  Then returning to his former earnest tone--"My first
+wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.  If
+Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life,
+she will cherish all her present powers of mind."
+
+He had done, and was unanswered.  It would have surprised Anne if
+Louisa could have readily answered such a speech:  words of such
+interest, spoken with such serious warmth!  She could imagine what
+Louisa was feeling.  For herself, she feared to move, lest she should
+be seen.  While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected
+her, and they were moving on.  Before they were beyond her hearing,
+however, Louisa spoke again.
+
+"Mary is good-natured enough in many respects," said she; "but she does
+sometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride--the Elliot
+pride.  She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride.  We do so
+wish that Charles had married Anne instead.  I suppose you know he
+wanted to marry Anne?"
+
+After a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said--
+
+"Do you mean that she refused him?"
+
+"Oh! yes; certainly."
+
+"When did that happen?"
+
+"I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time;
+but I believe about a year before he married Mary.  I wish she had
+accepted him.  We should all have liked her a great deal better; and
+papa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's
+doing, that she did not.  They think Charles might not be learned and
+bookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she
+persuaded Anne to refuse him."
+
+The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more.  Her own
+emotions still kept her fixed.  She had much to recover from, before
+she could move.  The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely
+hers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal
+of very painful import.  She saw how her own character was considered
+by Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling
+and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme
+agitation.
+
+As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked
+back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort
+in their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once
+more in motion together.  Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence
+which only numbers could give.
+
+Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured,
+Charles Hayter with them.  The minutiae of the business Anne could not
+attempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to
+perfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the
+gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now
+very glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt.  Henrietta
+looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter
+exceedingly happy:  and they were devoted to each other almost from the
+first instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.
+
+Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could
+be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they
+were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two.  In
+a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they
+were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of
+the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne
+necessarily belonged.  She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired
+enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in
+very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife.  Mary had
+shewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence,
+which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut
+off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when
+Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according
+to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded
+on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which
+he had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at
+all.
+
+This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of
+it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit,
+the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time
+heard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig.  He
+and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home.
+Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they
+kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it
+would save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross.
+The invitation was general, and generally declined.  The Miss Musgroves
+were not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked
+before any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could
+not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.
+
+The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an
+opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again,
+when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something
+to his sister.  The something might be guessed by its effects.
+
+"Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs Croft.  "Do let us
+have the pleasure of taking you home.  Here is excellent room for
+three, I assure you.  If we were all like you, I believe we might sit
+four.  You must, indeed, you must."
+
+Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to
+decline, she was not allowed to proceed.  The Admiral's kind urgency
+came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they
+compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a
+corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,
+and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.
+
+Yes; he had done it.  She was in the carriage, and felt that he had
+placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she
+owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give
+her rest.  She was very much affected by the view of his disposition
+towards her, which all these things made apparent.  This little
+circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before.  She
+understood him.  He could not forgive her, but he could not be
+unfeeling.  Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with
+high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and
+though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer,
+without the desire of giving her relief.  It was a remainder of former
+sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship;
+it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not
+contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that
+she knew not which prevailed.
+
+Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at
+first unconsciously given.  They had travelled half their way along the
+rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said.  She then
+found them talking of "Frederick."
+
+"He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy,"
+said the Admiral; "but there is no saying which.  He has been running
+after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind.
+Ay, this comes of the peace.  If it were war now, he would have settled
+it long ago.  We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long
+courtships in time of war.  How many days was it, my dear, between the
+first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our
+lodgings at North Yarmouth?"
+
+"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft,
+pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an
+understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy
+together.  I had known you by character, however, long before."
+
+"Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we
+to wait for besides?  I do not like having such things so long in hand.
+I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home
+one of these young ladies to Kellynch.  Then there would always be
+company for them.  And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly
+know one from the other."
+
+"Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a
+tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers
+might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and
+a very respectable family.  One could not be connected with better
+people.  My dear Admiral, that post!  we shall certainly take that
+post."
+
+But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily
+passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her
+hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and
+Anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined
+no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found
+herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage.
+
+
+
+Chapter 11
+
+
+The time now approached for Lady Russell's return:  the day was even
+fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was
+resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and
+beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.
+
+It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within
+half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and
+there must be intercourse between the two families.  This was against
+her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross,
+that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him
+behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed
+she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as
+certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary
+for Lady Russell.
+
+She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain
+Wentworth at the Hall:  those rooms had witnessed former meetings which
+would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious
+for the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting
+anywhere.  They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance
+now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she
+might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.
+
+These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal
+from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long
+enough.  Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some
+sweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was
+gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.
+
+The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which
+she had not at all imagined.  Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and
+unheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them
+to justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.
+
+A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at
+last, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with
+his family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite
+unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other.  Captain Harville had
+never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two
+years before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined
+him to go immediately to Lyme.  He had been there for four-and-twenty
+hours.  His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a
+lively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine
+country about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an
+earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither
+was the consequence.
+
+The young people were all wild to see Lyme.  Captain Wentworth talked
+of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from
+Uppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in
+short, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the
+resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being
+now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down
+all the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer;
+and to Lyme they were to go--Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa,
+and Captain Wentworth.
+
+The first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at
+night; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not
+consent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the
+middle of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place,
+after deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for
+going and returning.  They were, consequently, to stay the night there,
+and not to be expected back till the next day's dinner.  This was felt
+to be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the Great
+House at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually,
+it was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove's coach
+containing the four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove
+Captain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and
+entering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was
+very evident they would not have more than time for looking about them,
+before the light and warmth of the day were gone.
+
+After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the
+inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly
+down to the sea.  They were come too late in the year for any amusement
+or variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer.  The rooms were
+shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the
+residents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings
+themselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street
+almost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round
+the pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing
+machines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new
+improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to
+the east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very
+strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate
+environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better.  The scenes in
+its neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive
+sweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by
+dark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the
+happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in
+unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of
+Up Lyme; and, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic
+rocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant
+growth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since the
+first partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a
+state, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may
+more than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of
+Wight:  these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the
+worth of Lyme understood.
+
+The party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and
+melancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves
+on the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a
+first return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all,
+proceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on
+Captain Wentworth's account:  for in a small house, near the foot of an
+old pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled.  Captain
+Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he
+was to join them on the Cobb.
+
+They were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even
+Louisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long,
+when they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well
+known already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a
+Captain Benwick, who was staying with them.
+
+Captain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia;
+and the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return
+from Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and
+an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped
+him well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little
+history of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting
+in the eyes of all the ladies.  He had been engaged to Captain
+Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss.  They had been a year
+or two waiting for fortune and promotion.  Fortune came, his
+prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last;
+but Fanny Harville did not live to know it.  She had died the preceding
+summer while he was at sea.  Captain Wentworth believed it impossible
+for man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to
+Fanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful
+change.  He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer
+heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring
+manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits.  To
+finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the
+Harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all
+their views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them
+entirely.  Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a
+year; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to
+a residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the
+country, and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly
+adapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind.  The sympathy and good-will
+excited towards Captain Benwick was very great.
+
+"And yet," said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the
+party, "he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have.  I
+cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever.  He is younger than
+I am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man.  He will
+rally again, and be happy with another."
+
+They all met, and were introduced.  Captain Harville was a tall, dark
+man, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from
+strong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain
+Wentworth.  Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three,
+and, compared with either of them, a little man.  He had a pleasing
+face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from
+conversation.
+
+Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners,
+was a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging.  Mrs Harville,
+a degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the
+same good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their
+desire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because
+the friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their
+entreaties for their all promising to dine with them.  The dinner,
+already ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted
+as a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should
+have brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing
+of course that they should dine with them.
+
+There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such
+a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike
+the usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality
+and display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by
+an increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers.  "These would
+have been all my friends," was her thought; and she had to struggle
+against a great tendency to lowness.
+
+On quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends,
+and found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart
+could think capable of accommodating so many.  Anne had a moment's
+astonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the
+pleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious
+contrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the
+actual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of
+lodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the
+winter storms to be expected.  The varieties in the fitting-up of the
+rooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the
+common indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a
+rare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious
+and valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had
+visited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with
+his profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence
+on his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it
+presented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification.
+
+Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent
+accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable
+collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick.  His
+lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of
+usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment
+within.  He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys
+for the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with
+improvements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large
+fishing-net at one corner of the room.
+
+Anne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the
+house; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into
+raptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their
+friendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness;
+protesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and
+warmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to
+live, and they only deserved to be respected and loved.
+
+They went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered
+already, that nothing was found amiss; though its being "so entirely
+out of season," and the "no thoroughfare of Lyme," and the "no
+expectation of company," had brought many apologies from the heads of
+the inn.
+
+Anne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being
+in Captain Wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could
+ever be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the
+interchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got
+beyond), was become a mere nothing.
+
+The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow,
+but Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he
+came, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected,
+it having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of
+being oppressed by the presence of so many strangers.  He ventured
+among them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem
+fit for the mirth of the party in general.
+
+While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the
+room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance
+to occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed
+rather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her
+nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him.  He was shy, and
+disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance,
+and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well
+repaid the first trouble of exertion.  He was evidently a young man of
+considerable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and
+besides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's
+indulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions
+had probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to
+him in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling
+against affliction, which had naturally grown out of their
+conversation.  For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather
+the appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and
+having talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone
+through a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets,
+trying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake were to be
+preferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos; and
+moreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced, he showed himself so
+intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet, and
+all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he
+repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a
+broken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so
+entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he
+did not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was
+the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who
+enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could
+estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but
+sparingly.
+
+His looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his
+situation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the
+right of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger
+allowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to
+particularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such
+collections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth
+and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse
+and fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest
+examples of moral and religious endurances.
+
+Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the
+interest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which
+declared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like
+his, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to
+procure and read them.
+
+When the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of
+her coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man
+whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more
+serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and
+preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct
+would ill bear examination.
+
+
+
+Chapter 12
+
+
+Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the
+next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast.  They
+went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine
+south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so
+flat a shore admitted.  They praised the morning; gloried in the sea;
+sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were
+silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with--
+
+"Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the
+sea-air always does good.  There can be no doubt of its having been of
+the greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring
+twelve-month.  He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month,
+did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the
+sea, always makes him feel young again.  Now, I cannot help thinking it
+a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea.  I do think he had
+better leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme.  Do not you, Anne?
+Do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both
+for himself and Mrs Shirley?  She has cousins here, you know, and many
+acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she
+would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance
+at hand, in case of his having another seizure.  Indeed I think it
+quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley,
+who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days
+in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut
+out from all the world.  I wish his friends would propose it to him.  I
+really think they ought.  And, as to procuring a dispensation, there
+could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character.  My
+only doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish.
+He is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I
+must say.  Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous?  Do not
+you think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman
+sacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well
+performed by another person?  And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles
+off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was
+anything to complain of."
+
+Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered
+into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of
+a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower
+standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence?  She said
+all that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of
+Dr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that
+he should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident
+curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such
+resident curate's being married.
+
+"I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "I wish
+Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley.  I
+have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence
+with everybody!  I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to
+anything!  I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid
+of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and
+wish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross."
+
+Anne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused
+also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's
+views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the
+Musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and
+a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects
+suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards
+them.  They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be
+ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had
+something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her
+into the town.  They were all at her disposal.
+
+When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a
+gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew
+back, and stopped to give them way.  They ascended and passed him; and
+as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a
+degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of.
+She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty
+features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine
+wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of
+eye which it had also produced.  It was evident that the gentleman,
+(completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly.  Captain
+Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his
+noticing of it.  He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of
+brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even
+I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again."
+
+After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a
+little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing
+afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had
+nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an
+adjoining apartment.  She had before conjectured him to be a stranger
+like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was
+strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his
+servant.  Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea.  It
+was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this
+second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's
+looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and
+propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good
+manners.  He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an
+agreeable person.  Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.
+
+They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost
+the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to
+the window.  It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming
+round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going
+away.  It was driven by a servant in mourning.
+
+The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare
+it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and
+the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the
+curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and
+civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off.
+
+"Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at
+Anne, "it is the very man we passed."
+
+The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as
+far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table.
+The waiter came into the room soon afterwards.
+
+"Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name
+of the gentleman who is just gone away?"
+
+"Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last
+night from Sidmouth.  Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you
+were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and
+London."
+
+"Elliot!"  Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the
+name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity
+of a waiter.
+
+"Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr
+Elliot, it must, indeed!  Charles, Anne, must not it?  In mourning, you
+see, just as our Mr Elliot must be.  How very extraordinary!  In the
+very same inn with us!  Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot?  my
+father's next heir?  Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you
+hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch
+family?"
+
+"No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his
+master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day."
+
+"There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said!  Heir to
+Sir Walter Elliot!  I was sure that would come out, if it was so.
+Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to
+publish, wherever he goes.  But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!
+I wish I had looked at him more.  I wish we had been aware in time, who
+it was, that he might have been introduced to us.  What a pity that we
+should not have been introduced to each other!  Do you think he had the
+Elliot countenance?  I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the
+horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I
+wonder the arms did not strike me!  Oh! the great-coat was hanging over
+the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should
+have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in
+mourning, one should have known him by the livery."
+
+"Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together," said
+Captain Wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of
+Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin."
+
+When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince
+her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on
+such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all
+desirable.
+
+At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to
+have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was
+undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense.  She would not,
+upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time;
+luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in
+their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's
+having actually run against him in the passage, and received his very
+polite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that
+cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret.
+
+"Of course," said Mary, "you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the
+next time you write to Bath.  I think my father certainly ought to hear
+of it; do mention all about him."
+
+Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she
+considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what
+ought to be suppressed.  The offence which had been given her father,
+many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she
+suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both
+was beyond a doubt.  Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of
+keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell
+on Anne.
+
+Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and
+Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take
+their last walk about Lyme.  They ought to be setting off for
+Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and
+out of doors as long as they could.
+
+Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all
+fairly in the street.  Their conversation the preceding evening did not
+disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time,
+talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as
+before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike
+of the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general
+change amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had
+Captain Harville by her side.
+
+"Miss Elliot," said he, speaking rather low, "you have done a good deed
+in making that poor fellow talk so much.  I wish he could have such
+company oftener.  It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is;
+but what can we do?  We cannot part."
+
+"No," said Anne, "that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in
+time, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and
+you must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called
+a young mourner--only last summer, I understand."
+
+"Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "only June."
+
+"And not known to him, perhaps, so soon."
+
+"Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape,
+just made into the Grappler.  I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of
+him; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for
+Portsmouth.  There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it?
+not I.  I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm.  Nobody could
+do it, but that good fellow" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.)  "The
+Laconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being
+sent to sea again.  He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for
+leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and
+day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant,
+and never left the poor fellow for a week.  That's what he did, and
+nobody else could have saved poor James.  You may think, Miss Elliot,
+whether he is dear to us!"
+
+Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much
+in reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to
+bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he
+spoke again, it was of something totally different.
+
+Mrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have
+quite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the
+direction of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they
+would accompany them to their door, and then return and set off
+themselves.  By all their calculations there was just time for this;
+but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk
+along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so
+determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found,
+would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and
+all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be
+imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door,
+and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them
+to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.
+
+Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her.  Lord Byron's "dark
+blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present
+view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention
+was possible.  It was soon drawn, perforce another way.
+
+There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant
+for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and
+all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight,
+excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth.
+In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the
+sensation was delightful to her.  The hardness of the pavement for her
+feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it,
+however.  She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment,
+ran up the steps to be jumped down again.  He advised her against it,
+thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she
+smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she
+was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the
+Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless!  There was no wound, no blood,
+no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face
+was like death.  The horror of the moment to all who stood around!
+
+Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms,
+looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of
+silence.  "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of
+her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him
+immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the
+conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps,
+but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between
+them.
+
+"Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from
+Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength
+were gone.
+
+"Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him.  I
+can support her myself.  Leave me, and go to him.  Rub her hands, rub
+her temples; here are salts; take them, take them."
+
+Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging
+himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised
+up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that
+Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering
+against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony--
+
+"Oh God! her father and mother!"
+
+"A surgeon!" said Anne.
+
+He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only--
+"True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne
+eagerly suggested--
+
+"Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick?  He knows
+where a surgeon is to be found."
+
+Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a
+moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned
+the poor corpse-like  figure entirely to the brother's care, and was
+off for the town with the utmost rapidity.
+
+As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which
+of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain
+Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother,
+hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from
+one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness
+the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he
+could not give.
+
+Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which
+instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest
+comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to
+assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth.  Both seemed to look to her
+for directions.
+
+"Anne, Anne," cried Charles, "What is to be done next?  What, in
+heaven's name, is to be done next?"
+
+Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.
+
+"Had not she better be carried to the inn?  Yes, I am sure: carry her
+gently to the inn."
+
+"Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively
+collected, and eager to be doing something.  "I will carry her myself.
+Musgrove, take care of the others."
+
+By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen
+and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be
+useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady,
+nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first
+report.  To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was
+consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and
+in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his
+wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the
+ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they
+had passed along.
+
+They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them.  Captain
+Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which
+showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately,
+informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot.  Shocked as
+Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be
+instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was
+to be done.  She must be taken to their house; all must go to their
+house; and await the surgeon's arrival there.  They would not listen to
+scruples:  he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while
+Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and
+given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives
+were supplied by her husband to all who needed them.
+
+Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without
+apparent consciousness.  This had been a proof of life, however, of
+service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of
+being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope
+and fear, from a return of her own insensibility.  Mary, too, was
+growing calmer.
+
+The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible.  They
+were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless.  The
+head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries
+recovered from:  he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.
+
+That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a
+few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and
+the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a
+few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may
+be conceived.
+
+The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain
+Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight
+of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded
+arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of
+his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.
+
+Louisa's limbs had escaped.  There was no injury but to the head.
+
+It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be
+done, as to their general situation.  They were now able to speak to
+each other and consult.  That Louisa must remain where she was, however
+distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such
+trouble, did not admit a doubt.  Her removal was impossible.  The
+Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all
+gratitude.  They had looked forward and arranged everything before the
+others began to reflect.  Captain Benwick must give up his room to
+them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled.  They
+were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet
+perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging
+a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room
+for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though,
+with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the
+least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely.  Mrs
+Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had
+lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such
+another.  Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by
+day or night.  And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of
+feeling irresistible.
+
+Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in
+consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of
+perplexity and terror.  "Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going
+to Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr
+and Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone
+since they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in
+tolerable time." At first, they were capable of nothing more to the
+purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth,
+exerting himself, said--
+
+"We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute.  Every
+minute is valuable.  Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross
+instantly.  Musgrove, either you or I must go."
+
+Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away.  He
+would be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville;
+but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor
+would.  So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the
+same.  She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently.  The
+usefulness of her staying!  She who had not been able to remain in
+Louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her
+worse than helpless!  She was forced to acknowledge that she could do
+no good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the
+thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she
+was anxious to be at home.
+
+The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from
+Louisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door
+was open.
+
+"Then it is settled, Musgrove," cried Captain Wentworth, "that you
+stay, and that I take care of your sister home.  But as to the rest, as
+to the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be
+only one.  Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to
+her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as
+Anne."
+
+She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so
+spoken of.  The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then
+appeared.
+
+"You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;" cried he,
+turning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which
+seemed almost restoring the past.  She coloured deeply, and he
+recollected himself and moved away.  She expressed herself most
+willing, ready, happy to remain.  "It was what she had been thinking
+of, and wishing to be allowed to do.  A bed on the floor in Louisa's
+room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so."
+
+One thing more, and all seemed arranged.  Though it was rather
+desirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some
+share of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take
+them back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain
+Wentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much
+better for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's
+carriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there
+would be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night.
+
+Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part,
+and to be soon followed by the two ladies.  When the plan was made
+known to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it.  She was
+so wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being
+expected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa,
+while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's
+stead!  Why was not she to be as useful as Anne?  And to go home
+without Charles, too, without her husband!  No, it was too unkind.  And
+in short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as
+none of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for
+it; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable.
+
+Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and
+ill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the
+town, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending
+to her.  She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to
+the little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in
+the morning.  There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr
+Shirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot;
+a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or
+those who were wrapt up in her welfare.
+
+Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as
+they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing
+degree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that
+it might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.
+
+Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in
+waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the
+street; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of
+one sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the
+astonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles
+was listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at
+least convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to
+Louisa.
+
+She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just.  Without emulating the
+feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on
+Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and
+she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink
+unnecessarily from the office of a friend.
+
+In the meanwhile she was in the carriage.  He had handed them both in,
+and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these
+circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted
+Lyme.  How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their
+manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not
+foresee.  It was all quite natural, however.  He was devoted to
+Henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always
+with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits.  In
+general, his voice and manner were studiously calm.  To spare Henrietta
+from agitation seemed the governing principle.  Once only, when she had
+been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb,
+bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as
+if wholly overcome--
+
+"Don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried.  "Oh God! that I had
+not given way to her at the fatal moment!  Had I done as I ought!  But
+so eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!"
+
+Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the
+justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and
+advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him
+that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its
+proportions and limits.  She thought it could scarcely escape him to
+feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of
+happiness as a very resolute character.
+
+They got on fast.  Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and
+the same objects so soon.  Their actual speed, heightened by some dread
+of the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day
+before.  It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the
+neighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among
+them for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl
+over her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep;
+when, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at
+once addressed by Captain Wentworth.  In a low, cautious voice, he
+said:--
+
+"I have been considering what we had best do.  She must not appear at
+first.  She could not stand it.  I have been thinking whether you had
+not better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it
+to Mr and Mrs Musgrove.  Do you think this is a good plan?"
+
+She did:  he was satisfied, and said no more.  But the remembrance of
+the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of
+deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a
+sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.
+
+When the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had
+seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the
+daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention
+of returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were
+baited, he was off.
+
+(End of volume one.)
+
+
+
+Chapter 13
+
+
+The remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehending only two
+days, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the
+satisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an
+immediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the
+future, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove's distressed state of spirits,
+would have been difficulties.
+
+They had an early account from Lyme the next morning.  Louisa was much
+the same.  No symptoms worse than before had appeared.  Charles came a
+few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account.  He
+was tolerably cheerful.  A speedy cure must not be hoped, but
+everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted.  In
+speaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of
+their kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse.
+"She really left nothing for Mary to do.  He and Mary had been
+persuaded to go early to their inn last night.  Mary had been
+hysterical again this morning.  When he came away, she was going to
+walk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good.  He
+almost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before;
+but the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do."
+
+Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at
+first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent.  It
+would be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his
+own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon.  A
+chaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far
+more useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who
+having brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the
+lingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his
+brothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and
+dress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who,
+consequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse
+dear Miss Louisa.  Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred
+before to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly
+have been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.
+
+They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute
+knowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every
+twenty-four hours.  He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his
+account was still encouraging.  The intervals of sense and
+consciousness were believed to be stronger.  Every report agreed in
+Captain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.
+
+Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.
+"What should they do without her?  They were wretched comforters for
+one another."  And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she
+could not do better than impart among them the general inclination to
+which she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once.  She
+had little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go
+to-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it
+suited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved.  They must be
+taking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might
+at least relieve Mrs Harville from the care of her own children; and in
+short, they were so happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with
+what she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning
+at Uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending
+them off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range
+of the house was the consequence.
+
+She was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the
+very last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated
+both houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character.
+A few days had made a change indeed!
+
+If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again.  More than former
+happiness would be restored.  There could not be a doubt, to her mind
+there was none, of what would follow her recovery.  A few months hence,
+and the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self,
+might be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was
+glowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne
+Elliot!
+
+An hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark
+November day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few
+objects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the
+sound of Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though
+desirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an
+adieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda,
+or even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of
+the village, without a saddened heart.  Scenes had passed in Uppercross
+which made it precious.  It stood the record of many sensations of
+pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting
+feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could
+never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear.  She
+left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had
+been.
+
+Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell's house
+in September.  It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its
+being possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and
+escape from.  Her first return was to resume her place in the modern
+and elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its
+mistress.
+
+There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her.
+She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross.  But happily, either Anne
+was improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so;
+and Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the
+amusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin,
+and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth
+and beauty.
+
+When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental
+change.  The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving
+Kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to
+smother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.
+She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath.
+Their concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady
+Russell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her
+satisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and
+her regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have
+been ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme
+and Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more
+interesting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and
+Captain Benwick, than her own father's house in Camden Place, or her
+own sister's intimacy with Mrs Clay.  She was actually forced to exert
+herself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal
+solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.
+
+There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another
+subject.  They must speak of the accident at Lyme.  Lady Russell had
+not been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of
+the whole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must
+make enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and
+Captain Wentworth's name must be mentioned by both.  Anne was conscious
+of not doing it so well as Lady Russell.  She could not speak the name,
+and look straight forward to Lady Russell's eye, till she had adopted
+the expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment
+between him and Louisa.  When this was told, his name distressed her no
+longer.
+
+Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but
+internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt,
+that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of
+the value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed
+by a Louisa Musgrove.
+
+The first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance
+to mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which
+found their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather
+improving account of Louisa.  At the end of that period, Lady Russell's
+politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of
+the past became in a decided tone, "I must call on Mrs Croft; I really
+must call upon her soon.  Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay
+a visit in that house?  It will be some trial to us both."
+
+Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she
+said, in observing--
+
+"I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your
+feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine.  By remaining in
+the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it."
+
+She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an
+opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in
+his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the
+poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed
+for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel
+that they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall
+had passed into better hands than its owners'.  These convictions must
+unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they
+precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the
+house again, and returning through the well-known apartments.
+
+In such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, "These rooms
+ought to belong only to us.  Oh, how fallen in their destination!  How
+unworthily occupied!  An ancient family to be so driven away!
+Strangers filling their place!" No, except when she thought of her
+mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she
+had no sigh of that description to heave.
+
+Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of
+fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving
+her in that house, there was particular attention.
+
+The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on
+comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each
+lady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that
+Captain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since
+the accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been
+able to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then
+returned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting
+it any more.  He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had
+expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her
+exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great.  This was
+handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could
+have done.
+
+As to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one
+style by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to
+work on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had
+been the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that
+its effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how
+long Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she
+would still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter!  The
+Admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming--
+
+"Ay, a very bad business indeed.  A new sort of way this, for a young
+fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it,
+Miss Elliot?  This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!"
+
+Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady
+Russell, but they delighted Anne.  His goodness of heart and simplicity
+of character were irresistible.
+
+"Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a
+little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here.  I had not
+recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad.  But now, do
+not stand upon ceremony.  Get up and go over all the rooms in the house
+if you like it."
+
+"Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now."
+
+"Well, whenever it suits you.  You can slip in from the shrubbery at
+any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by
+that door.  A good place is not it?  But," (checking himself), "you
+will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the
+butler's room.  Ay, so it always is, I believe.  One man's ways may be
+as good as another's, but we all like our own best.  And so you must
+judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the
+house or not."
+
+Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.
+
+"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after
+thinking a moment.  "Very few.  We told you about the laundry-door, at
+Uppercross.  That has been a very great improvement.  The wonder was,
+how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its
+opening as it did, so long!  You will tell Sir Walter what we have
+done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house
+ever had.  Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few
+alterations we have made have been all very much for the better.  My
+wife should have the credit of them, however.  I have done very little
+besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my
+dressing-room, which was your father's.  A very good man, and very much
+the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking
+with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy
+man for his time of life.  Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord!
+there was no getting away from one's self.  So I got Sophy to lend me a
+hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with
+my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I
+never go near."
+
+Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer,
+and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up
+the subject again, to say--
+
+"The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give
+him my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here
+quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place.
+The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only
+when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three
+times a winter.  And take it altogether, now that we have been into
+most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we
+like better than this.  Pray say so, with my compliments.  He will be
+glad to hear it."
+
+Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but
+the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at
+present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to
+be going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north
+of the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady
+Russell would be removing to Bath.
+
+So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch
+Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend.  Everything was safe
+enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on
+the subject.
+
+
+
+Chapter 14
+
+
+Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and
+Mrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all
+wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and
+as soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to
+the Lodge.  They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head,
+though clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the
+highest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be
+altogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she
+might be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who
+must return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas
+holidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them.
+
+They had been all in lodgings together.  Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs
+Harville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply
+from Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the
+Harvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner
+every day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each
+side as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable.
+
+Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her
+staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer.  Charles
+Hayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined
+with the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at
+first Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then,
+she had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out
+whose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day,
+there had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles,
+and she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that
+the balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme.  She had been
+taken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church,
+and there were a great many more people to look at in the church at
+Lyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so
+very useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight.
+
+Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary's face was clouded directly.
+Charles laughed.
+
+"Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd
+young man.  I do not know what he would be at.  We asked him to come
+home with us for a day or two:  Charles undertook to give him some
+shooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it
+was all settled; when behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward
+sort of excuse; 'he never shot' and he had 'been quite misunderstood,'
+and he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it
+was, I found, that he did not mean to come.  I suppose he was afraid of
+finding it dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively
+enough at the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick."
+
+Charles laughed again and said, "Now Mary, you know very well how it
+really was.  It was all your doing," (turning to Anne.) "He fancied
+that if he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied
+everybody to be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady
+Russell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not
+courage to come.  That is the fact, upon my honour. Mary knows it is."
+
+But Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not
+considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in
+love with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater
+attraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed.
+Anne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard.
+She boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.
+
+"Oh! he talks of you," cried Charles, "in such terms--" Mary
+interrupted him. "I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne
+twice all the time I was there.  I declare, Anne, he never talks of you
+at all."
+
+"No," admitted Charles, "I do not know that he ever does, in a general
+way; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you
+exceedingly.  His head is full of some books that he is reading upon
+your recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has
+found out something or other in one of them which he thinks--oh! I
+cannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine--I
+overheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then 'Miss Elliot'
+was spoken of in the highest terms!  Now Mary, I declare it was so, I
+heard it myself, and you were in the other room.  'Elegance, sweetness,
+beauty.' Oh! there was no end of Miss Elliot's charms."
+
+"And I am sure," cried Mary, warmly, "it was a very little to his
+credit, if he did.  Miss Harville only died last June.  Such a heart is
+very little worth having; is it, Lady Russell?  I am sure you will
+agree with me."
+
+"I must see Captain Benwick before I decide," said Lady Russell,
+smiling.
+
+"And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma'am,"
+said Charles.  "Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and
+setting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make
+his way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it.  I
+told him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church's
+being so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort
+of things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with
+all his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you
+will have him calling here soon.  So, I give you notice, Lady Russell."
+
+"Any acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome to me," was Lady
+Russell's kind answer.
+
+"Oh! as to being Anne's acquaintance," said Mary, "I think he is rather
+my acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last
+fortnight."
+
+"Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see
+Captain Benwick."
+
+"You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma'am.
+He is one of the dullest young men that ever lived.  He has walked with
+me, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a
+word.  He is not at all a well-bred young man.  I am sure you will not
+like him."
+
+"There we differ, Mary," said Anne.  "I think Lady Russell would like
+him.  I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she
+would very soon see no deficiency in his manner."
+
+"So do I, Anne," said Charles.  "I am sure Lady Russell would like him.
+He is just Lady Russell's sort.  Give him a book, and he will read all
+day long."
+
+"Yes, that he will!" exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.  "He will sit poring
+over his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one
+drops one's scissors, or anything that happens.  Do you think Lady
+Russell would like that?"
+
+Lady Russell could not help laughing.  "Upon my word," said she, "I
+should not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted
+of such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may
+call myself.  I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give
+occasion to such directly opposite notions.  I wish he may be induced
+to call here.  And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my
+opinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand."
+
+"You will not like him, I will answer for it."
+
+Lady Russell began talking of something else.  Mary spoke with
+animation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so
+extraordinarily.
+
+"He is a man," said Lady Russell, "whom I have no wish to see.  His
+declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left
+a very strong impression in his disfavour with me."
+
+This decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the
+midst of the Elliot countenance.
+
+With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries,
+there was voluntary communication sufficient.  His spirits had been
+greatly recovering lately as might be expected.  As Louisa improved, he
+had improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he
+had been the first week.  He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely
+fearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did
+not press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of
+going away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger.  He had
+talked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade
+Captain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last,
+Captain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.
+
+There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally
+thinking of Captain Benwick, from this time.  Lady Russell could not
+hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor
+could Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her
+father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without
+wondering whether she might see him or hear of him.  Captain Benwick
+came not, however.  He was either less disposed for it than Charles had
+imagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence,
+Lady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had
+been beginning to excite.
+
+The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from
+school, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve
+the noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme.  Henrietta remained
+with Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual
+quarters.
+
+Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne
+could not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again.
+Though neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain
+Wentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could
+be wished to the last state she had seen it in.
+
+Immediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom
+she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from
+the Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them.  On one side was a table
+occupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and
+on the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn
+and cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole
+completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be
+heard, in spite of all the noise of the others.  Charles and Mary also
+came in, of course, during their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of
+paying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten
+minutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the
+children on his knees, generally in vain.  It was a fine family-piece.
+
+Anne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a
+domestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa's
+illness must have so greatly shaken.  But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne
+near her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for
+all her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what
+she had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the
+room, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do
+her good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.
+
+Louisa was now recovering apace.  Her mother could even think of her
+being able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters
+went to school again.  The Harvilles had promised to come with her and
+stay at Uppercross, whenever she returned.  Captain Wentworth was gone,
+for the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.
+
+"I hope I shall remember, in future," said Lady Russell, as soon as
+they were reseated in the carriage, "not to call at Uppercross in the
+Christmas holidays."
+
+Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and
+sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather
+than their quantity.  When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was
+entering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course
+of streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of
+other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of
+newspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of
+pattens, she made no complaint.  No, these were noises which belonged
+to the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and
+like Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being
+long in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet
+cheerfulness.
+
+Anne did not share these feelings.  She persisted in a very determined,
+though very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view
+of the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing
+them better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however
+disagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she
+arrived?  And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of
+Uppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.
+
+Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some
+interest.  Mr Elliot was in Bath.  He had called in Camden Place; had
+called a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive.  If
+Elizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking
+much pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the
+connection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect.  This was
+very wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very
+agreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting
+the sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being "a man
+whom she had no wish to see."  She had a great wish to see him.  If he
+really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be
+forgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.
+
+Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she
+felt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more
+than she could say for many other persons in Bath.
+
+She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her
+own lodgings, in Rivers Street.
+
+
+
+Chapter 15
+
+
+Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty
+dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he
+and Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.
+
+Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of
+many months, and anxiously saying to herself, "Oh! when shall I leave
+you again?"  A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome
+she received, did her good.  Her father and sister were glad to see
+her, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her
+with kindness.  Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was
+noticed as an advantage.
+
+Mrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and
+smiles were more a matter of course.  Anne had always felt that she
+would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of
+the others was unlooked for.  They were evidently in excellent spirits,
+and she was soon to listen to the causes.  They had no inclination to
+listen to her.  After laying out for some compliments of being deeply
+regretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they
+had only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all
+their own.  Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it
+was all Bath.
+
+They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered
+their expectations in every respect.  Their house was undoubtedly the
+best in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages
+over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the
+superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste
+of the furniture.  Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after.
+Everybody was wanting to visit them.  They had drawn back from many
+introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people
+of whom they knew nothing.
+
+Here were funds of enjoyment.  Could Anne wonder that her father and
+sister were happy?  She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her
+father should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to
+regret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should
+find so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must
+sigh, and smile, and wonder too, as Elizabeth threw open the
+folding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the
+other, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who
+had been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of
+between two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder.
+
+But this was not all which they had to make them happy.  They had Mr
+Elliot too.  Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot.  He was not
+only pardoned, they were delighted with him.  He had been in Bath about
+a fortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to
+London, when the intelligence of Sir Walter's being settled there had
+of course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but
+he had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a
+fortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave
+his card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours
+to meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct,
+such readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be
+received as a relation again, that their former good understanding was
+completely re-established.
+
+They had not a fault to find in him.  He had explained away all the
+appearance of neglect on his own side.  It had originated in
+misapprehension entirely.  He had never had an idea of throwing himself
+off; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and
+delicacy had kept him silent.  Upon the hint of having spoken
+disrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he
+was quite indignant.  He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and
+whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the
+unfeudal tone of the present day.  He was astonished, indeed, but his
+character and general conduct must refute it.  He could refer Sir
+Walter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking
+on this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the
+footing of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his
+opinions on the subject.
+
+The circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much
+extenuation.  This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but
+a very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable
+man, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter
+added), who was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and
+had, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance
+through Mr Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the
+marriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it.
+
+Colonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also
+with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story.  She was
+certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich,
+and excessively in love with his friend.  There had been the charm.
+She had sought him.  Without that attraction, not all her money would
+have tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her
+having been a very fine woman.  Here was a great deal to soften the
+business.  A very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him!
+Sir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth
+could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she
+allowed it be a great extenuation.
+
+Mr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently
+delighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners
+in general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and
+placing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.
+
+Anne listened, but without quite understanding it.  Allowances, large
+allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke.
+She heard it all under embellishment.  All that sounded extravagant or
+irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin
+but in the language of the relators.  Still, however, she had the
+sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in
+Mr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well
+received by them.  In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being
+on terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance.  In
+all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch
+estate would as surely be his hereafter as the title.  A sensible man,
+and he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object
+to him?  She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for
+Elizabeth's sake.  There might really have been a liking formerly,
+though convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now
+that he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his
+addresses to her.  Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with
+well-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been
+penetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young
+himself.  How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation
+of his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a
+fearful one.  Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too
+nice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth
+was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was
+encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them,
+while Mr Elliot's frequent visits were talked of.
+
+Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without
+being much attended to.  "Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot.
+They did not know.  It might be him, perhaps."  They could not listen
+to her description of him.  They were describing him themselves; Sir
+Walter especially.  He did justice to his very gentlemanlike
+appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his
+sensible eye; but, at the same time, "must lament his being very much
+under-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he
+pretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for
+the worse.  Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was
+looking exactly as he had done when they last parted;" but Sir Walter
+had "not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had
+embarrassed him.  He did not mean to complain, however.  Mr Elliot was
+better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen
+with him anywhere."
+
+Mr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the
+whole evening.  "Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced
+to them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!" and there was a Mrs
+Wallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in
+daily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as "a
+most charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place," and
+as soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted.  Sir Walter
+thought much of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty
+woman, beautiful.  "He longed to see her.  He hoped she might make some
+amends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the
+streets.  The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women.  He did
+not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the
+plain was out of all proportion.  He had frequently observed, as he
+walked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or
+five-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond
+Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another,
+without there being a tolerable face among them.  It had been a frosty
+morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a
+thousand could stand the test of.  But still, there certainly were a
+dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men!  they
+were infinitely worse.  Such scarecrows as the streets were full of!
+It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything
+tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced.  He
+had never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a
+fine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every
+woman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel
+Wallis."  Modest Sir Walter!  He was not allowed to escape, however.
+His daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's
+companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly
+was not sandy-haired.
+
+"How is Mary looking?" said Sir Walter, in the height of his good
+humour.  "The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that
+may not happen every day."
+
+"Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental.  In general she has been
+in very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas."
+
+"If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow
+coarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse."
+
+Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown,
+or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the
+door suspended everything.  "A knock at the door! and so late!  It was
+ten o'clock.  Could it be Mr Elliot?  They knew he was to dine in
+Lansdown Crescent.  It was possible that he might stop in his way home
+to ask them how they did.  They could think of no one else.  Mrs Clay
+decidedly thought it Mr Elliot's knock."  Mrs Clay was right.  With all
+the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered
+into the room.
+
+It was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.
+Anne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and
+her sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but "he
+could not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her
+friend had taken cold the day before," &c. &c; which was all as
+politely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must
+follow then.  Sir Walter talked of his youngest daughter; "Mr Elliot
+must give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter" (there was
+no occasion for remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very
+becomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no
+means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start
+of surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was.  He
+looked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his
+eyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the
+relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an
+acquaintance already.  He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared
+at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so
+exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly
+agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one
+person's manners.  They were not the same, but they were, perhaps,
+equally good.
+
+He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much.
+There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man.  Ten minutes were
+enough to certify that.  His tone, his expressions, his choice of
+subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a
+sensible, discerning mind.  As soon as he could, he began to talk to
+her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but
+especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to
+be guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route,
+understand something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such
+an opportunity of paying his respects to her.  She gave him a short
+account of her party and business at Lyme.  His regret increased as he
+listened.  He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room
+adjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they
+must be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but
+certainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow
+of a right to introduce himself.  If he had but asked who the party
+were!  The name of Musgrove would have told him enough.  "Well, it
+would serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a
+question at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on
+the principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious.
+
+"The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty," said he, "as to
+what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more
+absurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world.
+The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the
+folly of what they have in view."
+
+But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew
+it; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at
+intervals that he could return to Lyme.
+
+His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she
+had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place.  Having
+alluded to "an accident,"  he must hear the whole.  When he questioned,
+Sir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in
+their manner of doing it could not be unfelt.  She could only compare
+Mr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had
+passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in
+witnessing it.
+
+He staid an hour with them.  The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece
+had struck "eleven with its silver sounds," and the watchman was
+beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr
+Elliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long.
+
+Anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in
+Camden Place could have passed so well!
+
+
+
+Chapter 16
+
+
+There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have
+been more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot's being in love
+with Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs
+Clay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at
+home a few hours.  On going down to breakfast the next morning, she
+found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of
+meaning to leave them.  She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that
+"now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;"
+for Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, "That must not be any
+reason, indeed.  I assure you I feel it none.  She is nothing to me,
+compared with you;"  and she was in full time to hear her father say,
+"My dear madam, this must not be.  As yet, you have seen nothing of
+Bath.  You have been here only to be useful.  You must not run away
+from us now.  You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the
+beautiful Mrs Wallis.  To your fine mind, I well know the sight of
+beauty is a real gratification."
+
+He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to
+see Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself.  Her
+countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise
+of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister.  The
+lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.
+
+In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be
+alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he
+thought her "less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her
+complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher.  Had she been using any
+thing in particular?"  "No, nothing."  "Merely Gowland," he supposed.
+"No, nothing at all."  "Ha! he was surprised at that;" and added,
+"certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot
+be better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of
+Gowland, during the spring months.  Mrs Clay has been using it at my
+recommendation, and you see what it has done for her.  You see how it
+has carried away her freckles."
+
+If Elizabeth could but have heard this!  Such personal praise might
+have struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the
+freckles were at all lessened.  But everything must take its chance.
+The evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also
+to marry.  As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady
+Russell.
+
+Lady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial
+on this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place.  The sight of Mrs
+Clay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual
+provocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a
+person in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and
+has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.
+
+As Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more
+indifferent, towards the others.  His manners were an immediate
+recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully
+supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne,
+almost ready to exclaim, "Can this be Mr Elliot?" and could not
+seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man.
+Everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions,
+knowledge of the world, and a warm heart.  He had strong feelings of
+family attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he
+lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he
+judged for himself in everything essential, without defying public
+opinion in any point of worldly decorum.  He was steady, observant,
+moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,
+which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to
+what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of
+domestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent
+agitation seldom really possess.  She was sure that he had not been
+happy in marriage.  Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it;
+but it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty
+soon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice.  Her
+satisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.
+
+It was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her
+excellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not
+surprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing
+suspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than
+appeared, in Mr Elliot's great desire of a reconciliation.  In Lady
+Russell's view, it was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature
+time of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would
+very generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good
+terms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of
+time upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of
+youth.  Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to
+mention "Elizabeth."  Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only
+this cautious reply:--"Elizabeth! very well; time will explain."
+
+It was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little
+observation, felt she must submit to.  She could determine nothing at
+present.  In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the
+habit of such general observance as "Miss Elliot," that any
+particularity of attention seemed almost impossible.  Mr Elliot, too,
+it must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months.  A little
+delay on his side might be very excusable.  In fact, Anne could never
+see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the
+inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though
+his marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many
+years that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the
+awful impression of its being dissolved.
+
+However it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest
+acquaintance in Bath:  she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great
+indulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to
+have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself.
+They went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many
+times.  He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some
+earnestness.  She knew it well; and she remembered another person's
+look also.
+
+They did not always think alike.  His value for rank and connexion she
+perceived was greater than hers.  It was not merely complaisance, it
+must be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her
+father and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy
+to excite them.  The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of
+the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable
+Miss Carteret; and all the comfort of No. --, Camden Place, was swept
+away for many days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most
+unfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to
+introduce themselves properly.
+
+Anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with
+nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed.  She had hoped
+better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and
+was reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that
+they had more pride; for "our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss
+Carteret;" "our cousins, the Dalrymples," sounded in her ears all day
+long.
+
+Sir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had
+never seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the
+case arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by
+letters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount,
+when, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same
+time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch.  No letter of
+condolence had been sent to Ireland.  The neglect had been visited on
+the head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no
+letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there
+was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the
+relationship as closed.  How to have this anxious business set to
+rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question:  and it was
+a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor
+Mr Elliot thought unimportant.  "Family connexions were always worth
+preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken
+a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in
+style.  She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had
+heard her spoken of as a charming woman.  It was very desirable that
+the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any
+compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots."
+
+Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a
+very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his
+right honourable cousin.  Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could
+admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three
+lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess.  "She was very much
+honoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance." The toils of the
+business were over, the sweets began.  They visited in Laura Place,
+they had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable
+Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible:  and
+"Our cousins in Laura Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss
+Carteret," were talked of to everybody.
+
+Anne was ashamed.  Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very
+agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they
+created, but they were nothing.  There was no superiority of manner,
+accomplishment, or understanding.  Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name
+of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for
+everybody.  Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so
+awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but
+for her birth.
+
+Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it
+was an acquaintance worth having;" and when Anne ventured to speak her
+opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in
+themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good
+company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had
+their value.  Anne smiled and said,
+
+"My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever,
+well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is
+what I call good company."
+
+"You are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is
+the best.  Good company requires only birth, education, and manners,
+and with regard to education is not very nice.  Birth and good manners
+are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing
+in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well.  My cousin Anne
+shakes her head.  She is not satisfied.  She is fastidious.  My dear
+cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be
+fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer?
+Will it make you happy?  Will it not be wiser to accept the society of
+those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the
+connexion as far as possible?  You may depend upon it, that they will
+move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your
+being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your
+family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we
+must all wish for."
+
+"Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!"
+then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,
+"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to
+procure the acquaintance.  I suppose" (smiling) "I have more pride than
+any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so
+solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very
+sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them."
+
+"Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims.  In London,
+perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say:
+but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth
+knowing:  always acceptable as acquaintance."
+
+"Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome
+which depends so entirely upon place."
+
+"I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural.  But here you
+are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the
+credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot.  You
+talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to
+believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have
+the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little
+different.  In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued,
+speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one
+point, I am sure, we must feel alike.  We must feel that every addition
+to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use
+in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him."
+
+He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately
+occupying:  a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and
+though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride,
+she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience
+admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great
+acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her.
+
+
+
+Chapter 17
+
+
+While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good
+fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very
+different description.
+
+She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there
+being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on
+her attention of past kindness and present suffering.  Miss Hamilton,
+now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her
+life when it had been most valuable.  Anne had gone unhappy to school,
+grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling
+her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of
+strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time;
+and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the
+want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at
+school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably
+lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.
+
+Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was
+said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had
+known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her
+situation forward in a more decided but very different form.
+
+She was a widow and poor.  Her husband had been extravagant; and at his
+death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully
+involved.  She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and
+in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe
+rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for
+the present a cripple.  She had come to Bath on that account, and was
+now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable
+even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost
+excluded from society.
+
+Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from
+Miss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in
+going.  She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she
+intended, at home.  It would excite no proper interest there.  She only
+consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and
+was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in
+Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.
+
+The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest
+in each other more than re-kindled.  The first ten minutes had its
+awkwardness and its emotion.  Twelve years were gone since they had
+parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the
+other had imagined.  Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,
+silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of
+seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as
+consciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had
+transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow
+of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless
+widow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all
+that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left
+only the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and
+talking over old times.
+
+Anne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she
+had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be
+cheerful beyond her expectation.  Neither the dissipations of the
+past--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of
+the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her
+heart or ruined her spirits.
+
+In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and
+Anne's astonishment increased.  She could scarcely imagine a more
+cheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's.  She had been very fond
+of her husband:  she had buried him.  She had been used to affluence:
+it was gone.  She had no child to connect her with life and happiness
+again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs,
+no health to make all the rest supportable.  Her accommodations were
+limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no
+possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which
+there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never
+quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath.  Yet, in spite
+of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of
+languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment.  How
+could it be?  She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined
+that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only.  A
+submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply
+resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of
+mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily
+from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of
+herself, which was from nature alone.  It was the choicest gift of
+Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,
+by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost
+every other want.
+
+There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly
+failed.  She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her
+state on first reaching Bath.  Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable
+object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken
+possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and
+suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers,
+with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at
+that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense.  She
+had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her
+good.  It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be
+in good hands.  She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or
+disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her
+that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her
+ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister
+of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in
+that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to
+attend her.  "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most
+admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance.  As soon as I
+could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great
+amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little
+thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so
+busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good
+to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood.  She had a
+large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can
+afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise.  She always takes
+the right time for applying.  Everybody's heart is open, you know, when
+they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the
+blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to
+speak.  She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman.  Hers is a line
+for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and
+observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to
+thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the
+world,' know nothing worth attending to.  Call it gossip, if you will,
+but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is
+sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable:
+something that makes one know one's species better.  One likes to hear
+what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being
+trifling and silly.  To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I
+assure you, is a treat."
+
+Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, "I can easily
+believe it.  Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they
+are intelligent may be well worth listening to.  Such varieties of
+human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing!  And it is not
+merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it
+occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or
+affecting.  What instances must pass before them of ardent,
+disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,
+patience, resignation:  of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices
+that ennoble us most.  A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of
+volumes."
+
+"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear
+its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe.  Here and
+there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally
+speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a
+sick chamber:  it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity
+and fortitude, that one hears of.  There is so little real friendship
+in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there
+are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late."
+
+Anne saw the misery of such feelings.  The husband had not been what he
+ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made
+her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved.  It was but a
+passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon
+added in a different tone--
+
+"I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present,
+will furnish much either to interest or edify me.  She is only nursing
+Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive,
+fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report
+but of lace and finery.  I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis,
+however.  She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the
+high-priced things I have in hand now."
+
+Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of
+such a person was known in Camden Place.  At last, it became necessary
+to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one
+morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple
+for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that
+evening in Westgate Buildings.  She was not sorry for the excuse.  They
+were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at
+home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had
+been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great
+alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old
+schoolfellow."  They were not much interested in anything relative to
+Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it
+understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was
+disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
+
+"Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be
+visiting in Westgate Buildings?  A Mrs Smith.  A widow Mrs Smith; and
+who was her husband?  One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to
+be met with everywhere.  And what is her attraction?  That she is old
+and sickly.  Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most
+extraordinary taste!  Everything that revolts other people, low
+company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting
+to you.  But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow:  she
+is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another
+day.  What is her age?  Forty?"
+
+"No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off
+my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will
+at once suit her and myself.  She goes into the warm bath to-morrow,
+and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged."
+
+"But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked
+Elizabeth.
+
+"She sees nothing to blame in it," replied Anne; "on the contrary, she
+approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs
+Smith."
+
+"Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance
+of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed Sir Walter.  "Sir
+Henry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms,
+but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to
+convey a Miss Elliot.  A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!
+A poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs
+Smith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the
+world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred
+by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and
+Ireland!  Mrs Smith!  Such a name!"
+
+Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it
+advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did
+long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar
+claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father
+prevented her.  She made no reply.  She left it to himself to
+recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty
+and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.
+
+Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she
+heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening.  She had
+been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had
+not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had
+actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had
+been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr
+Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady
+Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait
+on her.  Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could
+supply from Lady Russell.  To her, its greatest interest must be, in
+having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in
+having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for
+staying away in such a cause.  Her kind, compassionate visits to this
+old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr
+Elliot.  He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her
+temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence.  He could meet
+even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be
+given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be
+so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable
+sensations which her friend meant to create.
+
+Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot.
+She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his
+deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which
+would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and
+leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing.  She
+would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the
+subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be
+hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness
+of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned.
+Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled,
+blushed, and gently shook her head.
+
+"I am no match-maker, as you well know," said Lady Russell, "being much
+too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations.
+I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses
+to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there
+would be every possibility of your being happy together.  A most
+suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be
+a very happy one."
+
+"Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I
+think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit."
+
+Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to
+be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future
+Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's
+place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as
+to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me.
+You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I
+might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name,
+and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to
+her in being more highly valued!  My dearest Anne, it would give me
+more delight than is often felt at my time of life!"
+
+Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table,
+and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings
+this picture excited.  For a few moments her imagination and her heart
+were bewitched.  The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of
+having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of
+being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for
+ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist.  Lady Russell
+said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own
+operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with
+propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne
+did not believe.  The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself
+brought Anne to composure again.  The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady
+Elliot" all faded away.  She never could accept him.  And it was not
+only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her
+judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a
+case was against Mr Elliot.
+
+Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied
+that she really knew his character.  That he was a sensible man, an
+agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to
+judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough.
+He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article
+of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been
+afraid to answer for his conduct.  She distrusted the past, if not the
+present.  The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the
+allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not
+favourable of what he had been.  She saw that there had been bad
+habits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had
+been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had
+been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might
+now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of
+a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair
+character?  How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly
+cleansed?
+
+Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open.  There
+was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight,
+at the evil or good of others.  This, to Anne, was a decided
+imperfection.  Her early impressions were incurable.  She prized the
+frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others.  Warmth
+and enthusiasm did captivate her still.  She felt that she could so
+much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or
+said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind
+never varied, whose tongue never slipped.
+
+Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable.  Various as were the tempers in
+her father's house, he pleased them all.  He endured too well, stood
+too well with every body.  He had spoken to her with some degree of
+openness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was
+about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as
+agreeable as any body.
+
+Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw
+nothing to excite distrust.  She could not imagine a man more exactly
+what he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter
+feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved
+Anne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.
+
+
+
+Chapter 18
+
+
+It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in
+Bath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme.  She
+wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated.  It was three
+weeks since she had heard at all.  She only knew that Henrietta was at
+home again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast,
+was still in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one
+evening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to
+her; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs
+Croft's compliments.
+
+The Crofts must be in Bath!  A circumstance to interest her.  They were
+people whom her heart turned to very naturally.
+
+"What is this?" cried Sir Walter.  "The Crofts have arrived in Bath?
+The Crofts who rent Kellynch?  What have they brought you?"
+
+"A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir."
+
+"Oh! those letters are convenient passports.  They secure an
+introduction.  I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any
+rate.  I know what is due to my tenant."
+
+Anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor
+Admiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her.  It had been
+begun several days back.
+
+
+"February 1st.
+
+"My dear Anne,--I make no apology for my silence, because I know how
+little people think of letters in such a place as Bath.  You must be a
+great deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know,
+affords little to write about.  We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr
+and Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays.  I do
+not reckon the Hayters as anybody.  The holidays, however, are over at
+last:  I believe no children ever had such long ones.  I am sure I had
+not.  The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles;
+but you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home.  Mrs
+Harville must be an odd mother to part with them so long.  I do not
+understand it.  They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but
+Mrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her
+grandchildren.  What dreadful weather we have had!  It may not be felt
+in Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some
+consequence.  I have not had a creature call on me since the second
+week in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much
+oftener than was welcome.  Between ourselves, I think it a great pity
+Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept
+her a little out of his way.  The carriage is gone to-day, to bring
+Louisa and the Harvilles to-morrow.  We are not asked to dine with
+them, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her
+being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering
+the care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more
+convenient to me to dine there to-morrow.  I am glad you find Mr Elliot
+so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have
+my usual luck:  I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is
+going on; always the last of my family to be noticed.  What an immense
+time Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth!  Does she never mean to
+go away?  But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might
+not be invited.  Let me know what you think of this.  I do not expect
+my children to be asked, you know.  I can leave them at the Great House
+very well, for a month or six weeks.  I have this moment heard that the
+Crofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral
+gouty.  Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the
+civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything.  I do
+not think they improve at all as neighbours.  We see nothing of them,
+and this is really an instance of gross inattention.  Charles joins me
+in love, and everything proper.  Yours affectionately,
+
+"Mary M---.
+
+"I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just
+told me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much
+about.  I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are
+always worse than anybody's."
+
+
+So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an
+envelope, containing nearly as much more.
+
+
+"I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her
+journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add.
+In the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to
+convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to
+me, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as
+long as I like.  The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely
+hope Bath will do him all the good he wants.  I shall be truly glad to
+have them back again.  Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant
+family.  But now for Louisa.  I have something to communicate that will
+astonish you not a little.  She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very
+safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were
+rather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had
+been invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the
+reason?  Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and
+not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr
+Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came
+away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville.  True, upon
+my honour!  Are not you astonished?  I shall be surprised at least if
+you ever received a hint of it, for I never did.  Mrs Musgrove protests
+solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter.  We are all very well
+pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain
+Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove
+has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day.  Mrs
+Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's
+account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both.  Indeed,
+Mrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having
+nursed her.  Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if
+you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see
+anything of it.  And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's
+being supposed to be an admirer of yours.  How Charles could take such
+a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me.  I hope he
+will be more agreeable now.  Certainly not a great match for Louisa
+Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters."
+
+
+Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for
+the news.  She had never in her life been more astonished.  Captain
+Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!  It was almost too wonderful for belief,
+and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room,
+preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the
+moment.  Happily for her, they were not many.  Sir Walter wanted to
+know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they
+were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss
+Elliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.
+
+"How is Mary?" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, "And
+pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?"
+
+"They come on the Admiral's account.  He is thought to be gouty."
+
+"Gout and decrepitude!" said Sir Walter.  "Poor old gentleman."
+
+"Have they any acquaintance here?" asked Elizabeth.
+
+"I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft's time
+of life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in
+such a place as this."
+
+"I suspect," said Sir Walter coolly, "that Admiral Croft will be best
+known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall.  Elizabeth, may we
+venture to present him and his wife in Laura Place?"
+
+"Oh, no! I think not.  Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,
+we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she
+might not approve.  If we were not related, it would not signify; but
+as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours.  We
+had better leave the Crofts to find their own level.  There are several
+odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors.  The
+Crofts will associate with them."
+
+This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter;
+when Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an
+enquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was
+at liberty.
+
+In her own room, she tried to comprehend it.  Well might Charles wonder
+how Captain Wentworth would feel!  Perhaps he had quitted the field,
+had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.
+She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin
+to ill usage between him and his friend.  She could not endure that
+such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.
+
+Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!  The high-spirited, joyous-talking
+Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain
+Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.
+Their minds most dissimilar!  Where could have been the attraction?
+The answer soon presented itself.  It had been in situation.  They had
+been thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same
+small family party:  since Henrietta's coming away, they must have been
+depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering
+from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was
+not inconsolable.  That was a point which Anne had not been able to
+avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as
+Mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm
+the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.
+She did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her
+vanity, than Mary might have allowed.  She was persuaded that any
+tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for
+him would have received the same compliment.  He had an affectionate
+heart.  He must love somebody.
+
+She saw no reason against their being happy.  Louisa had fine naval
+fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike.  He would
+gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott
+and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they
+had fallen in love over poetry.  The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned
+into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was
+amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so.  The day at Lyme, the
+fall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her
+courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it
+appeared to have influenced her fate.
+
+The conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been
+sensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer
+another man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting
+wonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly
+nothing to be regretted.  No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart
+beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when
+she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free.  She had some
+feelings which she was ashamed to investigate.  They were too much like
+joy, senseless joy!
+
+She longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was
+evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them.  The visit of
+ceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and
+Captain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.
+
+The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly
+to Sir Walter's satisfaction.  He was not at all ashamed of the
+acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about
+the Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.
+
+The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and
+considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form,
+and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure.  They brought
+with them their country habit of being almost always together.  He was
+ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares
+with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good.  Anne
+saw them wherever she went.  Lady Russell took her out in her carriage
+almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never
+failed to see them.  Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most
+attractive picture of happiness to her.  She always watched them as
+long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be
+talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally
+delighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he
+encountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation
+when occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft
+looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her.
+
+Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking
+herself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days
+after the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or
+her friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone
+to Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good
+fortune to meet with the Admiral.  He was standing by himself at a
+printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation
+of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was
+obliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his
+notice.  When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done
+with all his usual frankness and good humour.  "Ha! is it you?  Thank
+you, thank you.  This is treating me like a friend.  Here I am, you
+see, staring at a picture.  I can never get by this shop without
+stopping.  But what a thing here is, by way of a boat!  Do look at it.
+Did you ever see the like?  What queer fellows your fine painters must
+be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless
+old cockleshell as that?  And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it
+mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and
+mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they
+certainly must be.  I wonder where that boat was built!" (laughing
+heartily); "I would not venture over a horsepond in it.  Well,"
+(turning away), "now, where are you bound?  Can I go anywhere for you,
+or with you?  Can I be of any use?"
+
+"None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your
+company the little way our road lies together.  I am going home."
+
+
+"That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too.  Yes, yes we will
+have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go
+along.  There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if
+I have not a woman there.  Lord! what a boat it is!" taking a last look
+at the picture, as they began to be in motion.
+
+"Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?"
+
+"Yes, I have, presently.  But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I
+shall only say, 'How d'ye do?' as we pass, however.  I shall not stop.
+'How d'ye do?'  Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.
+She, poor soul, is tied by the leg.  She has a blister on one of her
+heels, as large as a three-shilling piece.  If you look across the
+street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother.  Shabby
+fellows, both of them!  I am glad they are not on this side of the way.
+Sophy cannot bear them.  They played me a pitiful trick once: got away
+with some of my best men.  I will tell you the whole story another
+time.  There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson.  Look, he
+sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife.  Ah! the
+peace has come too soon for that younker.  Poor old Sir Archibald!  How
+do you like Bath, Miss Elliot?  It suits us very well.  We are always
+meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every
+morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them
+all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and
+are as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at
+North Yarmouth and Deal.  We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I
+can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North
+Yarmouth.  The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same
+way."
+
+When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for
+what he had to communicate.  She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to
+have her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for
+the Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the
+greater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs
+Croft, she must let him have his own way.  As soon as they were fairly
+ascending Belmont, he began--
+
+"Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you.  But first
+of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk
+about.  That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned
+for.  The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to.  Her
+Christian name:  I always forget her Christian name."
+
+Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really
+did; but now she could safely suggest the name of "Louisa."
+
+"Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name.  I wish young ladies
+had not such a number of fine Christian names.  I should never be out
+if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort.  Well, this Miss
+Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick.  He was
+courting her week after week.  The only wonder was, what they could be
+waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear
+enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right.  But even
+then there was something odd in their way of going on.  Instead of
+staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see
+Edward.  When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's,
+and there he has been ever since.  We have seen nothing of him since
+November.  Even Sophy could not understand it.  But now, the matter has
+taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss
+Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James
+Benwick.  You know James Benwick."
+
+"A little.  I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick."
+
+"Well, she is to marry him.  Nay, most likely they are married already,
+for I do not know what they should wait for."
+
+"I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and
+I understand that he bears an excellent character."
+
+"Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick.
+He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad
+times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of.  An
+excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous
+officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that
+soft sort of manner does not do him justice."
+
+"Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of
+spirit from Captain Benwick's manners.  I thought them particularly
+pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please."
+
+"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather
+too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality,
+Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his.
+There is something about Frederick more to our taste."
+
+Anne was caught.  She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of
+spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to
+represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could
+possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say,
+"I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the
+Admiral interrupted her with--
+
+"And the thing is certainly true.  It is not a mere bit of gossip.  We
+have it from Frederick himself.  His sister had a letter from him
+yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a
+letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross.  I fancy
+they are all at Uppercross."
+
+This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said,
+therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of
+Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly
+uneasy.  It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment
+between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to
+have worn out on each side equally, and without violence.  I hope his
+letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man."
+
+"Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from
+beginning to end."
+
+Anne looked down to hide her smile.
+
+"No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much
+spirit for that.  If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit
+she should have him."
+
+"Certainly.  But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in
+Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks
+himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without
+its being absolutely said.  I should be very sorry that such a
+friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be
+destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort."
+
+"Yes, yes, I understand you.  But there is nothing at all of that
+nature in the letter.  He does not give the least fling at Benwick;
+does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for
+wondering at it.'  No, you would not guess, from his way of writing,
+that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself.
+He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is
+nothing very unforgiving in that, I think."
+
+Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to
+convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.
+She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet
+attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.
+
+"Poor Frederick!" said he at last.  "Now he must begin all over again
+with somebody else.  I think we must get him to Bath.  Sophy must
+write, and beg him to come to Bath.  Here are pretty girls enough, I am
+sure.  It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other
+Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson.  Do
+not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?"
+
+
+
+Chapter 19
+
+
+While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his
+wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was
+already on his way thither.  Before Mrs Croft had written, he was
+arrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.
+
+Mr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay.  They were in
+Milsom Street.  It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter
+desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for
+Miss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady
+Dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she,
+Anne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland's, while Mr Elliot
+stepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance.  He soon joined
+them again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy
+to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.
+
+Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four
+with any comfort.  Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it
+was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden
+Place ladies.  There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot.  Whoever
+suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little
+time to settle the point of civility between the other two.  The rain
+was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with
+Mr Elliot.  But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would
+hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much
+thicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her
+quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be,
+and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so
+determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss
+Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr
+Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the
+thickest.
+
+It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the
+carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat
+near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain
+Wentworth walking down the street.
+
+Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that
+she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and
+absurd!  For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all
+confusion.  She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she
+found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always
+obliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs
+Clay's.
+
+She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to
+see if it rained.  Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?
+Captain Wentworth must be out of sight.  She left her seat, she would
+go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other
+half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was.  She
+would see if it rained.  She was sent back, however, in a moment by the
+entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and
+ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a
+little below Milsom Street.  He was more obviously struck and confused
+by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite
+red.  For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt
+that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two.  She had the
+advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments.  All the
+overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise
+were over with her.  Still, however, she had enough to feel!  It was
+agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
+
+He spoke to her, and then turned away.  The character of his manner was
+embarrassment.  She could not have called it either cold or friendly,
+or anything so certainly as embarrassed.
+
+After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.
+Mutual enquiries on common subjects passed:  neither of them, probably,
+much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible
+of his being less at ease than formerly.  They had by dint of being so
+very much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable
+portion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it
+now.  Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him.  There was
+consciousness of some sort or other.  He looked very well, not as if he
+had been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of Uppercross,
+of the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of
+his own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was Captain
+Wentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was.
+
+It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth
+would not know him.  She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw
+him, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was
+convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,
+expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with
+unalterable coldness.
+
+Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very
+impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it.  It was
+beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a
+bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop
+understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot.  At
+last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for
+there was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth,
+watching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words,
+was offering his services to her.
+
+"I am much obliged to you," was her answer, "but I am not going with
+them.  The carriage would not accommodate so many.  I walk:  I prefer
+walking."
+
+"But it rains."
+
+"Oh! very little,  Nothing that I regard."
+
+After a moment's pause he said:  "Though I came only yesterday, I have
+equipped myself properly for Bath already, you see," (pointing to a new
+umbrella); "I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to
+walk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a
+chair."
+
+She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her
+conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding,
+"I am only waiting for Mr Elliot.  He will be here in a moment, I am
+sure."
+
+She had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in.  Captain
+Wentworth recollected him perfectly.  There was no difference between
+him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as
+she passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged
+relation and friend.  He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and
+think only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept
+her waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time
+and before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off
+together, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a
+"Good morning to you!" being all that she had time for, as she passed
+away.
+
+As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's
+party began talking of them.
+
+"Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?"
+
+"Oh! no, that is clear enough.  One can guess what will happen there.
+He is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe.  What a
+very good-looking man!"
+
+"Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says
+he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with."
+
+"She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to
+look at her.  It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire
+her more than her sister."
+
+"Oh! so do I."
+
+"And so do I.  No comparison.  But the men are all wild after Miss
+Elliot.  Anne is too delicate for them."
+
+Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would
+have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a
+word.  She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though
+nothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects
+were principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise,
+warm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations
+highly rational against Mrs Clay.  But just now she could think only of
+Captain Wentworth.  She could not understand his present feelings,
+whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and
+till that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.
+
+She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas!  she must
+confess to herself that she was not wise yet.
+
+Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he
+meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not
+recollect it.  He might be only passing through.  But it was more
+probable that he should be come to stay.  In that case, so liable as
+every body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all
+likelihood see him somewhere.  Would she recollect him?  How would it
+all be?
+
+She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove
+was to marry Captain Benwick.  It had cost her something to encounter
+Lady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be
+thrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of
+the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.
+
+The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first
+hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at
+last, in returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the
+right hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the
+greater part of the street.  There were many other men about him, many
+groups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him.  She
+looked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her
+recognising him so soon as she did herself.  No, it was not to be
+supposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly
+opposite.  She looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and
+when the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring
+to look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen),
+she was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell's eyes being turned
+exactly in the direction for him--of her being, in short, intently
+observing him.  She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination
+he must possess over Lady Russell's mind, the difficulty it must be for
+her to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that
+eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes
+and in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!
+
+At last, Lady Russell drew back her head.  "Now, how would she speak of
+him?"
+
+"You will wonder," said she, "what has been fixing my eye so long; but
+I was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs
+Frankland were telling me of last night.  They described the
+drawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the
+way, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung
+of any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have
+been trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no
+curtains hereabouts that answer their description."
+
+Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her
+friend or herself.  The part which provoked her most, was that in all
+this waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right
+moment for seeing whether he saw them.
+
+A day or two passed without producing anything.  The theatre or the
+rooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for
+the Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant
+stupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more
+engaged; and Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of
+knowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was
+not tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening.  It was a
+concert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple.  Of
+course they must attend.  It was really expected to be a good one, and
+Captain Wentworth was very fond of music.  If she could only have a few
+minutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be
+satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over
+courage if the opportunity occurred.  Elizabeth had turned from him,
+Lady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these
+circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.
+
+She had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her;
+but in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with
+the more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow.  Mrs Smith
+gave a most good-humoured acquiescence.
+
+"By all means," said she; "only tell me all about it, when you do come.
+Who is your party?"
+
+Anne named them all.  Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving
+her said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, "Well, I
+heartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if
+you can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many
+more visits from you."
+
+Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's
+suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.
+
+
+
+Chapter 20
+
+
+Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all
+their party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be
+waited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon
+Room.  But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and
+Captain Wentworth walked in alone.  Anne was the nearest to him, and
+making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke.  He was preparing
+only to bow and pass on, but her gentle "How do you do?" brought him
+out of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in
+return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back
+ground.  Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew
+nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed
+right to be done.
+
+While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth
+caught her ear.  She could not distinguish, but she must guess the
+subject; and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she
+comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that
+simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a
+side glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself.  This,
+though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than
+nothing, and her spirits improved.
+
+After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert,
+their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that
+she was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in
+no hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little
+smile, a little glow, he said--
+
+"I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme.  I am afraid you must
+have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering
+you at the time."
+
+She assured him that she had not.
+
+"It was a frightful hour," said he, "a frightful day!" and he passed
+his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful,
+but in a moment, half smiling again, added, "The day has produced some
+effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as
+the very reverse of frightful.  When you had the presence of mind to
+suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon,
+you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most
+concerned in her recovery."
+
+"Certainly I could have none.  But it appears--I should hope it would
+be a very happy match.  There are on both sides good principles and
+good temper."
+
+"Yes," said he, looking not exactly forward; "but there, I think, ends
+the resemblance.  With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over
+every circumstance in favour of it.  They have no difficulties to
+contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays.  The
+Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly,
+only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's
+comfort.  All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness;
+more than perhaps--"
+
+He stopped.  A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him
+some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing
+her eyes on the ground.  After clearing his throat, however, he
+proceeded thus--
+
+"I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity,
+and in a point no less essential than mind.  I regard Louisa Musgrove
+as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in
+understanding, but Benwick is something more.  He is a clever man, a
+reading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to
+her with some surprise.  Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he
+learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it
+would have been another thing.  But I have no reason to suppose it so.
+It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous,
+untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me.  A man like him,
+in his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken!  Fanny
+Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was
+indeed attachment.  A man does not recover from such a devotion of the
+heart to such a woman.  He ought not; he does not."
+
+Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered,
+or from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite
+of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in
+spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam
+of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had
+distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and
+beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a
+moment.  It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet,
+after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the
+smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say--
+
+"You were a good while at Lyme, I think?"
+
+"About a fortnight.  I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was
+quite ascertained.  I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to
+be soon at peace.  It had been my doing, solely mine.  She would not
+have been obstinate if I had not been weak.  The country round Lyme is
+very fine.  I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the
+more I found to admire."
+
+"I should very much like to see Lyme again," said Anne.
+
+"Indeed!  I should not have supposed that you could have found anything
+in Lyme to inspire such a feeling.  The horror and distress you were
+involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits!  I should have
+thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust."
+
+"The last hours were certainly very painful," replied Anne; "but when
+pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.  One does
+not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been
+all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at
+Lyme.  We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours,
+and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment.  So much
+novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place
+would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in
+short" (with a faint blush at some recollections), "altogether my
+impressions of the place are very agreeable."
+
+As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party
+appeared for whom they were waiting.  "Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,"
+was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with
+anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet
+her.  Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and
+Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant,
+advanced into the room.  The others joined them, and it was a group in
+which Anne found herself also necessarily included.  She was divided
+from Captain Wentworth.  Their interesting, almost too interesting
+conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance
+compared with the happiness which brought it on!  She had learnt, in
+the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all
+his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the
+demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with
+exquisite, though agitated sensations.  She was in good humour with
+all.  She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and
+kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.
+
+The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back
+from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that
+he was gone.  She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert
+Room.  He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret.
+But "they should meet again.  He would look for her, he would find her
+out before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as
+well to be asunder.  She was in need of a little interval for
+recollection."
+
+Upon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was
+collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed
+into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power,
+draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people
+as they could.
+
+Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.
+Elizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back
+of the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish
+for which did not seem within her reach; and Anne--but it would be an
+insult to the nature of Anne's felicity, to draw any comparison between
+it and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other
+all generous attachment.
+
+Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room.  Her
+happiness was from within.  Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;
+but she knew nothing about it.  She was thinking only of the last half
+hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range
+over it.  His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his
+manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light.  His
+opinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had
+seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings
+as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not
+finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance,
+all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that
+anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were
+succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness
+of the past.  Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past.  She could
+not contemplate the change as implying less.  He must love her.
+
+These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and
+flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she
+passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even
+trying to discern him.  When their places were determined on, and they
+were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen
+to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not
+reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a
+time to be happy in a humbler way.
+
+The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne
+was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well,
+with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by
+her.  Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object
+of Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.
+
+Anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the
+evening; it was just occupation enough:  she had feelings for the
+tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience
+for the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least
+during the first act.  Towards the close of it, in the interval
+succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr
+Elliot.  They had a concert bill between them.
+
+"This," said she, "is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the
+words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be
+talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not
+pretend to understand the language.  I am a very poor Italian scholar."
+
+"Yes, yes, I see you are.  I see you know nothing of the matter.  You
+have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these
+inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear,
+comprehensible, elegant English.  You need not say anything more of
+your ignorance.  Here is complete proof."
+
+"I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be
+examined by a real proficient."
+
+"I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,"
+replied he, "without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do
+regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be
+aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for
+modesty to be natural in any other woman."
+
+"For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery.  I forget what we are
+to have next," turning to the bill.
+
+"Perhaps," said Mr Elliot, speaking low, "I have had a longer
+acquaintance with your character than you are aware of."
+
+"Indeed!  How so?  You can have been acquainted with it only since I
+came to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my
+own family."
+
+"I knew you by report long before you came to Bath.  I had heard you
+described by those who knew you intimately.  I have been acquainted
+with you by character many years.  Your person, your disposition,
+accomplishments, manner; they were all present to me."
+
+Mr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise.  No
+one can withstand the charm of such a mystery.  To have been described
+long ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible;
+and Anne was all curiosity.  She wondered, and questioned him eagerly;
+but in vain.  He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.
+
+"No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now.  He would mention no
+names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact.  He had
+many years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had
+inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the
+warmest curiosity to know her."
+
+Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of
+her many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's
+brother.  He might have been in Mr Elliot's company, but she had not
+courage to ask the question.
+
+"The name of Anne Elliot," said he, "has long had an interesting sound
+to me.  Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I
+dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change."
+
+Such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their
+sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind
+her, which rendered every thing else trivial.  Her father and Lady
+Dalrymple were speaking.
+
+"A well-looking man," said Sir Walter, "a very well-looking man."
+
+"A very fine young man indeed!" said Lady Dalrymple.  "More air than
+one often sees in Bath.  Irish, I dare say."
+
+"No, I just know his name.  A bowing acquaintance.  Wentworth; Captain
+Wentworth of the navy.  His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire,
+the Croft, who rents Kellynch."
+
+Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the
+right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a
+cluster of men at a little distance.  As her eyes fell on him, his
+seemed to be withdrawn from her.  It had that appearance.  It seemed as
+if she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe,
+he did not look again:  but the performance was recommencing, and she
+was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look
+straight forward.
+
+When she could give another glance, he had moved away.  He could not
+have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in:
+but she would rather have caught his eye.
+
+Mr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her.  She had no longer any
+inclination to talk to him.  She wished him not so near her.
+
+The first act was over.  Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and,
+after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did
+decide on going in quest of tea.  Anne was one of the few who did not
+choose to move.  She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but
+she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean,
+whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from
+conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity.
+She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him.
+
+He did not come however.  Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a
+distance, but he never came.  The anxious interval wore away
+unproductively.  The others returned, the room filled again, benches
+were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of
+penance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or
+the gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed.  To Anne, it
+chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation.  She could not quit
+that room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without
+the interchange of one friendly look.
+
+In re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of
+which was favourable for her.  Colonel Wallis declined sitting down
+again, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a
+manner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other
+removals, and a little scheming of her own,  Anne was enabled to place
+herself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much
+more within reach of a passer-by.  She could not do so, without
+comparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but
+still she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what
+seemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next
+neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the
+concert closed.
+
+Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain
+Wentworth was again in sight.  She saw him not far off.  He saw her
+too; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow
+degrees came at last near enough to speak to her.  She felt that
+something must be the matter.  The change was indubitable.  The
+difference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon
+Room was strikingly great.  Why was it?  She thought of her father, of
+Lady Russell.  Could there have been any unpleasant glances?  He began
+by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of
+Uppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in
+short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over.  Anne
+replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in
+allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance
+improved, and he replied again with almost a smile.  They talked for a
+few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the
+bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that
+moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round.  It came
+from Mr Elliot.  He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to
+explain Italian again.  Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a
+general idea of what was next to be sung.  Anne could not refuse; but
+never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.
+
+A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and
+when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done
+before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved
+yet hurried sort of farewell.  "He must wish her good night; he was
+going; he should get home as fast as he could."
+
+"Is not this song worth staying for?" said Anne, suddenly struck by an
+idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.
+
+"No!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth my staying for;"
+and he was gone directly.
+
+Jealousy of Mr Elliot!  It was the only intelligible motive.  Captain
+Wentworth jealous of her affection!  Could she have believed it a week
+ago; three hours ago!  For a moment the gratification was exquisite.
+But, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed.  How was such
+jealousy to be quieted?  How was the truth to reach him?  How, in all
+the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he
+ever learn of her real sentiments?  It was misery to think of Mr
+Elliot's attentions.  Their evil was incalculable.
+
+
+
+Chapter 21
+
+
+Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to
+Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when
+Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was
+almost a first object.
+
+She felt a great deal of good-will towards him.  In spite of the
+mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps
+compassion.  She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary
+circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he
+seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own
+sentiments, by his early prepossession.  It was altogether very
+extraordinary; flattering, but painful.  There was much to regret.  How
+she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case,
+was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the
+conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be
+his for ever.  Their union, she believed, could not divide her more
+from other men, than their final separation.
+
+Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could
+never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting
+with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings.  It was almost enough to
+spread purification and perfume all the way.
+
+She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this
+morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have
+expected her, though it had been an appointment.
+
+An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's
+recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her
+features and make her rejoice to talk of it.  All that she could tell
+she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been
+there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had
+already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter,
+rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne
+could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the
+company.  Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well
+know by name to Mrs Smith.
+
+"The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their
+mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be
+fed.  They never miss a concert."
+
+"Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in
+the room."
+
+"The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the
+tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them."
+
+"I do not know.  I do not think they were."
+
+"Old Lady Mary Maclean?  I need not ask after her.  She never misses, I
+know; and you must have seen her.  She must have been in your own
+circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of
+grandeur, round the orchestra, of course."
+
+"No, that was what I dreaded.  It would have been very unpleasant to me
+in every respect.  But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be
+farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing;
+I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little."
+
+"Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement.  I can understand.  There
+is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this
+you had.  You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing
+beyond."
+
+"But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while
+she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that
+the object only had been deficient.
+
+"No, no; you were better employed.  You need not tell me that you had a
+pleasant evening.  I see it in your eye.  I perfectly see how the hours
+passed:  that you had always something agreeable to listen to.  In the
+intervals of the concert it was conversation."
+
+Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?"
+
+"Yes, I do.  Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in
+company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in
+the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than
+all the rest of the world put together."
+
+A blush overspread Anne's cheeks.  She could say nothing.
+
+"And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I
+hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to
+me this morning.  It is really very good of you to come and sit with
+me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time."
+
+Anne heard nothing of this.  She was still in the astonishment and
+confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how
+any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her.  After another
+short silence--
+
+"Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with
+me?  Does he know that I am in Bath?"
+
+"Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised.  A moment's
+reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under.  She caught it
+instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety,
+soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?"
+
+"I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith,
+gravely, "but it seems worn out now.  It is a great while since we met."
+
+"I was not at all aware of this.  You never mentioned it before.  Had I
+known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you."
+
+"To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of
+cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have.  I want
+you to talk about me to Mr Elliot.  I want your interest with him.  He
+can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness,
+my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is
+done."
+
+"I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to
+be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that
+you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater
+right to influence him, than is really the case.  I am sure you have,
+somehow or other, imbibed such a notion.  You must consider me only as
+Mr Elliot's relation.  If in that light there is anything which you
+suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not
+hesitate to employ me."
+
+Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said--
+
+"I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon.  I
+ought to have waited for official information.  But now, my dear Miss
+Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak.
+Next week?  To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all
+settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune."
+
+"No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next.  I assure you
+that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week.
+I am not going to marry Mr Elliot.  I should like to know why you
+imagine I am?"
+
+Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her
+head, and exclaimed--
+
+"Now, how I do wish I understood you!  How I do wish I knew what you
+were at!  I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when
+the right moment occurs.  Till it does come, you know, we women never
+mean to have anybody.  It is a thing of course among us, that every man
+is refused, till he offers.  But why should you be cruel?  Let me plead
+for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend.
+Where can you look for a more suitable match?  Where could you expect a
+more gentlemanlike, agreeable man?  Let me recommend Mr Elliot.  I am
+sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can
+know him better than Colonel Wallis?"
+
+"My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half
+a year.  He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any
+one."
+
+"Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr
+Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him.  Do
+not forget me when you are married, that's all.  Let him know me to be
+a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble
+required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs
+and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very
+natural, perhaps.  Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same.  Of
+course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me.  Well, my dear Miss
+Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy.  Mr Elliot has sense
+to understand the value of such a woman.  Your peace will not be
+shipwrecked as mine has been.  You are safe in all worldly matters, and
+safe in his character.  He will not be led astray; he will not be
+misled by others to his ruin."
+
+"No," said Anne, "I can readily believe all that of my cousin.  He
+seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous
+impressions.  I consider him with great respect.  I have no reason,
+from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise.
+But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be
+known intimately soon.  Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs
+Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me?  Surely this must be calm
+enough.  And, upon my word, he is nothing to me.  Should he ever
+propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any
+thought of doing), I shall not accept him.  I assure you I shall not.
+I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been
+supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford:
+not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"
+
+She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much;
+but less would hardly have been sufficient.  Mrs Smith would hardly
+have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception
+of there being a somebody else.  As it was, she instantly submitted,
+and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to
+escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have
+fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the
+idea, or from whom she could have heard it.
+
+"Do tell me how it first came into your head."
+
+"It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much
+you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the
+world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you
+may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in
+the same way.  But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago."
+
+"And has it indeed been spoken of?"
+
+"Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called
+yesterday?"
+
+"No.  Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid?  I observed no one
+in particular."
+
+"It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great
+curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in.
+She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was
+who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot.  She had had it from Mrs
+Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority.  She sat an hour with
+me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole
+history," repeated Anne, laughing.  "She could not make a very long
+history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news."
+
+Mrs Smith said nothing.
+
+"But," continued Anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my
+having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of
+use to you in any way that I could.  Shall I mention to him your being
+in Bath?  Shall I take any message?"
+
+"No, I thank you:  no, certainly not.  In the warmth of the moment, and
+under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to
+interest you in some circumstances; but not now.  No, I thank you, I
+have nothing to trouble you with."
+
+"I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?"
+
+"I did."
+
+"Not before he was married, I suppose?"
+
+"Yes; he was not married when I knew him first."
+
+"And--were you much acquainted?"
+
+"Intimately."
+
+"Indeed!  Then do tell me what he was at that time of life.  I have a
+great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man.  Was he
+at all such as he appears now?"
+
+"I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer,
+given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther;
+and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity.
+They were both silent:  Mrs Smith very thoughtful.  At last--
+
+"I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural
+tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have
+been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do.  I have
+been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you.  There
+were many things to be taken into the account.  One hates to be
+officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief.  Even the
+smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may
+be nothing durable beneath.  However, I have determined; I think I am
+right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real
+character.  Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the
+smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may
+happen.  You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards
+him.  Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced.  Mr
+Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary,
+cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own
+interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery,
+that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character.  He
+has no feeling for others.  Those whom he has been the chief cause of
+leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest
+compunction.  He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of
+justice or compassion.  Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!"
+
+Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and
+in a calmer manner, she added,
+
+"My expressions startle you.  You must allow for an injured, angry
+woman.  But I will try to command myself.  I will not abuse him.  I
+will only tell you what I have found him.  Facts shall speak.  He was
+the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and
+thought him as good as himself.  The intimacy had been formed before
+our marriage.  I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became
+excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion
+of him.  At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but
+Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more
+agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together.  We
+were principally in town, living in very good style.  He was then the
+inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in
+the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance
+of a gentleman.  He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he
+was always welcome; he was like a brother.  My poor Charles, who had
+the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his
+last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I
+know that he often assisted him."
+
+"This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life," said
+Anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity.  It must have
+been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister.
+I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something
+in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and
+afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could
+quite reconcile with present times.  It seemed to announce a different
+sort of man."
+
+"I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs Smith.  "He had been
+introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with
+him, but I heard him speak of them for ever.  I know he was invited and
+encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go.  I can satisfy you,
+perhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his
+marriage, I knew all about it at the time.  I was privy to all the fors
+and againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans;
+and though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation
+in society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her
+life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her
+life, and can answer any question you may wish to put."
+
+"Nay," said Anne, "I have no particular enquiry to make about her.  I
+have always understood they were not a happy couple.  But I should like
+to know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's
+acquaintance as he did.  My father was certainly disposed to take very
+kind and proper notice of him.  Why did Mr Elliot draw back?"
+
+"Mr Elliot," replied Mrs Smith, "at that period of his life, had one
+object in view:  to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process
+than the law.  He was determined to make it by marriage.  He was
+determined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I
+know it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot
+decide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and
+invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young
+lady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his
+ideas of wealth and independence.  That was his motive for drawing
+back, I can assure you.  He told me the whole story.  He had no
+concealments with me.  It was curious, that having just left you behind
+me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be
+your cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of
+your father and sister.  He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought
+very affectionately of the other."
+
+"Perhaps," cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, "you sometimes spoke of
+me to Mr Elliot?"
+
+"To be sure I did; very often.  I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot,
+and vouch for your being a very different creature from--"
+
+She checked herself just in time.
+
+"This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night," cried
+Anne.  "This explains it.  I found he had been used to hear of me.  I
+could not comprehend how.  What wild imaginations one forms where dear
+self is concerned!  How sure to be mistaken!  But I beg your pardon; I
+have interrupted you.  Mr Elliot married then completely for money?
+The circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his
+character."
+
+Mrs Smith hesitated a little here.  "Oh! those things are too common.
+When one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too
+common to strike one as it ought.  I was very young, and associated
+only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any
+strict rules of conduct.  We lived for enjoyment.  I think differently
+now; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at
+that period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot
+was doing.  'To do the best for himself,' passed as a duty."
+
+"But was not she a very low woman?"
+
+"Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard.  Money, money, was
+all that he wanted.  Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been
+a butcher, but that was all nothing.  She was a fine woman, had had a
+decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance
+into Mr Elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a
+difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her
+birth.  All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount
+of her fortune, before he committed himself.  Depend upon it, whatever
+esteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young
+man he had not the smallest value for it.  His chance for the Kellynch
+estate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap
+as dirt.  I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were
+saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto,
+name and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I
+used to hear him say on that subject.  It would not be fair; and yet
+you ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you
+shall have proof."
+
+"Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none," cried Anne.  "You have
+asserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some
+years ago.  This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to
+hear and believe.  I am more curious to know why he should be so
+different now."
+
+"But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for
+Mary; stay:  I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of
+going yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box
+which you will find on the upper shelf of the closet."
+
+Anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was
+desired.  The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith,
+sighing over it as she unlocked it, said--
+
+"This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small
+portion only of what I had to look over when I lost him.  The letter I
+am looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage,
+and happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine.  But he was
+careless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when
+I came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more
+trivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many
+letters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed.  Here it
+is; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied
+with Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former
+intimacy.  I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce
+it."
+
+This was the letter, directed to "Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells,"
+and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:--
+
+"Dear Smith,--I have received yours.  Your kindness almost overpowers
+me.  I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I
+have lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like
+it.  At present, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in
+cash again.  Give me joy:  I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss.  They
+are gone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this
+summer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell
+me how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer.  The baronet,
+nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough.
+If he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent
+equivalent  for the reversion.  He is worse than last year.
+
+"I wish I had any name but Elliot.  I am sick of it.  The name of
+Walter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you will never insult me
+with my second W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only
+yours truly,--Wm. Elliot."
+
+Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs
+Smith, observing the high colour in her face, said--
+
+"The language, I know, is highly disrespectful.  Though I have forgot
+the exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning.
+But it shows you the man.  Mark his professions to my poor husband.
+Can any thing be stronger?"
+
+Anne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of
+finding such words applied to her father.  She was obliged to recollect
+that her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that
+no one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no
+private correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could
+recover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been
+meditating over, and say--
+
+"Thank you.  This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you
+were saying.  But why be acquainted with us now?"
+
+"I can explain this too," cried Mrs Smith, smiling.
+
+"Can you really?"
+
+"Yes.  I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I
+will shew him as he is now.  I cannot produce written proof again, but
+I can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is
+now wanting, and what he is now doing.  He is no hypocrite now.  He
+truly wants to marry you.  His present attentions to your family are
+very sincere:  quite from the heart.  I will give you my authority: his
+friend Colonel Wallis."
+
+"Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?"
+
+"No.  It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it
+takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence.  The stream is as good
+as at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily
+moved away.  Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his
+views on you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a
+sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has
+a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better
+not, and he repeats it all to her.  She in the overflowing spirits of
+her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse  knowing my
+acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me.  On Monday
+evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of
+Marlborough Buildings.  When I talked of a whole history, therefore,
+you see I was not romancing so much as you supposed."
+
+"My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient.  This will not do.  Mr
+Elliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the
+efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father.  That was all
+prior to my coming to Bath.  I found them on the most friendly terms
+when I arrived."
+
+"I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but--"
+
+"Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such
+a line.  Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so
+many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can
+hardly have much truth left."
+
+"Only give me a hearing.  You will soon be able to judge of the general
+credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself
+immediately contradict or confirm.  Nobody supposes that you were his
+first inducement.  He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and
+admired you, but without knowing it to be you.  So says my historian,
+at least.  Is this true?  Did he see you last summer or autumn,
+'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it
+to be you?"
+
+"He certainly did.  So far it is very true.  At Lyme.  I happened to be
+at Lyme."
+
+"Well," continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, "grant my friend the credit
+due to the establishment of the first point asserted.  He saw you then
+at Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet
+with you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that
+moment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there.  But
+there was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain.  If there
+is anything in my story which you know to be either false or
+improbable, stop me.  My account states, that your sister's friend, the
+lady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath
+with Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September (in short when
+they first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since;
+that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible,
+and altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea,
+among Sir Walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and
+as general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to
+the danger."
+
+Here Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she
+continued--
+
+"This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family,
+long before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon
+your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit
+in Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in
+watching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath
+for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas,
+Colonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and
+the reports beginning to prevail.  Now you are to understand, that time
+had worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the
+value of a baronetcy.  Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a
+completely altered man.  Having long had as much money as he could
+spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has
+been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is
+heir to.  I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it
+is now a confirmed feeling.  He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir
+William.  You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his
+friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced;
+the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of
+fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former
+acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give
+him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of
+circumventing the lady if he found it material.  This was agreed upon
+between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel
+Wallis was to assist in every way that he could.  He was to be
+introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to
+be introduced.  Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was
+forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it
+was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added
+another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay.  He omitted no
+opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at
+all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject.  You can
+imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may
+recollect what you have seen him do."
+
+"Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what
+I have known, or could imagine.  There is always something offensive in
+the details of cunning.  The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity
+must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises
+me.  I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr
+Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never
+been satisfied.  I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct
+than appeared.  I should like to know his present opinion, as to the
+probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers
+the danger to be lessening or not."
+
+"Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith.  "He thinks Mrs Clay
+afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to
+proceed as she might do in his absence.  But since he must be absent
+some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while
+she holds her present influence.  Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as
+nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when
+you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay.  A
+scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my
+sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it.  'Why, to be sure,
+ma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.'
+And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a
+very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match.  She must
+be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self
+will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of
+attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?"
+
+"I am very glad to know all this," said Anne, after a little
+thoughtfulness.  "It will be more painful to me in some respects to be
+in company with him, but I shall know better what to do.  My line of
+conduct will be more direct.  Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous,
+artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to
+guide him than selfishness."
+
+But Mr Elliot was not done with.  Mrs Smith had been carried away from
+her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own
+family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but
+her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints,
+and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify
+the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very
+unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice
+and compassion.
+
+She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr
+Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr
+Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune.  Mrs
+Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of
+throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income
+had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first
+there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance.  From
+his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man
+of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong
+understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him,
+led by him, and probably despised by him.  Mr Elliot, raised by his
+marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of
+pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself,
+(for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and
+beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to
+be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's
+probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and
+encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths
+accordingly had been ruined.
+
+The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of
+it.  They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the
+friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better
+not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of
+his affairs was fully known.  With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard,
+more creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had
+appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act,
+and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her,
+in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been
+such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to
+without corresponding indignation.
+
+Anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent
+applications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern
+resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold
+civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it
+might bring on her.  It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and
+inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime
+could have been worse.  She had a great deal to listen to; all the
+particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon
+distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were
+dwelt on now with a natural indulgence.  Anne could perfectly
+comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to
+wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind.
+
+There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of
+particular irritation.  She had good reason to believe that some
+property of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many
+years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own
+incumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this
+property, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively
+rich.  But there was nobody to stir in it.  Mr Elliot would do nothing,
+and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal
+exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by
+her want of money.  She had no natural connexions to assist her even
+with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance
+of the law.  This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means.
+To feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little
+trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be
+even weakening her claims, was hard to bear.
+
+It was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices
+with Mr Elliot.  She had previously, in the anticipation of their
+marriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on
+being assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since
+he did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that
+something might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he
+loved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings,
+as far as the observances due to Mr Elliot's character would allow,
+when Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of
+everything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of
+succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the
+comfort of telling the whole story her own way.
+
+After listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not
+but express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so
+favourably in the beginning of their conversation.  "She had seemed to
+recommend and praise him!"
+
+"My dear," was Mrs Smith's reply, "there was nothing else to be done.
+I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have
+made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he
+had been your husband.  My heart bled for you, as I talked of
+happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a
+woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless.  He was very unkind to
+his first wife.  They were wretched together.  But she was too ignorant
+and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her.  I was willing to
+hope that you must fare better."
+
+Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having
+been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the
+misery which must have followed.  It was just possible that she might
+have been persuaded by Lady Russell!  And under such a supposition,
+which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too
+late?
+
+It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived;
+and one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference,
+which carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that
+Anne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative
+to Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved.
+
+
+
+Chapter 22
+
+
+Anne went home to think over all that she had heard.  In one point, her
+feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot.  There was no
+longer anything of tenderness due to him.  He stood as opposed to
+Captain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil
+of his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have
+done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed.  Pity
+for him was all over.  But this was the only point of relief.  In every
+other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw
+more to distrust and to apprehend.  She was concerned for the
+disappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the
+mortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and
+had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to
+avert any one of them.  She was most thankful for her own knowledge of
+him.  She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not
+slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed
+springing from it!  Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one
+else could have done.  Could the knowledge have been extended through
+her family?  But this was a vain idea.  She must talk to Lady Russell,
+tell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event
+with as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of
+composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be
+opened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must
+be all to herself.
+
+
+She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped
+seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning
+visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when
+she heard that he was coming again in the evening.
+
+"I had not the smallest intention of asking him," said Elizabeth, with
+affected carelessness, "but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at
+least."
+
+"Indeed, I do say it.  I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for
+an invitation.  Poor man!  I was really in pain for him; for your
+hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty."
+
+"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I have been rather too much used to the game to
+be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints.  However, when I found how
+excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this
+morning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an
+opportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together.  They appear to so
+much advantage in company with each other.  Each behaving so
+pleasantly.  Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect."
+
+"Quite delightful!" cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her
+eyes towards Anne.  "Exactly like father and son!  Dear Miss Elliot,
+may I not say father and son?"
+
+"Oh! I lay no embargo on any body's words.  If you will have such
+ideas!  But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions
+being beyond those of other men."
+
+"My dear Miss Elliot!" exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,
+and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.
+
+"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him.  I did
+invite him, you know.  I sent him away with smiles.  When I found he
+was really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day
+to-morrow, I had compassion on him."
+
+Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such
+pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of
+the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her
+prime object.  It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight
+of Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look,
+and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting
+herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done
+otherwise.
+
+To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the
+room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her.  She had
+been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but
+now she saw insincerity in everything.  His attentive deference to her
+father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she
+thought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear
+the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his
+artificial good sentiments.
+
+She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a
+remonstrance on his side.  It was a great object to her to escape all
+enquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to
+him as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as
+quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had
+been gradually led along.  She was accordingly more guarded, and more
+cool, than she had been the night before.
+
+He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could
+have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by
+more solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and
+animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's
+vanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of
+those attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of
+the others.  He little surmised that it was a subject acting now
+exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all
+those parts of his conduct which were least excusable.
+
+She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of
+Bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the
+greater part of two days.  He was invited again to Camden Place the
+very evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his
+absence was certain.  It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be
+always before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their
+party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort.  It
+was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on
+her father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of
+mortification preparing for them!  Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so
+complicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for
+the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's
+subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.
+
+On Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and
+accomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone
+directly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some
+obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to
+wait till she might be safe from such a companion.  She saw Mrs Clay
+fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning
+in Rivers Street.
+
+"Very well," said Elizabeth, "I have nothing to send but my love.  Oh!
+you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and
+pretend I have read it through.  I really cannot be plaguing myself for
+ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.
+Lady Russell quite bores one with her new publications.  You need not
+tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night.  I used
+to think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the
+concert.  Something so formal and _arrangé_ in her air!  and she sits so
+upright!  My best love, of course."
+
+"And mine," added Sir Walter.  "Kindest regards.  And you may say, that
+I mean to call upon her soon.  Make a civil message; but I shall only
+leave my card.  Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of
+life, who make themselves up so little.  If she would only wear rouge
+she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I
+observed the blinds were let down immediately."
+
+While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.  Who could it
+be?  Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr
+Elliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven
+miles off.  After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of
+approach were heard, and "Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove" were ushered
+into the room.
+
+Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne
+was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that
+they could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became
+clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any
+views of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were
+able to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well.  They
+were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the
+White Hart.  So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter
+and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and
+regaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon
+Charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an
+explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had
+been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent
+confusion as to whom their party consisted of.
+
+She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and
+Captain Harville, beside their two selves.  He gave her a very plain,
+intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great
+deal of most characteristic proceeding.  The scheme had received its
+first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on
+business.  He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing
+something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him,
+and Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an
+advantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had
+made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything
+seemed to be in suspense, or at an end.  But then, it had been taken up
+by his father and mother.  His mother had some old friends in Bath whom
+she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to
+come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short,
+it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be
+comfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included
+in it by way of general convenience.  They had arrived late the night
+before.  Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with
+Mr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.
+
+Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough
+for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of.  She had imagined such
+difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage
+from being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very
+recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had
+been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not
+possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his
+present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent
+long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the
+young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place
+in a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's.  "And a very good living it
+was," Charles added:  "only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and
+in a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire.  In the centre of
+some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great
+proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two
+of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special
+recommendation.  Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed,
+"Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him."
+
+"I am extremely glad, indeed," cried Anne, "particularly glad that this
+should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well,
+and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of
+one should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so
+equal in their prosperity and comfort.  I hope your father and mother
+are quite happy with regard to both."
+
+"Oh! yes.  My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were
+richer, but he has no other fault to find.  Money, you know, coming
+down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable
+operation, and it streightens him as to many things.  However, I do not
+mean to say they have not a right to it.  It is very fit they should
+have daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind,
+liberal father to me.  Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.
+She never did, you know.  But she does not do him justice, nor think
+enough about Winthrop.  I cannot make her attend to the value of the
+property.  It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked
+Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now."
+
+"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove," exclaimed Anne,
+"should be happy in their children's marriages.  They do everything to
+confer happiness, I am sure.  What a blessing to young people to be in
+such hands!  Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those
+ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery,
+both in young and old.  I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered
+now?"
+
+He answered rather hesitatingly, "Yes, I believe I do; very much
+recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no
+laughing or dancing; it is quite different.  If one happens only to
+shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young
+dab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses,
+or whispering to her, all day long."
+
+Anne could not help laughing.  "That cannot be much to your taste, I
+know," said she; "but I do believe him to be an excellent young man."
+
+"To be sure he is.  Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am
+so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and
+pleasures as myself.  I have a great value for Benwick; and when one
+can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say.  His reading has done
+him no harm, for he has fought as well as read.  He is a brave fellow.
+I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before.  We
+had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great
+barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better
+ever since."
+
+Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's
+following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard
+enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in
+its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none
+of the ill-will of envy in it.  She would certainly have risen to their
+blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.
+
+The visit passed off altogether in high good humour.  Mary was in
+excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well
+satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four
+horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that
+she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and
+enter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they
+were detailed to her.  She had no demands on her father or sister, and
+her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome
+drawing-rooms.
+
+Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.  She felt that
+Mrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but
+she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of
+servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been
+always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch.  It was a struggle
+between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then
+Elizabeth was happy again.  These were her internal persuasions: "Old
+fashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give
+dinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even
+ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare
+say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of
+her way.  I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy
+with us.  I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better;
+that will be a novelty and a treat.  They have not seen two such
+drawing rooms before.  They will be delighted to come to-morrow
+evening.  It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant."  And
+this satisfied Elizabeth:  and when the invitation was given to the two
+present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied.
+She was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady
+Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to
+come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention.
+Miss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the
+course of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go
+and see her and Henrietta directly.
+
+Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.
+They all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but
+Anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication
+could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to
+see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an
+eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.
+
+They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and
+Anne had the kindest welcome from each.  Henrietta was exactly in that
+state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made
+her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before
+at all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her
+usefulness when they were in distress.  It was a heartiness, and a
+warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad
+want of such blessings at home.  She was entreated to give them as much
+of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or
+rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally
+fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on
+Charles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove's
+history of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on
+business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help
+which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts;
+from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to
+convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well
+amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the
+entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.
+
+A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.  A large party in
+an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.  One five minutes
+brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an
+hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half
+filled:  a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove,
+and Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth.  The
+appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the
+moment.  It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this
+arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together
+again.  Their last meeting had been most important in opening his
+feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she
+feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had
+hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.  He did not
+seem to want to be near enough for conversation.
+
+She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried
+to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--"Surely, if
+there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand
+each other ere long.  We are not boy and girl, to be captiously
+irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing
+with our own happiness."  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt
+as if their being in company with each other, under their present
+circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and
+misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.
+
+"Anne," cried Mary, still at her window, "there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,
+standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.  I saw them
+turn the corner from Bath Street just now.  They seemed deep in talk.
+Who is it?  Come, and tell me.  Good heavens! I recollect.  It is Mr
+Elliot himself."
+
+"No," cried Anne, quickly, "it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you.  He
+was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till
+to-morrow."
+
+As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the
+consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret
+that she had said so much, simple as it was.
+
+Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,
+began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting
+still more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to
+come and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to
+be cool and unconcerned.  Her distress returned, however, on perceiving
+smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady
+visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret.  It was
+evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause
+succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.
+
+"Do come, Anne," cried Mary, "come and look yourself.  You will be too
+late if you do not make haste.  They are parting; they are shaking
+hands.  He is turning away.  Not know Mr Elliot, indeed!  You seem to
+have forgot all about Lyme."
+
+To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move
+quietly to the window.  She was just in time to ascertain that it
+really was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he
+disappeared on one side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other;
+and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an
+appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally
+opposite interest, she calmly said, "Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly.
+He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be
+mistaken, I might not attend;" and walked back to her chair,
+recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself
+well.
+
+The visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them
+off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began
+with--
+
+"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like.  I
+have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night.  A'n't
+I a good boy?  I know you love a play; and there is room for us all.
+It holds nine.  I have engaged Captain Wentworth.  Anne will not be
+sorry to join us, I am sure.  We all like a play.  Have not I done
+well, mother?"
+
+Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect
+readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when
+Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming--
+
+"Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing?  Take a box
+for to-morrow night!  Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden
+Place to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet
+Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal
+family connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them?  How can you be
+so forgetful?"
+
+"Phoo! phoo!" replied Charles, "what's an evening party?  Never worth
+remembering.  Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he
+had wanted to see us.  You may do as you like, but I shall go to the
+play."
+
+"Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you
+promised to go."
+
+"No, I did not promise.  I only smirked and bowed, and said the word
+'happy.'  There was no promise."
+
+"But you must go, Charles.  It would be unpardonable to fail.  We were
+asked on purpose to be introduced.  There was always such a great
+connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves.  Nothing ever happened
+on either side that was not announced immediately.  We are quite near
+relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly
+to be acquainted with!  Every attention is due to Mr Elliot.  Consider,
+my father's heir:  the future representative of the family."
+
+"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried Charles.  "I
+am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising
+sun.  If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it
+scandalous to go for the sake of his heir.  What is Mr Elliot to me?"
+The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain
+Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul;
+and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to
+herself.
+
+Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious
+and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she,
+invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make
+it known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she
+should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play
+without her.  Mrs Musgrove interposed.
+
+"We had better put it off.  Charles, you had much better go back and
+change the box for Tuesday.  It would be a pity to be divided, and we
+should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's;
+and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play,
+if Miss Anne could not be with us."
+
+Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so
+for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying--
+
+"If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home
+(excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment.  I
+have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to
+change it for a play, and with you.  But, it had better not be
+attempted, perhaps."  She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was
+done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to
+try to observe their effect.
+
+It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles
+only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting
+that he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.
+
+Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably
+for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a
+station, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.
+
+"You have not been long enough in Bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening
+parties of the place."
+
+"Oh! no.  The usual character of them has nothing for me.  I am no
+card-player."
+
+"You were not formerly, I know.  You did not use to like cards; but
+time makes many changes."
+
+"I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she
+hardly knew what misconstruction.  After waiting a few moments he said,
+and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "It is a period,
+indeed!  Eight years and a half is a period."
+
+Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination
+to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he
+had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to
+make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her
+companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.
+
+They were obliged to move.  Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and
+tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the
+regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing
+to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for
+her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity
+her.
+
+Their preparations, however, were stopped short.  Alarming sounds were
+heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir
+Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.
+Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms
+of the same.  The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was
+over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk,
+to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister.  How
+mortifying to feel that it was so!
+
+Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular.  Captain Wentworth was
+acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.
+She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.
+Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure.  The sequel
+explained it.  After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper
+nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all
+the remaining dues of the Musgroves.  "To-morrow evening, to meet a few
+friends:  no formal party." It was all said very gracefully, and the
+cards with which she had provided herself, the "Miss Elliot at home,"
+were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all,
+and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth.  The
+truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand
+the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his.  The past
+was nothing.  The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about
+well in her drawing-room.  The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter
+and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.
+
+The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation
+returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not
+to Anne.  She could think only of the invitation she had with such
+astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been
+received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than
+gratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance.  She
+knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe
+that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for
+all the insolence of the past.  Her spirits sank.  He held the card in
+his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.
+
+"Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!" whispered Mary very
+audibly.  "I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted!  You see he
+cannot put the card out of his hand."
+
+Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself
+into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she
+might neither see nor hear more to vex her.
+
+The party separated.  The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies
+proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne
+belonged to them.  She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and
+give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long
+exerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for
+home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.
+
+Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning,
+therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to
+Camden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the
+busy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the
+frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually
+improving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the
+most completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself
+with the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come
+or not?  They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a
+gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together.  She
+generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he
+ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive
+act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of
+very opposite feelings.
+
+She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation,
+to let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours
+after his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain
+for some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she
+determined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs
+Clay's face as she listened.  It was transient: cleared away in an
+instant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of
+having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing
+authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to
+his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter.  She
+exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:--
+
+"Oh! dear! very true.  Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I
+met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street.  I was never more astonished.  He
+turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.  He had been prevented
+setting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a
+hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being
+determined not to be delayed in his return.  He wanted to know how
+early he might be admitted to-morrow.  He was full of 'to-morrow,' and
+it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I
+entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that
+had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of
+my head."
+
+
+
+Chapter 23
+
+
+One day only had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs Smith; but a
+keener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr
+Elliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became
+a matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory
+visit in Rivers Street.  She had promised to be with the Musgroves from
+breakfast to dinner.  Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's
+character, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another
+day.
+
+She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was
+unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends'
+account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to
+attempt the walk.  When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to
+the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time,
+nor the first to arrive.  The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove,
+talking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and
+she immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait,
+had gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,
+and that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to
+keep her there till they returned.  She had only to submit, sit down,
+be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the
+agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little
+before the morning closed.  There was no delay, no waste of time.  She
+was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such
+happiness, instantly.  Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain
+Wentworth said--
+
+"We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you
+will give me materials."
+
+Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly
+turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.
+
+Mrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's
+engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was
+perfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper.  Anne felt that
+she did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville
+seemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing
+many undesirable particulars; such as, "how Mr Musgrove and my brother
+Hayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter
+had said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what
+had occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished,
+and what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards
+persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same
+style of open-hearted communication:  minutiae which, even with every
+advantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not
+give, could be properly interesting only to the principals.  Mrs Croft
+was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it
+was very sensibly.  Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much
+self-occupied to hear.
+
+"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her
+powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet,
+altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for
+Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near
+as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the
+best of it, as many others have done before them.  At any rate, said I,
+it will be better than a long engagement."
+
+"That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft.  "I
+would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and
+have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in
+a long engagement.  I always think that no mutual--"
+
+"Oh! dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her
+speech, "there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long
+engagement.  It is what I always protested against for my children.  It
+is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if
+there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or
+even in twelve; but a long engagement--"
+
+"Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs Croft, "or an uncertain engagement, an
+engagement which may be long.  To begin without knowing that at such a
+time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and
+unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can."
+
+Anne found an unexpected interest here.  She felt its application to
+herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same
+moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,
+Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing,
+listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one
+quick, conscious look at her.
+
+The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths,
+and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary
+practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing
+distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in
+confusion.
+
+Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left
+his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though
+it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he
+was inviting her to join him where he stood.  He looked at her with a
+smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I
+have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner
+which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was,
+strongly enforced the invitation.  She roused herself and went to him.
+The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from
+where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain
+Wentworth's table, not very near.  As she joined him, Captain
+Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression
+which seemed its natural character.
+
+"Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a
+small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?"
+
+"Certainly:  Captain Benwick."
+
+"Yes, and you may guess who it is for.  But," (in a deep tone,) "it was
+not done for her.  Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at
+Lyme, and grieving for him?  I little thought then--but no matter.
+This was drawn at the Cape.  He met with a clever young German artist
+at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to
+him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of
+getting it properly set for another!  It was a commission to me!  But
+who else was there to employ?  I hope I can allow for him.  I am not
+sorry, indeed, to make it over to another.  He undertakes it;" (looking
+towards Captain Wentworth,) "he is writing about it now."  And with a
+quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would
+not have forgotten him so soon!"
+
+"No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily
+believe."
+
+"It was not in her nature.  She doted on him."
+
+"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved."
+
+Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your
+sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes.  We certainly
+do not forget you as soon as you forget us.  It is, perhaps, our fate
+rather than our merit.  We cannot help ourselves.  We live at home,
+quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.  You are forced on
+exertion.  You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some
+sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and
+continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions."
+
+"Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men
+(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to
+Benwick.  He has not been forced upon any exertion.  The peace turned
+him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our
+little family circle, ever since."
+
+"True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we
+say now, Captain Harville?  If the change be not from outward
+circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature,
+which has done the business for Captain Benwick."
+
+"No, no, it is not man's nature.  I will not allow it to be more man's
+nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or
+have loved.  I believe the reverse.  I believe in a true analogy
+between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are
+the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough
+usage, and riding out the heaviest weather."
+
+"Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same
+spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most
+tender.  Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived;
+which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.
+Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.  You have
+difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with.  You
+are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.
+Your home, country, friends, all quitted.  Neither time, nor health,
+nor life, to be called your own.  It would be hard, indeed" (with a
+faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this."
+
+"We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was
+beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain
+Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room.  It was
+nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled
+at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to
+suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by
+them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could
+have caught.
+
+"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville.
+
+"Not quite, a few lines more.  I shall have done in five minutes."
+
+"There is no hurry on my side.  I am only ready whenever you are.  I am
+in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) "well supplied, and
+want for nothing.  No hurry for a signal at all.  Well, Miss Elliot,"
+(lowering his voice,) "as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose,
+upon this point.  No man and woman, would, probably.  But let me
+observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and
+verse.  If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty
+quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I
+ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon
+woman's inconstancy.  Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's
+fickleness.  But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men."
+
+"Perhaps I shall.  Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in
+books.  Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.
+Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been
+in their hands.  I will not allow books to prove anything."
+
+"But how shall we prove anything?"
+
+"We never shall.  We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a
+point.  It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof.
+We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and
+upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has
+occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps
+those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as
+cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some
+respect saying what should not be said."
+
+"Ah!" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if I could
+but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at
+his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off
+in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows
+whether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the
+glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a
+twelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,
+he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to
+deceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but
+all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them
+arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner
+still!  If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear
+and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his
+existence!  I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!"
+pressing his own with emotion.
+
+"Oh!" cried Anne eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by
+you, and by those who resemble you.  God forbid that I should
+undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my
+fellow-creatures!  I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to
+suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman.
+No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married
+lives.  I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every
+domestic forbearance, so long as--if I may be allowed the
+expression--so long as you have an object.  I mean while the woman you
+love lives, and lives for you.  All the privilege I claim for my own
+sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of
+loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."
+
+She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was
+too full, her breath too much oppressed.
+
+"You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her
+arm, quite affectionately.  "There is no quarrelling with you.  And
+when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied."
+
+Their attention was called towards the others.  Mrs Croft was taking
+leave.
+
+"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe," said she.  "I am
+going home, and you have an engagement with your friend.  To-night we
+may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to
+Anne.)  "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood
+Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are
+disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?"
+
+Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either
+could not or would not answer fully.
+
+"Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall
+soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a
+minute.  I know you will not be sorry to be off.  I shall be at your
+service in half a minute."
+
+Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter
+with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated
+air, which shewed impatience to be gone.  Anne knew not how to
+understand it.  She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from
+Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!  He had passed
+out of the room without a look!
+
+She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had
+been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it
+was himself.  He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves,
+and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a
+letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes
+of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his
+gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware
+of his being in it: the work of an instant!
+
+The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond
+expression.  The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A.
+E.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily.
+While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also
+addressing her!  On the contents of that letter depended all which this
+world could do for her.  Anything was possible, anything might be
+defied rather than suspense.  Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of
+her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and
+sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very
+spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following
+words:
+
+
+"I can listen no longer in silence.  I must speak to you by such means
+as are within my reach.  You pierce my soul.  I am half agony, half
+hope.  Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are
+gone for ever.  I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your
+own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.  Dare
+not say that man forgets sooner than  woman, that his love has an
+earlier death.  I have loved none but you.  Unjust I may have been,
+weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.  You alone have
+brought me to Bath.  For you alone, I think and plan.  Have you not
+seen this?  Can you fail to have understood my wishes?  I had not
+waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think
+you must have penetrated mine.  I can hardly write.  I am every instant
+hearing something which overpowers me.  You sink your voice, but I can
+distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.
+Too good, too excellent creature!  You do us justice, indeed.  You do
+believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men.  Believe
+it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.
+
+"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow
+your party, as soon as possible.  A word, a look, will be enough to
+decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."
+
+
+Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from.  Half an hour's
+solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten
+minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the
+restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.
+Every moment rather brought fresh agitation.  It was overpowering
+happiness.  And before she was beyond the first stage of full
+sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.
+
+The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an
+immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more.  She began
+not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead
+indisposition and excuse herself.  They could then see that she looked
+very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her
+for the world.  This was dreadful.  Would they only have gone away, and
+left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her
+cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was
+distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.
+
+"By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and
+take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening.  I wish
+Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself.  Charles, ring
+and order a chair.  She must not walk."
+
+But the chair would never do.  Worse than all!  To lose the possibility
+of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,
+solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting
+him) could not be borne.  The chair was earnestly protested against,
+and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having
+assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the
+case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow
+on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall;
+could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at
+night.
+
+Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said--
+
+"I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood.  Pray be so
+good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your
+whole party this evening.  I am afraid there had been some mistake; and
+I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain
+Wentworth, that we hope to see them both."
+
+"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word.  Captain
+Harville has no thought but of going."
+
+"Do you think so?  But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry.
+Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again?  You will
+see them both this morning, I dare say.  Do promise me."
+
+"To be sure I will, if you wish it.  Charles, if you see Captain
+Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message.  But indeed,
+my dear, you need not be uneasy.  Captain Harville holds himself quite
+engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare
+say."
+
+Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp
+the perfection of her felicity.  It could not be very lasting, however.
+Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her
+power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.  Another
+momentary vexation occurred.  Charles, in his real concern and good
+nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him.  This was
+almost cruel.  But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing
+an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off
+with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.
+
+They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of
+familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of
+Captain Wentworth.  He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to
+join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked.  Anne could command
+herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively.  The cheeks
+which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated
+were decided.  He walked by her side.  Presently, struck by a sudden
+thought, Charles said--
+
+"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?  Only to Gay Street, or
+farther up the town?"
+
+"I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.
+
+"Are you going as high as Belmont?  Are you going near Camden Place?
+Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my
+place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door.  She is rather done
+for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to
+be at that fellow's in the Market Place.  He promised me the sight of a
+capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it
+unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do
+not turn back now, I have no chance.  By his description, a good deal
+like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day
+round Winthrop."
+
+There could not be an objection.  There could be only the most proper
+alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined
+in and spirits dancing in private rapture.  In half a minute Charles
+was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding
+together:  and soon words enough had passed between them to decide
+their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel
+walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a
+blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the
+happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow.  There
+they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once
+before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so
+many, many years of division and estrangement.  There they returned
+again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their
+re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more
+tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and
+attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.  And there, as
+they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around
+them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers,
+flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in
+those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those
+explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which
+were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest.  All the little
+variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and
+today there could scarcely be an end.
+
+She had not mistaken him.  Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding
+weight, the doubt, the torment.  That had begun to operate in the very
+hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short
+suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in
+everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last
+four-and-twenty hours.  It had been gradually yielding to the better
+hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it
+had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which
+had reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the
+irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and
+poured out his feelings.
+
+Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.
+He persisted in having loved none but her.  She had never been
+supplanted.  He never even believed himself to see her equal.  Thus
+much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge:  that he had been constant
+unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her,
+and believed it to be done.  He had imagined himself indifferent, when
+he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because
+he had been a sufferer from them.  Her character was now fixed on his
+mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of
+fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only
+at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he
+begun to understand himself.  At Lyme, he had received lessons of more
+than one sort.  The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused
+him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her
+superiority.
+
+In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the
+attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to
+be impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa;
+though till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed
+it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which
+Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold
+it possessed over his own.  There, he had learnt to distinguish between
+the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the
+darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.  There
+he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had
+lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of
+resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in
+his way.
+
+From that period his penance had become severe.  He had no sooner been
+free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of
+Louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he
+had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
+
+"I found," said he, "that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!
+That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual
+attachment.  I was startled and shocked.  To a degree, I could
+contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others
+might have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was
+no longer at my own disposal.  I was hers in honour if she wished it.
+I had been unguarded.  I had not thought seriously on this subject
+before.  I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its
+danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be
+trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the
+risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill
+effects.  I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences."
+
+He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that
+precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at
+all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him
+were what the Harvilles supposed.  It determined him to leave Lyme, and
+await her complete recovery elsewhere.  He would gladly weaken, by any
+fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might
+exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while
+to return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.
+
+"I was six weeks with Edward," said he, "and saw him happy.  I could
+have no other pleasure.  I deserved none.  He enquired after you very
+particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little
+suspecting that to my eye you could never alter."
+
+Anne smiled, and let it pass.  It was too pleasing a blunder for a
+reproach.  It is something for a woman to be assured, in her
+eight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier
+youth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to
+Anne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the
+result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.
+
+He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own
+pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released
+from Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her
+engagement with Benwick.
+
+"Here," said he, "ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least
+put myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do
+something.  But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for
+evil, had been dreadful.  Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will
+be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was.  Was it unpardonable to think it
+worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope?  You
+were single.  It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the
+past, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine.  I could
+never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to
+a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better
+pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this
+for me?'"
+
+Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the
+concert still more.  That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite
+moments.  The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to
+speak to him:  the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her
+away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or
+increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.
+
+"To see you," cried he, "in the midst of those who could not be my
+well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling,
+and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match!
+To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to
+influence you!  Even if your own feelings were reluctant or
+indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his!  Was it
+not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared?  How could I look
+on without agony?  Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind
+you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her
+influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had
+once done--was it not all against me?"
+
+"You should have distinguished," replied Anne.  "You should not have
+suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different.
+If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to
+persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.  When I yielded,
+I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here.  In
+marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,
+and all duty violated."
+
+"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied, "but I could not.
+I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of
+your character.  I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed,
+buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under
+year after year.  I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who
+had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.
+I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of
+misery.  I had no reason to believe her of less authority now.  The
+force of habit was to be added."
+
+"I should have thought," said Anne, "that my manner to yourself might
+have spared you much or all of this."
+
+"No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to
+another man would give.  I left you in this belief; and yet, I was
+determined to see you again.  My spirits rallied with the morning, and
+I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here."
+
+At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house
+could have conceived.  All the surprise and suspense, and every other
+painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she
+re-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some
+momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.  An interval
+of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of
+everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her
+room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her
+enjoyment.
+
+The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company
+assembled.  It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who
+had never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace
+business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne
+had never found an evening shorter.  Glowing and lovely in sensibility
+and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or
+cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature
+around her.  Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.
+The Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them.  Lady Dalrymple
+and Miss Carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her.  She
+cared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public
+manners of her father and sister.  With the Musgroves, there was the
+happy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted
+intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at
+conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral
+and Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,
+which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain
+Wentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and
+always the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there.
+
+It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in
+admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said--
+
+"I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of
+the right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe
+that I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly
+right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you
+do now.  To me, she was in the place of a parent.  Do not mistake me,
+however.  I am not saying that she did not err in her advice.  It was,
+perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the
+event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any
+circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.  But I mean,
+that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done
+otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement
+than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my
+conscience.  I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in
+human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a
+strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion."
+
+He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,
+replied, as if in cool deliberation--
+
+"Not yet.  But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time.  I trust
+to being in charity with her soon.  But I too have been thinking over
+the past, and a  question has suggested itself, whether there may not
+have been one person more my enemy even than that lady?  My own self.
+Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few
+thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written
+to you, would you have answered my letter?  Would you, in short, have
+renewed the engagement then?"
+
+"Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.
+
+"Good God!" he cried, "you would!  It is not that I did not think of
+it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I
+was proud, too proud to ask again.  I did not understand you.  I shut
+my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.  This is a
+recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than
+myself.  Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.
+It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me.  I have been used to the
+gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I
+enjoyed.  I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.
+Like other great men under reverses," he added, with a smile. "I must
+endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune.  I must learn to brook being
+happier than I deserve."
+
+
+
+Chapter 24
+
+
+Who can be in doubt of what followed?  When any two young people take
+it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to
+carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever
+so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.
+This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be
+truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and
+an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness
+of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing
+down every opposition?  They might in fact, have borne down a great
+deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them
+beyond the want of graciousness and warmth.  Sir Walter made no
+objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and
+unconcerned.  Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds,
+and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him,
+was no longer nobody.  He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the
+daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle
+or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which
+Providence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present
+but a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers
+hereafter.
+
+Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity
+flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from
+thinking it a bad match for her.  On the contrary, when he saw more of
+Captain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well,
+he was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his
+superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her
+superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name,
+enabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace,
+for the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.
+
+The only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any
+serious anxiety was Lady Russell.  Anne knew that Lady Russell must be
+suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and
+be making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do
+justice to Captain Wentworth.  This however was what Lady Russell had
+now to do.  She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with
+regard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in
+each; that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited her own
+ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a
+character of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot's
+manners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness,
+their general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in
+receiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and
+well-regulated mind.  There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do,
+than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up
+a new set of opinions and of hopes.
+
+There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment
+of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in
+others can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of
+understanding than her young friend.  But she was a very good woman,
+and if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first
+was to see Anne happy.  She loved Anne better than she loved her own
+abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found
+little hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was
+securing the happiness of her other child.
+
+Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified
+by the circumstance.  It was creditable to have a sister married, and
+she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the
+connexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own
+sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable
+that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain
+Benwick or Charles Hayter.  She had something to suffer, perhaps, when
+they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of
+seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a
+future to look forward to, of powerful consolation.  Anne had no
+Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family;
+and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet,
+she would not change situations with Anne.
+
+It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied
+with her situation, for a change is not very probable there.  She had
+soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of
+proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the
+unfounded hopes which sunk with him.
+
+The news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most
+unexpectedly.  It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his
+best hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a
+son-in-law's rights would have given.  But, though discomfited and
+disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his
+own enjoyment.  He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay's quitting it
+soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his
+protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been
+playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out
+by one artful woman, at least.
+
+Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had
+sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming
+longer for Sir Walter.  She has abilities, however, as well as
+affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or
+hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from
+being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at
+last into making her the wife of Sir William.
+
+It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and
+mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their
+deception in her.  They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort
+to for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow
+others, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of
+half enjoyment.
+
+Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to
+love Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the
+happiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of
+having no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.
+There she felt her own inferiority very keenly.  The disproportion in
+their fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but
+to have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of
+respectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the
+worth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and
+sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be
+sensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity.  She had
+but two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs
+Smith.  To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.
+Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now
+value from his heart.  While he was not obliged to say that he believed
+her to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say
+almost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had
+claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.
+
+Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and
+their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her
+two.  She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain
+Wentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's
+property in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and
+seeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the
+activity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully
+requited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render,
+to his wife.
+
+Mrs Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income,
+with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to
+be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail
+her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have
+bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity.  She
+might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be
+happy.  Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her
+friend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart.  Anne was tenderness
+itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's
+affection.  His profession was all that could ever make her friends
+wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim
+her sunshine.  She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay
+the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if
+possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its
+national importance.
+
+
+
+Finis
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/AustenNovels/Austen_PrideAndPrejudice.txt b/AustenNovels/Austen_PrideAndPrejudice.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..453bc73
--- /dev/null
+++ b/AustenNovels/Austen_PrideAndPrejudice.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,14065 @@
+Pride and Prejudice
+
+By Jane Austen
+
+
+Chapter 1
+
+      It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
+      possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
+
+      However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be
+      on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well
+      fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is
+      considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their
+      daughters.
+
+      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you
+      heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
+
+      Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
+
+      “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and
+      she told me all about it.”
+
+      Mr. Bennet made no answer.
+
+      “Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife
+      impatiently.
+
+      “_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
+
+      This was invitation enough.
+
+      “Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is
+      taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England;
+      that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the
+      place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr.
+      Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before
+      Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by
+      the end of next week.”
+
+      “What is his name?”
+
+      “Bingley.”
+
+      “Is he married or single?”
+
+      “Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune;
+      four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
+
+      “How so? how can it affect them?”
+
+      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so
+      tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of
+      them.”
+
+      “Is that his design in settling here?”
+
+      “Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely
+      that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
+      must visit him as soon as he comes.”
+
+      “I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may
+      send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for
+      as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you
+      the best of the party.”
+
+      “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of
+      beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.
+      When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over
+      thinking of her own beauty.”
+
+      “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
+
+      “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he
+      comes into the neighbourhood.”
+
+      “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
+
+      “But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it
+      would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are
+      determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you
+      know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be
+      impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not.”
+
+      “You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be
+      very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to
+      assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he
+      chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my
+      little Lizzy.”
+
+      “I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better
+      than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as
+      Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always
+      giving _her_ the preference.”
+
+      “They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;
+      “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has
+      something more of quickness than her sisters.”
+
+      “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?
+      You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor
+      nerves.”
+
+      “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves.
+      They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with
+      consideration these twenty years at least.”
+
+      “Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
+
+      “But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men
+      of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
+
+      “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you
+      will not visit them.”
+
+      “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will
+      visit them all.”
+
+      Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
+      reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty
+      years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his
+      character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a
+      woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain
+      temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.
+      The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its
+      solace was visiting and news.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 2
+
+      Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.
+      Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last
+      always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the
+      evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It
+      was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second
+      daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her
+      with,
+
+      “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
+
+      “We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her
+      mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
+
+      “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him
+      at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.”
+
+      “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two
+      nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I
+      have no opinion of her.”
+
+      “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that
+      you do not depend on her serving you.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain
+      herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
+
+      “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little
+      compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
+
+      “Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she
+      times them ill.”
+
+      “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.
+      “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
+
+      “To-morrow fortnight.”
+
+      “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come
+      back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to
+      introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”
+
+      “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and
+      introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.”
+
+      “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
+      with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”
+
+      “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is
+      certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by
+      the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else
+      will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their
+      chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,
+      if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”
+
+      The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
+      “Nonsense, nonsense!”
+
+      “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.
+      “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that
+      is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you
+      _there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep
+      reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”
+
+      Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.
+
+      “While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return
+      to Mr. Bingley.”
+
+      “I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
+
+      “I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so
+      before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not
+      have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually
+      paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
+
+      The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of
+      Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first
+      tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she
+      had expected all the while.
+
+      “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
+      persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
+      neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is
+      such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and
+      never said a word about it till now.”
+
+      “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.
+      Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the
+      raptures of his wife.
+
+      “What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the
+      door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends
+      for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of
+      life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new
+      acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do
+      anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare
+      say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”
+
+      “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
+      youngest, I’m the tallest.”
+
+      The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he
+      would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should
+      ask him to dinner.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 3
+
+      Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her
+      five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw
+      from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.
+      They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions,
+      ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the
+      skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the
+      second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her
+      report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with
+      him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
+      agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next
+      assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To
+      be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;
+      and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
+
+      “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
+      Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the
+      others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
+
+      In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat
+      about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained
+      hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose
+      beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies
+      were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of
+      ascertaining from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and
+      rode a black horse.
+
+      An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and
+      already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do
+      credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred
+      it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,
+      and consequently unable to accept the honour of their
+      invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could
+      not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his
+      arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be
+      always flying about from one place to another, and never settled
+      at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
+      little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to
+      get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that
+      Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with
+      him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of
+      ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
+      that instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from
+      London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered
+      the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether; Mr.
+      Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another
+      young man.
+
+      Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
+      countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine
+      women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr.
+      Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon
+      drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome
+      features, noble mien, and the report which was in general
+      circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having
+      ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine
+      figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than
+      Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about
+      half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned
+      the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to
+      be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his
+      large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
+      forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be
+      compared with his friend.
+
+      Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the
+      principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,
+      danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and
+      talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable
+      qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him
+      and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and
+      once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other
+      lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the
+      room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His
+      character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
+      in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there
+      again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet,
+      whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into
+      particular resentment by his having slighted one of her
+      daughters.
+
+      Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen,
+      to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr.
+      Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a
+      conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance
+      for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
+
+      “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
+      standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
+      better dance.”
+
+      “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
+      particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as
+      this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and
+      there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a
+      punishment to me to stand up with.”
+
+      “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley,
+      “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant
+      girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of
+      them you see uncommonly pretty.”
+
+      “_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said
+      Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
+
+      “Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there
+      is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very
+      pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner
+      to introduce you.”
+
+      “Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at
+      Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
+      said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I
+      am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies
+      who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your
+      partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with
+      me.”
+
+      Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and
+      Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She
+      told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for
+      she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in
+      anything ridiculous.
+
+      The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.
+      Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the
+      Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she
+      had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified
+      by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.
+      Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned
+      to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
+      neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough
+      to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet
+      learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
+      spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which
+      they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still
+      up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present
+      occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an
+      evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had
+      rather hoped that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be
+      disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story
+      to hear.
+
+      “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a
+      most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had
+      been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it.
+      Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her
+      quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of _that_,
+      my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only
+      creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all,
+      he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her;
+      but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,
+      you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
+      down the dance. So he enquired who she was, and got introduced,
+      and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with
+      Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth
+      with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the
+      _Boulanger_—”
+
+      “If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband
+      impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s
+      sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his
+      ankle in the first dance!”
+
+      “Oh! my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
+      handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life
+      saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace
+      upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”
+
+      Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
+      description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another
+      branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of
+      spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
+
+      “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much
+      by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid
+      man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that
+      there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,
+      fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance
+      with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one
+      of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 4
+
+      When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been
+      cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her
+      sister how very much she admired him.
+
+      “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
+      good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so
+      much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
+
+      “He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man
+      ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is
+      thereby complete.”
+
+      “I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second
+      time. I did not expect such a compliment.”
+
+      “Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference
+      between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_
+      never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He
+      could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as
+      every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for
+      that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave
+      to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”
+
+      “Dear Lizzy!”
+
+      “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in
+      general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good
+      and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a
+      human being in my life.”
+
+      “I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always
+      speak what I think.”
+
+      “I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With
+      _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and
+      nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough;—one
+      meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or
+      design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it
+      still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.
+      And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners
+      are not equal to his.”
+
+      “Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when
+      you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
+      and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a
+      very charming neighbour in her.”
+
+      Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their
+      behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
+      general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy
+      of temper than her sister, and with a judgment too unassailed by
+      any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve
+      them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good
+      humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of
+      being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited.
+      They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
+      private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
+      pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and
+      of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every
+      respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of
+      others. They were of a respectable family in the north of
+      England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories
+      than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired
+      by trade.
+
+      Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
+      thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
+      estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it
+      likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was
+      now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was
+      doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his
+      temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at
+      Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
+
+      His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own;
+      but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley
+      was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs.
+      Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less
+      disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.
+      Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by
+      an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did
+      look at it, and into it for half an hour, was pleased with the
+      situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
+      said in its praise, and took it immediately.
+
+      Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in
+      spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to
+      Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,
+      though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,
+      and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the
+      strength of Darcy’s regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and
+      of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
+      the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was
+      clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
+      fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting.
+      In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
+      sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
+      giving offence.
+
+      The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
+      sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with
+      pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been
+      most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no
+      stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as
+      to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.
+      Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom
+      there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
+      felt the smallest interest, and from none received either
+      attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
+      but she smiled too much.
+
+      Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they
+      admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
+      and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
+      was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
+      authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 5
+
+      Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the
+      Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
+      formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable
+      fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to
+      the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been
+      felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business
+      and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting
+      them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile
+      from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
+      could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled
+      by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the
+      world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
+      supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.
+      By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation
+      at St. James’s had made him courteous.
+
+      Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
+      valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The
+      eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about
+      twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
+
+      That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk
+      over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the
+      assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to
+      communicate.
+
+      “_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with
+      civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first
+      choice.”
+
+      “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
+
+      “Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.
+      To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather
+      believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know
+      what—something about Mr. Robinson.”
+
+      “Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson;
+      did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he
+      liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there
+      were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he
+      thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last
+      question—‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt, there
+      cannot be two opinions on that point.’”
+
+      “Upon my word! Well, that was very decided indeed—that does seem
+      as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
+
+      “_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,”
+      said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as
+      his friend, is he?—Poor Eliza!—to be only just _tolerable_.”
+
+      “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his
+      ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would
+      be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last
+      night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once
+      opening his lips.”
+
+      “Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said
+      Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
+
+      “Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and
+      he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very
+      angry at being spoke to.”
+
+      “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much
+      unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is
+      remarkably agreeable.”
+
+      “I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
+      agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how
+      it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare
+      say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage,
+      and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
+
+      “I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas,
+      “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”
+
+      “Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with
+      _him_, if I were you.”
+
+      “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with
+      him.”
+
+      “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as
+      pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot
+      wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune,
+      everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I
+      may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.”
+
+      “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily
+      forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”
+
+      “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of
+      her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all
+      that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common
+      indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that
+      there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of
+      self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or
+      imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the
+      words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without
+      being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves,
+      vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
+
+      “If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came
+      with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would
+      keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.”
+
+      “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said
+      Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away
+      your bottle directly.”
+
+      The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare
+      that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 6
+
+      The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The
+      visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing
+      manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and
+      though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger
+      sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted
+      with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this
+      attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth
+      still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,
+      hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though
+      their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
+      all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration.
+      It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire
+      her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to
+      the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the
+      first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she
+      considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered
+      by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength
+      of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of
+      manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the
+      impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
+
+      “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to
+      impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a
+      disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her
+      affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose
+      the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor
+      consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so
+      much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it
+      is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a
+      slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us
+      who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.
+      In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ affection
+      than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may
+      never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
+
+      “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If
+      _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton
+      indeed not to discover it too.”
+
+      “Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you
+      do.”
+
+      “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to
+      conceal it, he must find it out.”
+
+      “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley
+      and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours
+      together; and as they always see each other in large mixed
+      parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in
+      conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every
+      half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is
+      secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as
+      much as she chooses.”
+
+      “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is
+      in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were
+      determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I
+      should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not
+      acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the
+      degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known
+      him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;
+      she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined
+      in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make
+      her understand his character.”
+
+      “Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she
+      might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but
+      you must remember that four evenings have been also spent
+      together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”
+
+      “Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that
+      they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to
+      any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has
+      been unfolded.”
+
+      “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart;
+      and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had
+      as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his
+      character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a
+      matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so
+      well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does
+      not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to
+      grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
+      vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the
+      defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”
+
+      “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it
+      is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
+
+      Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister,
+      Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming
+      an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy
+      had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at
+      her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
+      looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it
+      clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good
+      feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
+      uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark
+      eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.
+      Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure
+      of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her
+      figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting
+      that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was
+      caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly
+      unaware;—to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable
+      nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance
+      with.
+
+      He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards
+      conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with
+      others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William
+      Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
+
+      “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening
+      to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”
+
+      “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
+
+      “But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I
+      see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do
+      not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid
+      of him.”
+
+      On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming
+      to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend
+      to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking
+      Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,
+
+      “Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
+      well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a
+      ball at Meryton?”
+
+      “With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady
+      energetic.”
+
+      “You are severe on us.”
+
+      “It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am
+      going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
+
+      “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always
+      wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my
+      vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable;
+      but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who
+      must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On
+      Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it
+      must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There
+      is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar
+      with—‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’—and I shall keep
+      mine to swell my song.”
+
+      Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a
+      song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of
+      several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at
+      the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of
+      being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge
+      and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
+
+      Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given
+      her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and
+      conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of
+      excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected,
+      had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing
+      half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad
+      to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the
+      request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases,
+      and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end
+      of the room.
+
+      Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
+      passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and
+      was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir
+      William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.
+
+      “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!
+      There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of
+      the first refinements of polished societies.”
+
+      “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
+      amongst the less polished societies of the world.—Every savage
+      can dance.”
+
+      Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
+      continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I
+      doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr.
+      Darcy.”
+
+      “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
+
+      “Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the
+      sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”
+
+      “Never, sir.”
+
+      “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
+
+      “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid
+      it.”
+
+      “You have a house in town, I conclude?”
+
+      Mr. Darcy bowed.
+
+      “I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself—for I am
+      fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that
+      the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
+
+      He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not
+      disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving
+      towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very
+      gallant thing, and called out to her,
+
+      “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must
+      allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable
+      partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much
+      beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given
+      it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not
+      unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said
+      with some discomposure to Sir William,
+
+      “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I
+      entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg
+      for a partner.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the
+      honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor
+      did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at
+      persuasion.
+
+      “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to
+      deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman
+      dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am
+      sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”
+
+      “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
+
+      “He is, indeed—but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss
+      Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object
+      to such a partner?”
+
+      Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
+      injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with
+      some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,
+
+      “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
+
+      “I should imagine not.”
+
+      “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
+      evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of
+      your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet
+      the noise; the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all
+      these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
+
+      “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
+      agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great
+      pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman
+      can bestow.”
+
+      Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired
+      he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such
+      reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,
+
+      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
+
+      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all
+      astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray
+      when am I to wish you joy?”
+
+      “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A
+      lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to
+      love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be
+      wishing me joy.”
+
+      “Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
+      absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law,
+      indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with
+      you.”
+
+      He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
+      entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced
+      her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 7
+
+      Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of
+      two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was
+      entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and
+      their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life,
+      could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been
+      an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
+
+      She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk
+      to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother
+      settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
+
+      The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
+      convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually
+      tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to
+      their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two
+      youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly
+      frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than
+      their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to
+      Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish
+      conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the
+      country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
+      from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both
+      with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia
+      regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter,
+      and Meryton was the headquarters.
+
+      Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most
+      interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their
+      knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings
+      were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the
+      officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this
+      opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They
+      could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large
+      fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was
+      worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an
+      ensign.
+
+      After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,
+      Mr. Bennet coolly observed,
+
+      “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must
+      be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it
+      some time, but I am now convinced.”
+
+      Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with
+      perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of
+      Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the
+      day, as he was going the next morning to London.
+
+      “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be
+      so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think
+      slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,
+      however.”
+
+      “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of
+      it.”
+
+      “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
+
+      “This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not
+      agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every
+      particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two
+      youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
+
+      “My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the
+      sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I
+      dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do.
+      I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,
+      indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel,
+      with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I
+      shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked
+      very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his
+      regimentals.”
+
+      “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and
+      Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did
+      when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in
+      Clarke’s library.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman
+      with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the
+      servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with
+      pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter
+      read,
+
+      “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say?
+      Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
+
+      “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
+
+      “MY DEAR FRIEND,—
+      “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa
+      and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest
+      of our lives, for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women
+      can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the
+      receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with
+      the officers.—Yours ever,
+
+      “CAROLINE BINGLEY”
+
+      “With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell
+      us of _that_.”
+
+      “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”
+
+      “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
+
+      “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems
+      likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”
+
+      “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure
+      that they would not offer to send her home.”
+
+      “Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to
+      Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
+
+      “I had much rather go in the coach.”
+
+      “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.
+      They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?”
+
+      “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”
+
+      “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s
+      purpose will be answered.”
+
+      She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the
+      horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on
+      horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many
+      cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane
+      had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were
+      uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued
+      the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not
+      come back.
+
+      “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more
+      than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.
+      Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the
+      felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a
+      servant from Netherfield brought the following note for
+      Elizabeth:
+
+      “MY DEAREST LIZZY,—
+      “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to
+      be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends
+      will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also
+      on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should
+      hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and
+      headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, &c.”
+
+      “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the
+      note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of
+      illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it
+      was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
+
+      “Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
+      trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she
+      stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I
+      could have the carriage.”
+
+      Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her,
+      though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no
+      horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her
+      resolution.
+
+      “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such
+      a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when
+      you get there.”
+
+      “I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”
+
+      “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
+      horses?”
+
+      “No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is
+      nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back
+      by dinner.”
+
+      “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but
+      every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my
+      opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is
+      required.”
+
+      “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and
+      Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young
+      ladies set off together.
+
+      “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we
+      may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”
+
+      In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings
+      of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk
+      alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over
+      stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and
+      finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary
+      ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of
+      exercise.
+
+      She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
+      assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of
+      surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the
+      day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible
+      to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that
+      they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very
+      politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was
+      something better than politeness; there was good humour and
+      kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at
+      all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy
+      which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the
+      occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
+      thinking only of his breakfast.
+
+      Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered.
+      Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and
+      not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken
+      to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the
+      fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note
+      how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her
+      entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and
+      when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little
+      beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness
+      she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
+
+      When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and
+      Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much
+      affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary
+      came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be
+      supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must
+      endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed,
+      and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily,
+      for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.
+      Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other
+      ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact
+      nothing to do elsewhere.
+
+      When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and
+      very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,
+      and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane
+      testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was
+      obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to
+      remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully
+      consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint
+      the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 8
+
+      At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past
+      six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries
+      which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of
+      distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she
+      could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means
+      better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four
+      times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a
+      bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves;
+      and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference
+      towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth
+      to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
+
+      Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she
+      could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was
+      evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they
+      prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed
+      she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from
+      any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister
+      scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he
+      was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
+      cards; who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
+      had nothing to say to her.
+
+      When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss
+      Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her
+      manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride
+      and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty.
+      Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,
+
+      “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an
+      excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this
+      morning. She really looked almost wild.”
+
+      “She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.
+      Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering
+      about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so
+      untidy, so blowsy!”
+
+      “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches
+      deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been
+      let down to hide it not doing its office.”
+
+      “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this
+      was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked
+      remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her
+      dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
+
+      “_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley;
+      “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your
+      sister_ make such an exhibition.”
+
+      “Certainly not.”
+
+      “To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever
+      it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what
+      could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort
+      of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to
+      decorum.”
+
+      “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”
+      said Bingley.
+
+      “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half
+      whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration
+      of her fine eyes.”
+
+      “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.”
+      A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.
+
+      “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a
+      very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well
+      settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low
+      connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
+
+      “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
+      Meryton.”
+
+      “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
+
+      “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed
+      heartily.
+
+      “If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried
+      Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”
+
+      “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men
+      of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.
+
+      To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it
+      their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at
+      the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.
+
+      With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room
+      on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to
+      coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit
+      her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of
+      seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than
+      pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the
+      drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was
+      immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be
+      playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse,
+      said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
+      below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
+
+      “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather
+      singular.”
+
+      “Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a
+      great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
+
+      “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried
+      Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
+      many things.”
+
+      “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said
+      Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her
+      quite well.”
+
+      Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a
+      table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to
+      fetch her others; all that his library afforded.
+
+      “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
+      credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I
+      have more than I ever looked into.”
+
+      Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with
+      those in the room.
+
+      “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have
+      left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library
+      you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
+
+      “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
+      generations.”
+
+      “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always
+      buying books.”
+
+      “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days
+      as these.”
+
+      “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the
+      beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_
+      house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”
+
+      “I wish it may.”
+
+      “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
+      neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is
+      not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
+
+      “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will
+      sell it.”
+
+      “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
+
+      “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
+      Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”
+
+      Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her
+      very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
+      aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself
+      between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.
+
+      “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley;
+      “will she be as tall as I am?”
+
+      “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s
+      height, or rather taller.”
+
+      “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who
+      delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners!—and so
+      extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the
+      pianoforte is exquisite.”
+
+      “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have
+      patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”
+
+      “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you
+      mean?”
+
+      “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,
+      and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this,
+      and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first
+      time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”
+
+      “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,
+      “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who
+      deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a
+      screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your
+      estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more
+      than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that
+      are really accomplished.”
+
+      “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
+
+      “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in
+      your idea of an accomplished woman.”
+
+      “Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
+
+      “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be
+      really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is
+      usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of
+      music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to
+      deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a
+      certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of
+      her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but
+      half deserved.”
+
+      “All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she
+      must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of
+      her mind by extensive reading.”
+
+      “I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished
+      women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
+
+      “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility
+      of all this?”
+
+      “_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and
+      taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”
+
+      Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice
+      of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew
+      many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called
+      them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to
+      what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an
+      end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.
+
+      “Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed
+      on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend
+      themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with
+      many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a
+      paltry device, a very mean art.”
+
+      “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly
+      addressed, “there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies
+      sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears
+      affinity to cunning is despicable.”
+
+      Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
+      continue the subject.
+
+      Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was
+      worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s
+      being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no
+      country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to
+      town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not
+      hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their
+      brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be
+      sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly
+      better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared
+      that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
+      however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better
+      relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions
+      that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her
+      sister.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 9
+
+      Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and
+      in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable
+      answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr.
+      Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two
+      elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this
+      amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to
+      Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own
+      judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched,
+      and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet,
+      accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon
+      after the family breakfast.
+
+      Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have
+      been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her
+      illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering
+      immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove
+      her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her
+      daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the
+      apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all
+      advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
+      Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three
+      daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley
+      met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet
+      worse than she expected.
+
+      “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too
+      ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her.
+      We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
+
+      “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister,
+      I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”
+
+      “You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold
+      civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention
+      while she remains with us.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
+
+      “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do
+      not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed,
+      and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the
+      world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without
+      exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell
+      my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room
+      here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk.
+      I do not know a place in the country that is equal to
+      Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I
+      hope, though you have but a short lease.”
+
+      “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if
+      I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in
+      five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite
+      fixed here.”
+
+      “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said
+      Elizabeth.
+
+      “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards
+      her.
+
+      “Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”
+
+      “I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily
+      seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”
+
+      “That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate
+      character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
+
+      “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not
+      run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
+
+      “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you
+      were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”
+
+      “Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have
+      at least that advantage.”
+
+      “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few
+      subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in
+      a very confined and unvarying society.”
+
+      “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new
+      to be observed in them for ever.”
+
+      “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of
+      mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite
+      as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.”
+
+      Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a
+      moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had
+      gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.
+
+      “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the
+      country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The
+      country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?”
+
+      “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave
+      it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have
+      each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”
+
+      “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that
+      gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was
+      nothing at all.”
+
+      “Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for
+      her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that
+      there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the
+      country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”
+
+      “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not
+      meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there
+      are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with
+      four-and-twenty families.”
+
+      Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep
+      his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her
+      eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth,
+      for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s
+      thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn
+      since _her_ coming away.
+
+      “Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man
+      Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? so much the man of
+      fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to
+      everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons
+      who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths,
+      quite mistake the matter.”
+
+      “Did Charlotte dine with you?”
+
+      “No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the
+      mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants
+      that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up
+      differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the
+      Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity
+      they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_
+      plain—but then she is our particular friend.”
+
+      “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.
+
+      “Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas
+      herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not
+      like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not
+      often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do
+      not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was
+      a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her,
+      that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before
+      we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her
+      too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty
+      they were.”
+
+      “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There
+      has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder
+      who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away
+      love!”
+
+      “I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said
+      Darcy.
+
+      “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what
+      is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of
+      inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it
+      entirely away.”
+
+      Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made
+      Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself
+      again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say;
+      and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks
+      to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for
+      troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil
+      in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also,
+      and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed
+      without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
+      soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the
+      youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had
+      been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the
+      result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with
+      having promised on his first coming into the country to give a
+      ball at Netherfield.
+
+      Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
+      complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her
+      mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early
+      age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural
+      self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom
+      her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended
+      her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore,
+      to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly
+      reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
+      shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to
+      this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear.
+
+      “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and
+      when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the
+      very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while
+      she is ill.”
+
+      Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much
+      better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely
+      Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given
+      _your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one
+      also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he
+      does not.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth
+      returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’
+      behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the
+      latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in
+      their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms
+      on _fine eyes_.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 10
+
+      The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and
+      Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the
+      invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the
+      evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The
+      loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and
+      Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his
+      letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to
+      his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.
+      Hurst was observing their game.
+
+      Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
+      attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The
+      perpetual commendations of the lady either on his handwriting,
+      or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter,
+      with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received,
+      formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her
+      opinion of each.
+
+      “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
+
+      He made no answer.
+
+      “You write uncommonly fast.”
+
+      “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
+
+      “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course
+      of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think
+      them!”
+
+      “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to
+      yours.”
+
+      “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
+
+      “I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
+
+      “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I
+      mend pens remarkably well.”
+
+      “Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
+
+      “How can you contrive to write so even?”
+
+      He was silent.
+
+      “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on
+      the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with
+      her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it
+      infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
+
+      “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
+      again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”
+
+      “Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do
+      you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
+
+      “They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not
+      for me to determine.”
+
+      “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter
+      with ease, cannot write ill.”
+
+      “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
+      brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too
+      much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
+
+      “My style of writing is very different from yours.”
+
+      “Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless
+      way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the
+      rest.”
+
+      “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by
+      which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my
+      correspondents.”
+
+      “Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm
+      reproof.”
+
+      “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
+      humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes
+      an indirect boast.”
+
+      “And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of
+      modesty?”
+
+      “The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
+      writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity
+      of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not
+      estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of
+      doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the
+      possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of
+      the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if
+      you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in
+      five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of
+      compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in
+      a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,
+      and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?”
+
+      “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all
+      the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon
+      my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I
+      believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume
+      the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before
+      the ladies.”
+
+      “I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
+      you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite
+      as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you
+      were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had
+      better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would
+      probably not go—and, at another word, might stay a month.”
+
+      “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr.
+      Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown
+      him off now much more than he did himself.”
+
+      “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting
+      what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my
+      temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that
+      gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think
+      the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat
+      denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”
+
+      “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original
+      intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
+
+      “Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must
+      speak for himself.”
+
+      “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call
+      mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,
+      however, to stand according to your representation, you must
+      remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire
+      his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely
+      desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of
+      its propriety.”
+
+      “To yield readily—easily—to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no
+      merit with you.”
+
+      “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the
+      understanding of either.”
+
+      “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence
+      of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would
+      often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for
+      arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking
+      of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as
+      well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we
+      discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general
+      and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them
+      is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great
+      moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with
+      the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
+
+      “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
+      arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which
+      is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of
+      intimacy subsisting between the parties?”
+
+      “By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars,
+      not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will
+      have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be
+      aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall
+      fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so
+      much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than
+      Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his
+      own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has
+      nothing to do.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that
+      he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss
+      Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an
+      expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.
+
+      “I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an
+      argument, and want to silence this.”
+
+      “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and
+      Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall
+      be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
+
+      “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and
+      Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
+
+      When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and
+      Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
+      with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after a polite request
+      that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and
+      more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
+
+      Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus
+      employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over
+      some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.
+      Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose
+      that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and
+      yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still
+      more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last, that she
+      drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and
+      reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other
+      person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him
+      too little to care for his approbation.
+
+      After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm
+      by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing
+      near Elizabeth, said to her—
+
+      “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such
+      an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
+
+      She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with
+      some surprise at her silence.
+
+      “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately
+      determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say
+      ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste;
+      but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and
+      cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have,
+      therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to
+      dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
+
+      “Indeed I do not dare.”
+
+      Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at
+      his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness
+      in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody;
+      and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by
+      her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of
+      her connections, he should be in some danger.
+
+      Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her
+      great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received
+      some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
+
+      She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by
+      talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in
+      such an alliance.
+
+      “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the
+      shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few
+      hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage
+      of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the
+      younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so
+      delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something,
+      bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady
+      possesses.”
+
+      “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”
+
+      “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be
+      placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your
+      great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,
+      only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you
+      must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to
+      those beautiful eyes?”
+
+      “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but
+      their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine,
+      might be copied.”
+
+      At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
+      Elizabeth herself.
+
+      “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in
+      some confusion, lest they had been overheard.
+
+      “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away
+      without telling us that you were coming out.”
+
+      Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth
+      to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt
+      their rudeness, and immediately said,—
+
+      “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go
+      into the avenue.”
+
+      But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with
+      them, laughingly answered,
+
+      “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and
+      appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by
+      admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”
+
+      She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the
+      hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so
+      much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of
+      hours that evening.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 11
+
+      When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
+      sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into
+      the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with
+      many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them
+      so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the
+      gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were
+      considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy,
+      relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance
+      with spirit.
+
+      But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first
+      object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy,
+      and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many
+      steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite
+      congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he
+      was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for
+      Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first
+      half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer
+      from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the
+      other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the
+      door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
+      else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with
+      great delight.
+
+      When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
+      card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence
+      that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found
+      even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one
+      intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the
+      subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to
+      do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.
+      Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst,
+      principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings,
+      joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss
+      Bennet.
+
+      Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching
+      Mr. Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own;
+      and she was perpetually either making some enquiry, or looking at
+      his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he
+      merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite
+      exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which
+      she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she
+      gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an
+      evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment
+      like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
+      book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I
+      have not an excellent library.”
+
+      No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her
+      book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some
+      amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss
+      Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:
+
+      “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a
+      dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on
+      it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much
+      mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be
+      rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
+
+      “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
+      chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a
+      settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup
+      enough, I shall send round my cards.”
+
+      “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they
+      were carried on in a different manner; but there is something
+      insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It
+      would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of
+      dancing were made the order of the day.”
+
+      “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would
+      not be near so much like a ball.”
+
+      Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and
+      walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked
+      well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly
+      studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one
+      effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:
+
+      “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and
+      take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing
+      after sitting so long in one attitude.”
+
+      Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss
+      Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr.
+      Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention
+      in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously
+      closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but
+      he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives
+      for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with
+      either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What
+      could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
+      meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
+      him?
+
+      “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be
+      severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to
+      ask nothing about it.”
+
+      Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy
+      in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation
+      of his two motives.
+
+      “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,
+      as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this
+      method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s
+      confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you
+      are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage
+      in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and
+      if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the
+      fire.”
+
+      “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
+      abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
+
+      “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said
+      Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease
+      him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to
+      be done.”
+
+      “But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy
+      has not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and
+      presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to
+      laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by
+      attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug
+      himself.”
+
+      “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
+      uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it
+      would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I
+      dearly love a laugh.”
+
+      “Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
+      The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their
+      actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object
+      in life is a joke.”
+
+      “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope
+      I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and
+      good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_
+      divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,
+      I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”
+
+      “Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the
+      study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a
+      strong understanding to ridicule.”
+
+      “Such as vanity and pride.”
+
+      “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a
+      real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good
+      regulation.”
+
+      Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
+
+      “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss
+      Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”
+
+      “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He
+      owns it himself without disguise.”
+
+      “No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults
+      enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I
+      dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little
+      yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I
+      cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought,
+      nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed
+      about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be
+      called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”
+
+      “_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable
+      resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your
+      fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”
+
+      “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
+      particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best
+      education can overcome.”
+
+      “And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”
+
+      “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to
+      misunderstand them.”
+
+      “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
+      conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not
+      mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”
+
+      Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
+      opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not
+      sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too
+      much attention.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 12
+
+      In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth
+      wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage
+      might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet,
+      who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till
+      the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week,
+      could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her
+      answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to
+      Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
+      Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the
+      carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that
+      if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she
+      could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however,
+      Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it
+      would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered
+      as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow
+      Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled
+      that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning
+      should be mentioned, and the request made.
+
+      The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough
+      was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day
+      to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred.
+      Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for
+      her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her
+      affection for the other.
+
+      The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to
+      go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it
+      would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but
+      Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.
+
+      To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at
+      Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and
+      Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to
+      himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
+      sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could
+      elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible
+      that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the
+      last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.
+      Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through
+      the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by
+      themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to
+      his book, and would not even look at her.
+
+      On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to
+      almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth
+      increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for
+      Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the
+      pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn
+      or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook
+      hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in
+      the liveliest of spirits.
+
+      They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs.
+      Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to
+      give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold
+      again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions
+      of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their
+      importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when
+      they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and
+      almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
+
+      They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and
+      human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new
+      observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and
+      Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been
+      done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding
+      Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their
+      uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been
+      hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 13
+
+      “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
+      breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner
+      to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family
+      party.”
+
+      “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am
+      sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope
+      _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often
+      sees such at home.”
+
+      “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is
+      Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad
+      to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a
+      bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I
+      must speak to Hill this moment.”
+
+      “It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom
+      I never saw in the whole course of my life.”
+
+      This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of
+      being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at
+      once.
+
+      After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus
+      explained:
+
+      “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight
+      ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and
+      requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,
+      who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon
+      as he pleases.”
+
+      “Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that
+      mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is
+      the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be
+      entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had
+      been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other
+      about it.”
+
+      Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an
+      entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a
+      subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and
+      she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an
+      estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man
+      whom nobody cared anything about.
+
+      “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and
+      nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting
+      Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps
+      be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
+
+      “No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very
+      impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.
+      I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling
+      with you, as his father did before him?”
+
+      “Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on
+      that head, as you will hear.”
+
+      “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15_th October_.
+
+      “Dear Sir,—
+      “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late
+      honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have
+      had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal
+      the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts,
+      fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to
+      be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him
+      to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now
+      made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter,
+      I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage
+      of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir
+      Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to
+      the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest
+      endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
+      ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies
+      which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,
+      moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing
+      of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on
+      these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are
+      highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in
+      the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your
+      side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I
+      cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring
+      your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as
+      well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
+      amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
+      receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of
+      waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four
+      o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the
+      Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any
+      inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my
+      occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other
+      clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear
+      sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your
+      well-wisher and friend,
+
+      “WILLIAM COLLINS”
+
+      “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making
+      gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He
+      seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my
+      word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance,
+      especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him
+      come to us again.”
+
+      “There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however,
+      and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the
+      person to discourage him.”
+
+      “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can
+      mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is
+      certainly to his credit.”
+
+      Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for
+      Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying,
+      and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.
+
+      “He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
+      out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can
+      he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot
+      suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man,
+      sir?”
+
+      “No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him
+      quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and
+      self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am
+      impatient to see him.”
+
+      “In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
+      defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly
+      new, yet I think it is well expressed.”
+
+      To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in
+      any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their
+      cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks
+      since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any
+      other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done
+      away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with
+      a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.
+
+      Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
+      politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little;
+      but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed
+      neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent
+      himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of
+      five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners
+      were very formal. He had not been long seated before he
+      complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters;
+      said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance
+      fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not
+      doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage.
+      This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers;
+      but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most
+      readily.
+
+      “You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it
+      may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are
+      settled so oddly.”
+
+      “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
+
+      “Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls,
+      you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for
+      such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no
+      knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”
+
+      “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,
+      and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of
+      appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young
+      ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not
+      say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”
+
+      He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled
+      on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s
+      admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture,
+      were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything
+      would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying
+      supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The
+      dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know
+      to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was
+      owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him
+      with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good
+      cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
+      begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she
+      declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to
+      apologise for about a quarter of an hour.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 14
+
+      During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the
+      servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some
+      conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in
+      which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very
+      fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention
+      to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very
+      remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins
+      was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than
+      usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he
+      protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour
+      in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had
+      himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously
+      pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already
+      had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him
+      twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday
+      before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady
+      Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had
+      never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken
+      to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the
+      smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
+      neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a
+      week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to
+      advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with
+      discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble
+      parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations
+      he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some
+      herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”
+
+      “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,
+      “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that
+      great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near
+      you, sir?”
+
+      “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by
+      a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”
+
+      “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
+
+      “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
+      extensive property.”
+
+      “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off
+      than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she
+      handsome?”
+
+      “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself
+      says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far
+      superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in
+      her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth.
+      She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has
+      prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments
+      which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by
+      the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides
+      with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to
+      drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”
+
+      “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the
+      ladies at court.”
+
+      “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in
+      town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has
+      deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her
+      ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I
+      am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate
+      compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more
+      than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter
+      seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank,
+      instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These
+      are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it
+      is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
+      to pay.”
+
+      “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for
+      you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May
+      I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse
+      of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”
+
+      “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though
+      I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such
+      little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary
+      occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as
+      possible.”
+
+      Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as
+      absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest
+      enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute
+      composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at
+      Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.
+
+      By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet
+      was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when
+      tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr.
+      Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on
+      beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a
+      circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,
+      protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and
+      Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
+      deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened
+      the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity,
+      read three pages, she interrupted him with:
+
+      “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
+      Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt
+      told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow
+      to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from
+      town.”
+
+      Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but
+      Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
+
+      “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by
+      books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their
+      benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be
+      nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no
+      longer importune my young cousin.”
+
+      Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist
+      at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that
+      he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling
+      amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly
+      for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur
+      again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after
+      assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and
+      should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself
+      at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 15
+
+      Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature
+      had been but little assisted by education or society; the
+      greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of
+      an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one
+      of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms,
+      without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in
+      which his father had brought him up had given him originally
+      great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted
+      by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the
+      consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A
+      fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh
+      when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he
+      felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his
+      patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his
+      authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him
+      altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance
+      and humility.
+
+      Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended
+      to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn
+      family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the
+      daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were
+      represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of
+      atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it
+      an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and
+      excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.
+
+      His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face
+      confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of
+      what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was
+      his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an
+      alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs.
+      Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his
+      parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his
+      hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn,
+      produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
+      encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.
+      “As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to
+      say—she could not positively answer—but she did not _know_ of any
+      prepossession; her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention—she
+      felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon
+      engaged.”
+
+      Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was
+      soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.
+      Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded
+      her of course.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might
+      soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not
+      bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.
+
+      Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every
+      sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to
+      attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious
+      to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither
+      Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would
+      continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the
+      collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little
+      cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings
+      discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
+      always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as
+      he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other
+      room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his
+      civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to
+      join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact
+      much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely
+      pleased to close his large book, and go.
+
+      In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
+      cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The
+      attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by
+      _him_. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in
+      quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet
+      indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall
+      them.
+
+      But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man,
+      whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike
+      appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the
+      way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return
+      from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed.
+      All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he
+      could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find
+      out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting
+      something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
+      the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached
+      the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
+      permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned
+      with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had
+      accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it
+      should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him
+      completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he
+      had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good
+      figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed
+      up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness
+      at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole
+      party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,
+      when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley
+      were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of
+      the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
+      began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman,
+      and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on
+      his way to Longbourn on purpose to enquire after her. Mr. Darcy
+      corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to
+      fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by
+      the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the
+      countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all
+      astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
+      one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few
+      moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
+      deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was
+      impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
+
+      In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have
+      noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
+
+      Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the
+      door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made their bows, in spite
+      of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and
+      even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window
+      and loudly seconding the invitation.
+
+      Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two
+      eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and
+      she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return
+      home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she
+      should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see
+      Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they
+      were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the
+      Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
+      towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received
+      him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much
+      more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
+      acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering
+      himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the
+      young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was
+      quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her
+      contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by
+      exclamations and enquiries about the other; of whom, however, she
+      could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny
+      had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
+      lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him
+      the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and
+      had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have
+      continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now
+      except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the
+      stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of
+      them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their
+      aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give
+      him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come
+      in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested
+      that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
+      tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect
+      of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual
+      good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the
+      room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were
+      perfectly needless.
+
+      As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen
+      pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have
+      defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong,
+      she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.
+
+      Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by
+      admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested
+      that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a
+      more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the
+      utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her
+      invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her
+      before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his
+      connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
+      attention in the whole course of his life.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 16
+
+      As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with
+      their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and
+      Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most
+      steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at
+      a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of
+      hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had
+      accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house.
+
+      When this information was given, and they had all taken their
+      seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire,
+      and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the
+      apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself
+      in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison
+      that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs.
+      Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its
+      proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one
+      of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the
+      chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
+      the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a
+      comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
+
+      In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her
+      mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble
+      abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily
+      employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs.
+      Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his
+      consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving
+      to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To
+      the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had
+      nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their
+      own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
+      interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last,
+      however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked
+      into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing
+      him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree
+      of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in
+      general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of
+      them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond
+      them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were
+      superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing
+      port wine, who followed them into the room.
+
+      Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female
+      eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he
+      finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he
+      immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its
+      being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest,
+      most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill
+      of the speaker.
+
+      With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and
+      the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to
+      the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at
+      intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her
+      watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
+      When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of
+      obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
+
+      “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be
+      glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs.
+      Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for
+      his reason.
+
+      Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
+      received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first
+      there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she
+      was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond
+      of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the
+      game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to
+      have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common
+      demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk
+      to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what
+      she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the
+      history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even
+      mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
+      relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He enquired how
+      far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her
+      answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been
+      staying there.
+
+      “About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the
+      subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in
+      Derbyshire, I understand.”
+
+      “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A
+      clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a
+      person more capable of giving you certain information on that
+      head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a
+      particular manner from my infancy.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
+
+      “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,
+      after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our
+      meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
+
+      “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I
+      have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him
+      very disagreeable.”
+
+      “I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his
+      being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I
+      have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is
+      impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion
+      of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not
+      express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your
+      own family.”
+
+      “Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house
+      in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked
+      in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will
+      not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
+
+      “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
+      interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated
+      beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often
+      happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or
+      frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as
+      he chooses to be seen.”
+
+      “I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
+      ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.
+
+      “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,
+      “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”
+
+      “I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away
+      when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the
+      ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
+
+      “Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
+      _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on
+      friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I
+      have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim
+      before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most
+      painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,
+      the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,
+      and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company
+      with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
+      thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
+      scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
+      everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and
+      disgracing the memory of his father.”
+
+      Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
+      listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
+      further enquiry.
+
+      Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
+      neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all
+      that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but
+      very intelligible gallantry.
+
+      “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he
+      added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I
+      knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend
+      Denny tempted me further by his account of their present
+      quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent
+      acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is
+      necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits
+      will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A
+      military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances
+      have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my
+      profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this
+      time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it
+      pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”
+
+      “Indeed!”
+
+      “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of
+      the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively
+      attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to
+      provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the
+      living fell, it was given elsewhere.”
+
+      “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How
+      could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal
+      redress?”
+
+      “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest
+      as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have
+      doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to
+      treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert
+      that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
+      imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the
+      living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to
+      hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less
+      certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
+      anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,
+      and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
+      freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are
+      very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
+
+      “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
+
+      “Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_.
+      Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”
+
+      Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
+      handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
+
+      “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?
+      What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
+
+      “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot
+      but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy
+      liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his
+      father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very
+      early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of
+      competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was
+      often given me.”
+
+      “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never
+      liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed
+      him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not
+      suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such
+      injustice, such inhumanity as this.”
+
+      After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
+      remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the
+      implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving
+      temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”
+
+      “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_
+      can hardly be just to him.”
+
+      Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,
+      “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite
+      of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like
+      _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being
+      amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had
+      probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,
+      as I think you said, in the closest manner!”
+
+      “We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the
+      greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the
+      same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same
+      parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which
+      your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he
+      gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted
+      all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most
+      highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential
+      friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the
+      greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and
+      when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
+      voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he
+      felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his
+      affection to myself.”
+
+      “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that
+      the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If
+      from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to
+      be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”
+
+      “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions
+      may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.
+      It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other
+      feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour
+      to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”
+
+      “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
+
+      “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give
+      his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,
+      and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride—for he is
+      very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear
+      to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities,
+      or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful
+      motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_
+      brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian
+      of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the
+      most attentive and best of brothers.”
+
+      “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”
+
+      He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me
+      pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her
+      brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and
+      pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and
+      hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a
+      handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand,
+      highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been
+      London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
+      education.”
+
+      After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth
+      could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
+
+      “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr.
+      Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe,
+      truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they
+      suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”
+
+      “Not at all.”
+
+      “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know
+      what Mr. Darcy is.”
+
+      “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does
+      not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he
+      thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals
+      in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the
+      less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich
+      he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and
+      perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”
+
+      The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered
+      round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between
+      his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual enquiries as to
+      his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great;
+      he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express
+      her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity
+      that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the
+      money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make
+      herself uneasy.
+
+      “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down
+      to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things,
+      and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five
+      shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not
+      say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am
+      removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”
+
+      Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr.
+      Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice
+      whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the
+      family of de Bourgh.
+
+      “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given
+      him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced
+      to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”
+
+      “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne
+      Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present
+      Mr. Darcy.”
+
+      “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s
+      connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
+      yesterday.”
+
+      “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,
+      and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two
+      estates.”
+
+      This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor
+      Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and
+      useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,
+      if he were already self-destined for another.
+
+      “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine
+      and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related
+      of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that
+      in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
+      conceited woman.”
+
+      “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I
+      have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I
+      never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and
+      insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and
+      clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities
+      from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner,
+      and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that
+      everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the
+      first class.”
+
+      Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of
+      it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction
+      till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies
+      their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no
+      conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but
+      his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was
+      said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went
+      away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of
+      Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but
+      there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went,
+      for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
+      incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
+      fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of
+      Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least
+      regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper,
+      and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to
+      say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at
+      Longbourn House.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 17
+
+      Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between
+      Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and
+      concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so
+      unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her
+      nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable
+      appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such
+      unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and
+      nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them
+      both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account
+      of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.
+
+      “They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some
+      way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people
+      have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short,
+      impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which
+      may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
+
+      “Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to
+      say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been
+      concerned in the business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be
+      obliged to think ill of somebody.”
+
+      “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
+      opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful
+      light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite
+      in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide
+      for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had
+      any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most
+      intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”
+
+      “I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on,
+      than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as
+      he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without
+      ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides,
+      there was truth in his looks.”
+
+      “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what
+      to think.”
+
+      “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”
+
+      But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr.
+      Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer
+      when the affair became public.
+
+      The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
+      conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom
+      they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give
+      their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at
+      Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two
+      ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it
+      an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been
+      doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the
+      family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much
+      as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
+      the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats
+      with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and
+      hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.
+
+      The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to
+      every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as
+      given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly
+      flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself,
+      instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy
+      evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of
+      their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a
+      great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of
+      everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness
+      anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single
+      event, or any particular person, for though they each, like
+      Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he
+      was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a
+      ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her
+      family that she had no disinclination for it.
+
+      “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is
+      enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening
+      engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself
+      one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement
+      as desirable for everybody.”
+
+      Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though
+      she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could
+      not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s
+      invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to
+      join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to
+      find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and
+      was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop,
+      or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
+
+      “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a
+      ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to
+      respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far
+      from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be
+      honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of
+      the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,
+      Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference
+      which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause,
+      and not to any disrespect for her.”
+
+      Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully
+      proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and
+      to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse
+      timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness
+      and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr.
+      Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could.
+      She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea
+      it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that
+      _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being
+      mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
+      quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible
+      visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed
+      his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent
+      attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more
+      astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms,
+      it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the
+      probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to _her_.
+      Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well
+      aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any
+      reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did,
+      it was useless to quarrel about him.
+
+      If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk
+      of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable
+      state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the
+      day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented
+      their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news
+      could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were
+      got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her
+      patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of
+      her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance
+      on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
+      Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 18
+
+      Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and
+      looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats
+      there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred
+      to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any
+      of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed
+      her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in
+      the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained
+      unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might
+      be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
+      dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s
+      pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though
+      this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence
+      was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly
+      applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to
+      town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;
+      adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business
+      would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to
+      avoid a certain gentleman here.”
+
+      This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was
+      caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not
+      less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise
+      had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former
+      was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could
+      hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries
+      which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance,
+      forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was
+      resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned
+      away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly
+      surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality
+      provoked her.
+
+      But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every
+      prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not
+      dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to
+      Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon
+      able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her
+      cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first
+      two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
+      dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
+      apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without
+      being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a
+      disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment
+      of her release from him was ecstasy.
+
+      She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of
+      talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked.
+      When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and
+      was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly
+      addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his
+      application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she
+      accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left
+      to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to
+      console her:
+
+      “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
+
+      “Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!
+      To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not
+      wish me such an evil.”
+
+      When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to
+      claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a
+      whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham
+      to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his
+      consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the
+      set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being
+      allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her
+      neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They
+      stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
+      imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,
+      and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying
+      that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige
+      him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He
+      replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she
+      addressed him a second time with:—“It is _your_ turn to say
+      something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_
+      ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the
+      number of couples.”
+
+      He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say
+      should be said.
+
+      “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by
+      I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public
+      ones. But _now_ we may be silent.”
+
+      “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
+
+      “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd
+      to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the
+      advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as
+      that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
+
+      “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do
+      you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
+
+      “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
+      similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
+      taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
+      something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
+      posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.”
+
+      “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am
+      sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend
+      to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
+
+      “I must not decide on my own performance.”
+
+      He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone
+      down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not
+      very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and,
+      unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there
+      the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
+
+      The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread
+      his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though
+      blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length
+      Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is
+      blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_
+      friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is
+      less certain.”
+
+      “He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied
+      Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to
+      suffer from all his life.”
+
+      Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the
+      subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to
+      them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the
+      room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of
+      superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his
+      partner.
+
+      “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
+      superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong
+      to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair
+      partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this
+      pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable
+      event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall
+      take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to
+      Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank
+      me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young
+      lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
+
+      The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but
+      Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him
+      forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious
+      expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.
+      Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,
+      and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we
+      were talking of.”
+
+      “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not
+      have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for
+      themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without
+      success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
+
+      “What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
+
+      “Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the
+      same feelings.”
+
+      “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at
+      least be no want of subject. We may compare our different
+      opinions.”
+
+      “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full
+      of something else.”
+
+      “The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said
+      he, with a look of doubt.
+
+      “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for
+      her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
+      afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember
+      hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave,
+      that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very
+      cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created?_”
+
+      “I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
+
+      “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
+
+      “I hope not.”
+
+      “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their
+      opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
+
+      “May I ask to what these questions tend?”
+
+      “Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she,
+      endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it
+      out.”
+
+      “And what is your success?”
+
+      She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such
+      different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
+
+      “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may
+      vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,
+      that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment,
+      as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no
+      credit on either.”
+
+      “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
+      opportunity.”
+
+      “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly
+      replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and
+      parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to
+      an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably
+      powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and
+      directed all his anger against another.
+
+      They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her,
+      and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
+
+      “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
+      Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking
+      me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite
+      forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was
+      the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me
+      recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit
+      confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him
+      ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always
+      been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
+      Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the
+      particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the
+      least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham
+      mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not
+      well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he
+      was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the
+      way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing,
+      indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
+      Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but
+      really, considering his descent, one could not expect much
+      better.”
+
+      “His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the
+      same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him
+      of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,
+      and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”
+
+      “I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a
+      sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”
+
+      “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much
+      mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as
+      this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the
+      malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had
+      undertaken to make enquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane
+      met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such
+      happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was
+      satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth
+      instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
+      Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else,
+      gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for
+      happiness.
+
+      “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling
+      than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But
+      perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any
+      third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”
+
+      “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
+      satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
+      his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which
+      have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the
+      good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is
+      perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less
+      attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to
+      say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no
+      means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very
+      imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”
+
+      “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”
+
+      “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
+
+      “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
+      satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”
+
+      “He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has
+      heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it
+      was left to him _conditionally_ only.”
+
+      “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth
+      warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances
+      only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I
+      dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the
+      story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall
+      venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”
+
+      She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each,
+      and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth
+      listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which
+      Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her
+      power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by
+      Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose
+      enquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had
+      scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told
+      her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
+      to make a most important discovery.
+
+      “I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there
+      is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to
+      overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who
+      does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de
+      Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these
+      sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with,
+      perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I
+      am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay
+      my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will
+      excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the
+      connection must plead my apology.”
+
+      “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”
+
+      “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it
+      earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will
+      be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well
+      yesterday se’nnight.”
+
+      Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring
+      him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without
+      introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment
+      to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should
+      be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong
+      to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the
+      acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air
+      of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,
+      replied thus:
+
+      “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world
+      in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of
+      your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a
+      wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst
+      the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me
+      leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in
+      point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided
+      that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time
+      maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of
+      my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I
+      look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by
+      your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
+      guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted
+      by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a
+      young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to
+      attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly
+      watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very
+      evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and
+      though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it
+      all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,”
+      “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see
+      him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with
+      unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him
+      time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.
+      Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and
+      Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length
+      of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a
+      slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to
+      Elizabeth.
+
+      “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied
+      with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the
+      attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid
+      me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady
+      Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a
+      favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon
+      the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
+
+      As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she
+      turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr.
+      Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her
+      observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as
+      Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the
+      felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she
+      felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to
+      like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw
+      were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near
+      her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper,
+      therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
+      placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to
+      find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas)
+      freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane
+      would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating
+      subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while
+      enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a
+      charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from
+      them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was
+      such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane,
+      and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
+      she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her
+      younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them
+      in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at
+      her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to
+      the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go
+      into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this
+      circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it
+      is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to
+      find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
+      concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be
+      equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing
+      there was no chance of it.
+
+      In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her
+      mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a
+      less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she
+      could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy,
+      who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being
+      nonsensical.
+
+      “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I
+      am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged
+      to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”
+
+      “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be
+      for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to
+      his friend by so doing!”
+
+      Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her
+      mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.
+      Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She
+      could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though
+      every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was
+      not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his
+      attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face
+      changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
+      steady gravity.
+
+      At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady
+      Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights
+      which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts
+      of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not
+      long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over,
+      singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing
+      Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the
+      company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she
+      endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain;
+      Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting
+      was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes
+      were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched
+      her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which
+      was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,
+      amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she
+      might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of
+      half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means
+      fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner
+      affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see
+      how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley.
+      She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of
+      derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
+      imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
+      interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the
+      hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,
+      “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long
+      enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”
+
+      Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;
+      and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech,
+      was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were
+      now applied to.
+
+      “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to
+      sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the
+      company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
+      diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
+      clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be
+      justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there
+      are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a
+      parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an
+      agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
+      offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the
+      time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and
+      the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be
+      excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not
+      think it of light importance that he should have attentive and
+      conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those
+      to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;
+      nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of
+      testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
+      family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,
+      which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.
+      Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.
+      Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins
+      for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to
+      Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young
+      man.
+
+      To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement
+      to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it
+      would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more
+      spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley
+      and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his
+      notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much
+      distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his
+      two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an
+      opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she
+      could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman,
+      or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
+
+      The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was
+      teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her
+      side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him
+      again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did
+      she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to
+      introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that
+      as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief
+      object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and
+      that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
+      the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She
+      owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often
+      joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s
+      conversation to herself.
+
+      She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further
+      notice; though often standing within a very short distance of
+      her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She
+      felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.
+      Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
+
+      The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart,
+      and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their
+      carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone,
+      which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by
+      some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened
+      their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently
+      impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every
+      attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
+      languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by
+      the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr.
+      Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,
+      and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their
+      behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,
+      in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane
+      were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and
+      talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
+      silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was
+      too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation
+      of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
+
+      When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most
+      pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at
+      Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to
+      assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner
+      with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal
+      invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily
+      engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,
+      after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the
+      next day for a short time.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under
+      the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary
+      preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes,
+      she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in
+      the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter
+      married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and
+      with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the
+      least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the
+      match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was
+      eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 19
+
+      The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made
+      his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of
+      time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following
+      Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it
+      distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a
+      very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed
+      a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet,
+      Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after
+      breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
+
+      “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter
+      Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience
+      with her in the course of this morning?”
+
+      Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise,
+      Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am
+      sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no
+      objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her
+      work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:
+
+      “Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must
+      excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not
+      hear. I am going away myself.”
+
+      “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”
+      And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed
+      looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your
+      staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”
+
+      Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment’s
+      consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to
+      get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down
+      again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings
+      which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet
+      and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins
+      began.
+
+      “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far
+      from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other
+      perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had
+      there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to
+      assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for
+      this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse,
+      however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my
+      attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as
+      I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my
+      future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
+      subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons
+      for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with
+      the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
+
+      The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run
+      away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that
+      she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to
+      stop him further, and he continued:
+
+      “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right
+      thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to
+      set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am
+      convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and
+      thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it
+      is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble
+      lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she
+      condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this
+      subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
+      Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
+      arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr.
+      Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose
+      properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_,
+      let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high,
+      but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice.
+      Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and
+      I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair
+      cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady
+      Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my
+      power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can
+      describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable
+      to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect
+      which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
+      intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my
+      views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own
+      neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable
+      young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit
+      this estate after the death of your honoured father (who,
+      however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself
+      without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
+      the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the
+      melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already
+      said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my
+      fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your
+      esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the
+      most animated language of the violence of my affection. To
+      fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of
+      that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could
+      not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four
+      per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother’s
+      decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
+      therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure
+      yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when
+      we are married.”
+
+      It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
+
+      “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made
+      no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my
+      thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible
+      of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to
+      do otherwise than to decline them.”
+
+      “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave
+      of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the
+      addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he
+      first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is
+      repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no
+      means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to
+      lead you to the altar ere long.”
+
+      “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather
+      extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am
+      not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are)
+      who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of
+      being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.
+      You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the
+      last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your
+      friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find
+      me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”
+
+      “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr.
+      Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship
+      would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I
+      have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very
+      highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable
+      qualification.”
+
+      “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
+      must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
+      of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and
+      by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being
+      otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the
+      delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take
+      possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any
+      self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as
+      finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have
+      quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
+
+      “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the
+      subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than
+      you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of
+      cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established
+      custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and
+      perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as
+      would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female
+      character.”
+
+      “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you
+      puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to
+      you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my
+      refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”
+
+      “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that
+      your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My
+      reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to
+      me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the
+      establishment I can offer would be any other than highly
+      desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family
+      of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances
+      highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
+      consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is
+      by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be
+      made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all
+      likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable
+      qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not
+      serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it
+      to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the
+      usual practice of elegant females.”
+
+      “I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to
+      that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable
+      man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed
+      sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done
+      me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely
+      impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak
+      plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending
+      to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth
+      from her heart.”
+
+      “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
+      gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the
+      express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals
+      will not fail of being acceptable.”
+
+      To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would
+      make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;
+      determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals
+      as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose
+      negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and
+      whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the
+      affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 20
+
+      Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
+      successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the
+      vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw
+      Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the
+      staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated
+      both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their
+      nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these
+      felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate
+      the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he
+      trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal
+      which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
+      from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her
+      character.
+
+      This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have
+      been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to
+      encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared
+      not believe it, and could not help saying so.
+
+      “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall
+      be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She
+      is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own
+      interest but I will _make_ her know it.”
+
+      “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but
+      if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she
+      would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my
+      situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage
+      state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,
+      perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me,
+      because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not
+      contribute much to my felicity.”
+
+      “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.
+      “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything
+      else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go
+      directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with
+      her, I am sure.”
+
+      She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to
+      her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr.
+      Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You
+      must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
+      not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his
+      mind and not have _her_.”
+
+      Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and
+      fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the
+      least altered by her communication.
+
+      “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she
+      had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”
+
+      “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr.
+      Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have
+      Lizzy.”
+
+      “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless
+      business.”
+
+      “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon
+      her marrying him.”
+
+      “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
+      library.
+
+      “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have
+      sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr.
+      Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth
+      replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you
+      have refused?”
+
+      “I have, sir.”
+
+      “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon
+      your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
+
+      “Yes, or I will never see her again.”
+
+      “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day
+      you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will
+      never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will
+      never see you again if you _do_.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a
+      beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her
+      husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively
+      disappointed.
+
+      “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised
+      me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.”
+
+      “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to
+      request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my
+      understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room.
+      I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”
+
+      Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband,
+      did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again
+      and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to
+      secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible
+      mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with
+      real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to
+      her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination
+      never did.
+
+      Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had
+      passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what
+      motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was
+      hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite
+      imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s
+      reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
+
+      While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to
+      spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,
+      who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are
+      come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened
+      this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she
+      will not have him.”
+
+      Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by
+      Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they
+      entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she
+      likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her
+      compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to
+      comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss
+      Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my
+      side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels
+      for my poor nerves.”
+
+      Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and
+      Elizabeth.
+
+      “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as
+      unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were
+      at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss
+      Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer
+      of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and
+      I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father
+      is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I
+      have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,
+      you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will
+      find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to
+      undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in
+      talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous
+      complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can
+      tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not
+      complain are never pitied.”
+
+      Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
+      any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase
+      the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption
+      from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who
+      entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on
+      perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon
+      it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr.
+      Collins have a little conversation together.”
+
+      Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
+      followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she
+      could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
+      Collins, whose enquiries after herself and all her family were
+      very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself
+      with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a
+      doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh!
+      Mr. Collins!”
+
+      “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this
+      point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice
+      that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your
+      daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all;
+      the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I
+      have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps
+      not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had
+      my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often
+      observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
+      blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
+      estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any
+      disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my
+      pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid
+      yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to
+      interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be
+      objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your
+      daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
+      error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My
+      object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with
+      due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my
+      _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to
+      apologise.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 21
+
+      The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end,
+      and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings
+      necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish
+      allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_
+      feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or
+      dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner
+      and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the
+      assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself
+      were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
+      civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all,
+      and especially to her friend.
+
+      The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or
+      ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry
+      pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his
+      visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it.
+      He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant
+      to stay.
+
+      After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to enquire if Mr.
+      Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the
+      Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and
+      attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and
+      the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth,
+      however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his
+      absence _had_ been self-imposed.
+
+      “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not
+      meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with
+      him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear,
+      and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
+
+      She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a
+      full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they
+      civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer
+      walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he
+      particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double
+      advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and
+      it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her
+      father and mother.
+
+      Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;
+      it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of
+      elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s
+      fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance
+      change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some
+      particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting
+      the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the
+      general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the
+      subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
+      sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from
+      Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained
+      their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said:
+
+      “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me
+      a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time,
+      and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming
+      back again. You shall hear what she says.”
+
+      She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the
+      information of their having just resolved to follow their brother
+      to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor
+      Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:
+      “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in
+      Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we
+      will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
+      delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
+      lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most
+      unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these
+      highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the
+      insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their
+      removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it
+      was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would
+      prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their
+      society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in
+      the enjoyment of his.
+
+      “It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should
+      not be able to see your friends before they leave the country.
+      But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which
+      Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware,
+      and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends
+      will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr.
+      Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”
+
+      “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
+      Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”
+
+      “When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business
+      which took him to London might be concluded in three or four
+      days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time
+      convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry
+      to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither,
+      that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a
+      comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for
+      the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend,
+      had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I
+      despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
+      abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and
+      that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling
+      the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.”
+
+      “It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more
+      this winter.”
+
+      “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he
+      _should_.”
+
+      “Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
+      master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage
+      which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”
+
+      “Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the
+      truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really
+      do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance,
+      and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and
+      myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from
+      the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I
+      do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on
+      this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding
+      them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My
+      brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent
+      opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her
+      relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a
+      sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call
+      Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all
+      these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to
+      prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of
+      an event which will secure the happiness of so many?”
+
+      “What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane
+      as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not
+      expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to
+      be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s
+      indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings
+      for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can
+      there be any other opinion on the subject?”
+
+      “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear
+      it?”
+
+      “Most willingly.”
+
+      “You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her
+      brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.
+      She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries
+      to persuade you that he does not care about you.”
+
+      Jane shook her head.
+
+      “Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen
+      you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure,
+      cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as
+      much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her
+      wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or
+      grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss
+      Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been
+      _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a
+      second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare
+      say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
+      my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss
+      Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is
+      in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he
+      took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to
+      persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very
+      much in love with her friend.”
+
+      “If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your
+      representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know
+      the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully
+      deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that
+      she is deceiving herself.”
+
+      “That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea,
+      since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be
+      deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and
+      must fret no longer.”
+
+      “But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
+      accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to
+      marry elsewhere?”
+
+      “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon
+      mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his
+      two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his
+      wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”
+
+      “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know
+      that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their
+      disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”
+
+      “I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot
+      consider your situation with much compassion.”
+
+      “But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
+      required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”
+
+      The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the
+      utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of
+      Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for a moment
+      suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken,
+      could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.
+
+      She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she
+      felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its
+      happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she was
+      gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection
+      sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to
+      Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
+
+      They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of
+      the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s
+      conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great
+      deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that
+      the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting
+      so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some
+      length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon
+      down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of
+      all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been
+      invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
+      full courses.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 22
+
+      The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again
+      during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen
+      to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.
+      “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged
+      to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her
+      satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for
+      the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but
+      Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any
+      conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
+      from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them
+      towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances
+      were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would
+      have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave
+      Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the
+      fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape
+      out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness,
+      and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was
+      anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction
+      that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture
+      his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till
+      its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
+      secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably
+      encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure
+      of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering
+      kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked
+      towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally
+      in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love
+      and eloquence awaited her there.
+
+      In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,
+      everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both;
+      and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name
+      the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such
+      a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no
+      inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with
+      which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any
+      charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss
+      Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested
+      desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment
+      were gained.
+
+      Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their
+      consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.
+      Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for
+      their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his
+      prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas
+      began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter
+      had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was
+      likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion,
+      that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
+      Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and
+      his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole
+      family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The
+      younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner
+      than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved
+      from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.
+      Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her
+      point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in
+      general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither
+      sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his
+      attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her
+      husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,
+      marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision
+      for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however
+      uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
+      preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained;
+      and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
+      handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
+      circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to
+      Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any
+      other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame
+      her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings
+      must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her
+      the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when
+      he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
+      passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of
+      course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without
+      difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst
+      forth in such very direct questions on his return as required
+      some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising
+      great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous
+      love.
+
+      As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any
+      of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when
+      the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great
+      politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see
+      him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him
+      to visit them.
+
+      “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
+      gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
+      you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon
+      as possible.”
+
+      They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means
+      wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:
+
+      “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,
+      my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the
+      risk of offending your patroness.”
+
+      “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to
+      you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not
+      taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”
+
+      “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather
+      than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by
+      your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly
+      probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall
+      take no offence.”
+
+      “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
+      affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily
+      receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other
+      mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my
+      fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render
+      it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health
+      and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”
+
+      With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them
+      equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet
+      wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his
+      addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been
+      prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher
+      than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections
+      which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as
+      herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve
+      himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
+      agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of
+      this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,
+      and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of
+      the day before.
+
+      The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with
+      her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or
+      two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far
+      from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her
+      astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first
+      the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:
+
+      “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”
+
+      The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling
+      her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so
+      direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected,
+      she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:
+
+      “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it
+      incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s
+      good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with
+      you?”
+
+      But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong
+      effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that
+      the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her,
+      and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.
+
+      “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be
+      surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was
+      wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it
+      over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am
+      not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable
+      home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and
+      situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness
+      with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the
+      marriage state.”
+
+      Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward
+      pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not
+      stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what
+      she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all
+      reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness
+      of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days
+      was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had
+      always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly
+      like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that,
+      when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
+      feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins
+      was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend
+      disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the
+      distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to
+      be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 23
+
+      Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on
+      what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to
+      mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his
+      daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many
+      compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of
+      a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an
+      audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet,
+      with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be
+      entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,
+      boisterously exclaimed:
+
+      “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not
+      you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
+
+      Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
+      without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding
+      carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be
+      positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all
+      their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.
+
+      Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so
+      unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his
+      account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte
+      herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her
+      mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to
+      Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by
+      making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be
+      expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins,
+      and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal
+      while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than
+      her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she
+      persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she
+      was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she
+      trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly,
+      that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were
+      plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real
+      cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been
+      barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she
+      principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
+      console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out
+      her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth
+      without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak
+      to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months
+      were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.
+
+      Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion,
+      and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most
+      agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that
+      Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably
+      sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his
+      daughter!
+
+      Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she
+      said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for
+      their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it
+      as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas,
+      for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no
+      other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.
+
+      Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to
+      retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well
+      married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to
+      say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and
+      ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness
+      away.
+
+      Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept
+      them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded
+      that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again.
+      Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard
+      to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her
+      opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew
+      daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and
+      nothing more was heard of his return.
+
+      Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was
+      counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.
+      The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on
+      Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the
+      solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family
+      might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that
+      head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous
+      expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of
+      their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it
+      was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been
+      so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at
+      Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday
+      fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his
+      marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible,
+      which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his
+      amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the
+      happiest of men.
+
+      Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
+      pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much
+      disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange
+      that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it
+      was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated
+      having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent,
+      and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were
+      the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the
+      greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.
+
+      Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day
+      after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him
+      than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming
+      no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly
+      incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as
+      a most scandalous falsehood.
+
+      Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but
+      that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away.
+      Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s
+      happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she
+      could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of
+      his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend,
+      assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of
+      London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his
+      attachment.
+
+      As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course,
+      more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was
+      desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth,
+      therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such
+      delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which
+      she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his
+      arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come
+      back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s
+      steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
+      tranquillity.
+
+      Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
+      reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been
+      on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need
+      much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of
+      love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The
+      chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he
+      sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology
+      for his absence before the family went to bed.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention
+      of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of
+      ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it
+      talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her
+      successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous
+      abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded
+      her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she
+      spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were
+      talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
+      and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were
+      dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
+
+      “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that
+      Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_
+      should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her take
+      her place in it!”
+
+      “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope
+      for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the
+      survivor.”
+
+      This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore,
+      instead of making any answer, she went on as before.
+
+      “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If
+      it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”
+
+      “What should not you mind?”
+
+      “I should not mind anything at all.”
+
+      “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
+      insensibility.”
+
+      “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the
+      entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an
+      estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for
+      the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should _he_ have it more than
+      anybody else?”
+
+      “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 24
+
+      Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very
+      first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled
+      in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret
+      at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in
+      Hertfordshire before he left the country.
+
+      Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the
+      rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed
+      affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss
+      Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions
+      were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their
+      increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment
+      of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She
+      wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate
+      of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
+      the latter with regard to new furniture.
+
+      Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all
+      this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided
+      between concern for her sister, and resentment against all
+      others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to
+      Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,
+      she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had
+      always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
+      anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that
+      want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his
+      designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
+      to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,
+      however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to
+      sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her
+      sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible
+      himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be
+      long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing
+      else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or
+      were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been
+      aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his
+      observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him
+      must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s
+      situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.
+
+      A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her
+      feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them
+      together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield
+      and its master, she could not help saying:
+
+      “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can
+      have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual
+      reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long.
+      He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”
+
+      Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but
+      said nothing.
+
+      “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
+      no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
+      acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or
+      fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not
+      _that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to
+      get the better.”
+
+      With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort
+      immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on
+      my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
+
+      “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your
+      sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know
+      what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or
+      loved you as you deserve.”
+
+      Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw
+      back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.
+
+      “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all
+      the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.
+      _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself
+      against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my
+      encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need
+      not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of
+      whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I
+      dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the
+      inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little
+      dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
+      sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not
+      mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!
+      In every view it is unaccountable!”
+
+      “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They
+      will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for
+      difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s
+      respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.
+      Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune,
+      it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for
+      everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and
+      esteem for our cousin.”
+
+      “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no
+      one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I
+      persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only
+      think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My
+      dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded,
+      silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as
+      well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper
+      way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte
+      Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the
+      meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
+      yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility
+      of danger security for happiness.”
+
+      “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”
+      replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing
+      them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something
+      else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you,
+      but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that
+      person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must
+      not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must
+      not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and
+      circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that
+      deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”
+
+      “And men take care that they should.”
+
+      “If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have
+      no idea of there being so much design in the world as some
+      persons imagine.”
+
+      “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to
+      design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to
+      make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.
+      Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings,
+      and want of resolution, will do the business.”
+
+      “And do you impute it to either of those?”
+
+      “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by
+      saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you
+      can.”
+
+      “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
+
+      “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
+
+      “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They
+      can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no
+      other woman can secure it.”
+
+      “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides
+      his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and
+      consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the
+      importance of money, great connections, and pride.”
+
+      “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied
+      Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are
+      supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known
+      me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their
+      own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their
+      brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it,
+      unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed
+      him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so,
+      they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make
+      everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do
+      not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
+      mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison
+      of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let
+      me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be
+      understood.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr.
+      Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning
+      no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did
+      not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever
+      considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to
+      convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his
+      attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and
+      transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but
+      though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time,
+      she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best
+      comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
+
+      Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he
+      one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate
+      her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little
+      in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives
+      her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn
+      to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is
+      your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all
+      the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a
+      pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
+
+      “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We
+      must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”
+
+      “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that
+      whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate
+      mother who will make the most of it.”
+
+      Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the
+      gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of
+      the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other
+      recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The
+      whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr.
+      Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly
+      acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to
+      know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had
+      known anything of the matter.
+
+      Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might
+      be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the
+      society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always
+      pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but
+      by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 25
+
+      After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of
+      felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by
+      the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might
+      be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of
+      his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his
+      return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to
+      make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at
+      Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
+      cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father
+      another letter of thanks.
+
+      On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of
+      receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend
+      the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible,
+      gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by
+      nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had
+      difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within
+      view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and
+      agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs.
+      Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
+      woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces.
+      Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a
+      particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in
+      town.
+
+      The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to
+      distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When
+      this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her
+      turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and
+      much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she
+      last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of
+      marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.
+
+      “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got
+      Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard
+      to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this
+      time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an
+      offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of
+      it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I
+      have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as
+      ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are
+      all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so
+      it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in
+      my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
+      before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is
+      the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you
+      tell us, of long sleeves.”
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given
+      before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with
+      her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her
+      nieces, turned the conversation.
+
+      When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the
+      subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for
+      Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen
+      so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so
+      easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when
+      accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort
+      of inconsistencies are very frequent.”
+
+      “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it
+      will not do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not
+      often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a
+      young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom
+      he was violently in love with only a few days before.”
+
+      “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so
+      doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is
+      as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s
+      acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent
+      was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?”
+
+      “I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
+      inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every
+      time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own
+      ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to
+      dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an
+      answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility
+      the very essence of love?”
+
+      “Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt.
+      Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she
+      may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to
+      _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.
+      But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us?
+      Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief
+      from home may be as useful as anything.”
+
+      Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt
+      persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.
+
+      “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard
+      to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a
+      part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you
+      well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that
+      they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”
+
+      “And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of
+      his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on
+      Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think
+      of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as
+      Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution
+      enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter
+      it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”
+
+      “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does
+      not Jane correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to
+      help calling.”
+
+      “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”
+
+      But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to
+      place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of
+      Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude
+      on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did
+      not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes
+      she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated,
+      and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the
+      more natural influence of Jane’s attractions.
+
+      Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the
+      Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than
+      as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her
+      brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without
+      any danger of seeing him.
+
+      The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the
+      Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day
+      without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for
+      the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not
+      once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for
+      home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which
+      officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,
+      Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm
+      commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing
+      them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their
+      preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little
+      uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject
+      before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the
+      imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.
+
+      To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
+      unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years
+      ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in
+      that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had,
+      therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had
+      been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet
+      in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former
+      friends than she had been in the way of procuring.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
+      character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible
+      subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley
+      with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in
+      bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late
+      possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made
+      acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she
+      tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition
+      when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at
+      last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy
+      formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 26
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly
+      given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her
+      alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went
+      on:
+
+      “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely
+      because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not
+      afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your
+      guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an
+      affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.
+      I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting
+      young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should
+      think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let
+      your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect
+      you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
+      good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
+
+      “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
+
+      “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
+
+      “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
+      myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,
+      if I can prevent it.”
+
+      “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
+
+      “I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love
+      with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all
+      comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes
+      really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should
+      not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!
+      My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I
+      should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial
+      to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to
+      be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every
+      day that where there is affection, young people are seldom
+      withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
+      engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than
+      so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even
+      to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise
+      you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry
+      to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with
+      him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”
+
+      “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so
+      very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of
+      inviting him.”
+
+      “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:
+      “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do
+      not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your
+      account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You
+      know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company
+      for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do
+      what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”
+
+      Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked
+      her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful
+      instance of advice being given on such a point, without being
+      resented.
+
+      Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been
+      quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode
+      with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs.
+      Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at
+      length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even
+      repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_
+      they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on
+      Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose
+      to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and
+      reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,
+      accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs
+      together, Charlotte said:
+
+      “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
+
+      “_That_ you certainly shall.”
+
+      “And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”
+
+      “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
+
+      “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,
+      therefore, to come to Hunsford.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in
+      the visit.
+
+      “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte,
+      “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza,
+      you will be as welcome as either of them.”
+
+      The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent
+      from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to
+      hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her
+      friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as
+      it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was
+      impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling
+      that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined
+      not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what
+      had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were
+      received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
+      curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she
+      would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce
+      herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt
+      that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she
+      might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with
+      comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The
+      house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her
+      taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and
+      obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings
+      rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
+      for her own visit there to know the rest.
+
+      Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce
+      their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth
+      hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
+
+      Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as
+      impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without
+      either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it,
+      however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from
+      Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
+
+      “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of
+      the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in
+      Grosvenor Street.”
+
+      She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss
+      Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,
+      “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving
+      her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my
+      last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their
+      brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.
+      Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy
+      was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not
+      long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I
+      shall see them soon here.”
+
+      Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
+      accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in
+      town.
+
+      Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She
+      endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but
+      she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After
+      waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing
+      every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last
+      appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the
+      alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
+      longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister
+      will prove what she felt.
+
+      “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
+      her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to
+      have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But,
+      my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not
+      think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her
+      behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I
+      do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate
+      with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am
+      sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit
+      till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the
+      meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no
+      pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
+      calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and
+      was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went
+      away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no
+      longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very
+      wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every
+      advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because
+      she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am
+      very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need
+      not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know this anxiety to
+      be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account
+      for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his
+      sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural
+      and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such
+      fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have
+      met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from
+      something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner
+      of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is
+      really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were
+      not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say
+      that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I
+      will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of
+      what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable
+      kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
+      soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to
+      Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any
+      certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that
+      you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford.
+      Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you
+      will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.”
+
+      This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as
+      she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister
+      at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely
+      over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions.
+      His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for
+      him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped
+      he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s
+      account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown
+      away.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
+      concerning that gentleman, and required information; and
+      Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to
+      her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,
+      his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else.
+      Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it
+      and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but
+      slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing
+      that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted
+      it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
+      remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering
+      himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in
+      this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his
+      wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more
+      natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few
+      struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and
+      desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him
+      happy.
+
+      All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating
+      the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear
+      aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really
+      experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present
+      detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my
+      feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are even
+      impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at
+      all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good
+      sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness
+      has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
+      interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in
+      love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative
+      insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.
+      Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.
+      They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the
+      mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something
+      to live on as well as the plain.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 27
+
+      With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and
+      otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton,
+      sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass
+      away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at
+      first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she
+      soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned
+      to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater
+      certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte
+      again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty
+      in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
+      uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little
+      change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would
+      moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew
+      near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything,
+      however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to
+      Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and
+      his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in
+      London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan
+      could be.
+
+      The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss
+      her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her
+      going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to
+      answer her letter.
+
+      The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly
+      friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not
+      make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and
+      to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the
+      first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu,
+      wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to
+      expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of
+      her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a
+      solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
+      him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced
+      that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of
+      the amiable and pleasing.
+
+      Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
+      think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter
+      Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had
+      nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to
+      with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth
+      loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He
+      could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and
+      knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his
+      information.
+
+      It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so
+      early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to
+      Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching
+      their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to
+      welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was
+      pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs
+      were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their
+      cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the
+      drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a
+      twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
+      kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in
+      bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
+
+      Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object
+      was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear,
+      in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always
+      struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of
+      dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would
+      not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of
+      Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated
+      conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
+      herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given
+      up the acquaintance.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and
+      complimented her on bearing it so well.
+
+      “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss
+      King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
+
+      “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial
+      affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does
+      discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid
+      of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now,
+      because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds,
+      you want to find out that he is mercenary.”
+
+      “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall
+      know what to think.”
+
+      “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of
+      her.”
+
+      “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her
+      grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.”
+
+      “No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
+      affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be
+      for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was
+      equally poor?”
+
+      “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions
+      towards her so soon after this event.”
+
+      “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those
+      elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does
+      not object to it, why should _we_?”
+
+      “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her
+      being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.”
+
+      “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
+      mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”
+
+      “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry,
+      you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in
+      Derbyshire.”
+
+      “Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who
+      live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in
+      Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank
+      Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not
+      one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to
+      recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after
+      all.”
+
+      “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of
+      disappointment.”
+
+      Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had
+      the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle
+      and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the
+      summer.
+
+      “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.
+      Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”
+
+      No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
+      acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my
+      dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what
+      felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to
+      disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and
+      mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when
+      we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
+      being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know
+      where we have gone—we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes,
+      mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
+      imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular
+      scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let
+      _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the
+      generality of travellers.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 28
+
+      Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to
+      Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she
+      had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her
+      health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant
+      source of delight.
+
+      When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye
+      was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to
+      bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary
+      on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she
+      had heard of its inhabitants.
+
+      At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to
+      the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the
+      laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins
+      and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at
+      the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house,
+      amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they
+      were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.
+      Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and
+      Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found
+      herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her
+      cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal
+      civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
+      minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all
+      her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing
+      out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as
+      soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,
+      with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually
+      repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.
+
+      Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not
+      help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the
+      room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself
+      particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had
+      lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and
+      comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of
+      repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she
+      could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.
+      Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
+      ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily
+      turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a
+      faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After
+      sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the
+      room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of
+      their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr.
+      Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was
+      large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he
+      attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
+      respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of
+      countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of
+      the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.
+      Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and
+      scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked
+      for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left
+      beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every
+      direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most
+      distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
+      the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with
+      the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that
+      bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was
+      a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.
+
+      From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two
+      meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the
+      remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William
+      accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the
+      house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity
+      of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small,
+      but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and
+      arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave
+      Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten,
+      there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
+      Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must
+      be often forgotten.
+
+      She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the
+      country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when
+      Mr. Collins joining in, observed:
+
+      “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady
+      Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need
+      not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and
+      condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some
+      portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any
+      hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in
+      every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.
+      Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at
+      Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her
+      ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say,
+      one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”
+
+      “Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,”
+      added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”
+
+      “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort
+      of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
+
+      The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
+      and telling again what had already been written; and when it
+      closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to
+      meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand
+      her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her
+      husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She
+      had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor
+      of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr.
+      Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A
+      lively imagination soon settled it all.
+
+      About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting
+      ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole
+      house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard
+      somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly
+      after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing
+      place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—
+
+      “Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the
+      dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not
+      tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”
+
+      Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing
+      more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the
+      lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a
+      low phaeton at the garden gate.
+
+      “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the
+      pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady
+      Catherine and her daughter.”
+
+      “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is
+      not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives
+      with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is
+      quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be
+      so thin and small?”
+
+      “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all
+      this wind. Why does she not come in?”
+
+      “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of
+      favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”
+
+      “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.
+      “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well.
+      She will make him a very proper wife.”
+
+      Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in
+      conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s
+      high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest
+      contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing
+      whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.
+
+      At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on,
+      and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw
+      the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good
+      fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the
+      whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 29
+
+      Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was
+      complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness
+      to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility
+      towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;
+      and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was
+      such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew
+      not how to admire enough.
+
+      “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all
+      surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and
+      spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my
+      knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could
+      have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined
+      that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an
+      invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
+      after your arrival!”
+
+      “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir
+      William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great
+      really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire.
+      About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not
+      uncommon.”
+
+      Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but
+      their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing
+      them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms,
+      so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly
+      overpower them.
+
+      When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
+      Elizabeth—
+
+      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.
+      Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us
+      which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely
+      to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there
+      is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think
+      the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the
+      distinction of rank preserved.”
+
+      While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their
+      different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady
+      Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.
+      Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of
+      living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to
+      company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings
+      with as much apprehension as her father had done to his
+      presentation at St. James’s.
+
+      As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
+      mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its
+      prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she
+      could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene
+      to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of
+      the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the
+      glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
+
+      When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every
+      moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly
+      calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing
+      of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary
+      talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money
+      or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.
+
+      From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
+      rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments,
+      they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room
+      where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were
+      sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive
+      them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that
+      the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a
+      proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he
+      would have thought necessary.
+
+      In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so
+      completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but
+      just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat
+      without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of
+      her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way
+      to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and
+      could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady
+      Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,
+      which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
+      conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to
+      make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not
+      rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken
+      in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and
+      brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the
+      observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to
+      be exactly what he represented.
+
+      When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and
+      deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she
+      turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in
+      Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was
+      neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss
+      de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain,
+      were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low
+      voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing
+      remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she
+      said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her
+      eyes.
+
+      After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the
+      windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point
+      out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that
+      it was much better worth looking at in the summer.
+
+      The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the
+      servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had
+      promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at
+      the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as
+      if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved,
+      and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was
+      commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now
+      enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a
+      manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But
+      Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration,
+      and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the
+      table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much
+      conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an
+      opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de
+      Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady
+      Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.
+      Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss
+      de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
+      she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question,
+      and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.
+
+      When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
+      be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without
+      any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on
+      every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not
+      used to have her judgement controverted. She enquired into
+      Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a
+      great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her
+      how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as
+      hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her
+      poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great
+      lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of
+      dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.
+      Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
+      Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she
+      knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very
+      genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times,
+      how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than
+      herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether
+      they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage
+      her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name?
+      Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered
+      them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,
+
+      “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For
+      your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise
+      I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It
+      was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you
+      play and sing, Miss Bennet?”
+
+      “A little.”
+
+      “Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
+      instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try
+      it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”
+
+      “One of them does.”
+
+      “Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The
+      Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income
+      as yours. Do you draw?”
+
+      “No, not at all.”
+
+      “What, none of you?”
+
+      “Not one.”
+
+      “That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your
+      mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit
+      of masters.”
+
+      “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates
+      London.”
+
+      “Has your governess left you?”
+
+      “We never had any governess.”
+
+      “No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up
+      at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your
+      mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”
+
+      Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had
+      not been the case.
+
+      “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess,
+      you must have been neglected.”
+
+      “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us
+      as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always
+      encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary.
+      Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.”
+
+      “Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if
+      I had known your mother, I should have advised her most
+      strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be
+      done in education without steady and regular instruction, and
+      nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many
+      families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am
+      always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of
+      Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means;
+      and it was but the other day that I recommended another young
+      person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the
+      family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you
+      of Lady Metcalf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss
+      Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a
+      treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
+
+      “Yes, ma’am, all.”
+
+      “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the
+      second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married!
+      Your younger sisters must be very young?”
+
+      “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to
+      be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very
+      hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share
+      of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the
+      means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a
+      right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back
+      on _such_ a motive! I think it would not be very likely to
+      promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
+
+      “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very
+      decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”
+
+      “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth,
+      smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”
+
+      Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct
+      answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature
+      who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
+
+      “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need
+      not conceal your age.”
+
+      “I am not one-and-twenty.”
+
+      When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the
+      card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and
+      Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose
+      to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting
+      Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was
+      superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did
+      not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her
+      fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having
+      too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
+      other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the
+      mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of
+      herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her
+      ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and
+      apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not
+      say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble
+      names.
+
+      When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they
+      chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to
+      Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The
+      party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine
+      determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From
+      these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the
+      coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s
+      side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as
+      they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her
+      cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings,
+      which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it
+      really was. But her commendation, though costing her some
+      trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very
+      soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 30
+
+      Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was
+      long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most
+      comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and
+      such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William
+      was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out
+      in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away,
+      the whole family returned to their usual employments, and
+      Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
+      cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between
+      breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the
+      garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window
+      in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which
+      the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather
+      wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for
+      common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant
+      aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason
+      for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
+      much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally
+      lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
+
+      From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane,
+      and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what
+      carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh
+      drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform
+      them of, though it happened almost every day. She not
+      unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’
+      conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon
+      to get out.
+
+      Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to
+      Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it
+      necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that
+      there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could
+      not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they
+      were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped
+      her observation that was passing in the room during these visits.
+      She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and
+      advised them to do it differently; found fault with the
+      arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in
+      negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it
+      only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of
+      meat were too large for her family.
+
+      Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
+      the commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active
+      magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were
+      carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers
+      were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she
+      sallied forth into the village to settle their differences,
+      silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.
+
+      The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a
+      week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being
+      only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was
+      the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few,
+      as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond
+      Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and
+      upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were
+      half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the
+      weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great
+      enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
+      frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine,
+      was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where
+      there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but
+      herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s
+      curiosity.
+
+      In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed
+      away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to
+      bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a
+      circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her
+      arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few
+      weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom
+      she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively
+      new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused
+      in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his
+      behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by
+      Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
+      satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration,
+      and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been
+      frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.
+
+      His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was
+      walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into
+      Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and
+      after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park,
+      hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following
+      morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were
+      two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had
+      brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his
+      uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
+      Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte
+      had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and
+      immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour
+      they might expect, adding:
+
+      “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy
+      would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
+
+      Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
+      compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell,
+      and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room.
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not
+      handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.
+      Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in
+      Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to
+      Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
+      friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth
+      merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.
+
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
+      readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very
+      pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight
+      observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some
+      time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his
+      civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the
+      health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and
+      after a moment’s pause, added:
+
+      “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you
+      never happened to see her there?”
+
+      She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to
+      see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed
+      between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little
+      confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to
+      meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the
+      gentlemen soon afterwards went away.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 31
+
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the
+      Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably
+      to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some
+      days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for
+      while there were visitors in the house, they could not be
+      necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after
+      the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an
+      attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
+      come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very
+      little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had
+      called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.
+      Darcy they had seen only at church.
+
+      The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they
+      joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship
+      received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by
+      no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she
+      was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them,
+      especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the
+      room.
+
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was
+      a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty
+      friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated
+      himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and
+      Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books
+      and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained
+      in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and
+      flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well
+      as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
+      towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship,
+      after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged,
+      for she did not scruple to call out:
+
+      “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are
+      talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it
+      is.”
+
+      “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able
+      to avoid a reply.
+
+      “Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my
+      delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are
+      speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose,
+      who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better
+      natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great
+      proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to
+      apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully.
+      How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
+
+      Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s
+      proficiency.
+
+      “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
+      Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to
+      excel if she does not practice a good deal.”
+
+      “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such
+      advice. She practises very constantly.”
+
+      “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next
+      write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any
+      account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is
+      to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet
+      several times, that she will never play really well unless she
+      practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is
+      very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every
+      day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She
+      would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and
+      made no answer.
+
+      When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of
+      having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the
+      instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to
+      half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew;
+      till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual
+      deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to
+      command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance.
+      Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient
+      pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:
+
+      “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state
+      to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play
+      so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to
+      be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at
+      every attempt to intimidate me.”
+
+      “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you
+      could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming
+      you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough
+      to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing
+      opinions which in fact are not your own.”
+
+      Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said
+      to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty
+      notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am
+      particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose
+      my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to
+      pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it
+      is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my
+      disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very
+      impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
+      things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
+
+      “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
+
+      “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
+      Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among
+      strangers.”
+
+      “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very
+      dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,
+      you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think
+      he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;
+      and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was
+      sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the
+      fact.”
+
+      “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the
+      assembly beyond my own party.”
+
+      “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well,
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your
+      orders.”
+
+      “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought
+      an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to
+      strangers.”
+
+      “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth,
+      still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man
+      of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill
+      qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
+
+      “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying
+      to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
+
+      “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said
+      Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.
+      I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested
+      in their concerns, as I often see done.”
+
+      “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument
+      in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have
+      not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same
+      expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own
+      fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is
+      not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other
+      woman’s of superior execution.”
+
+      Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have
+      employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege
+      of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us
+      perform to strangers.”
+
+      Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to
+      know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began
+      playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening
+      for a few minutes, said to Darcy:
+
+      “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more,
+      and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very
+      good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to
+      Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her
+      health allowed her to learn.”
+
+      Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
+      cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other
+      could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his
+      behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss
+      Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry _her_,
+      had she been his relation.
+
+      Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance,
+      mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste.
+      Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility,
+      and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument
+      till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 32
+
+      Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to
+      Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the
+      village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain
+      signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it
+      not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension
+      was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape
+      all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very
+      great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
+
+      He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for
+      his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the
+      ladies were to be within.
+
+      They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were
+      made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was
+      absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in
+      this emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in
+      Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on
+      the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
+
+      “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr.
+      Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley
+      to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he
+      went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope,
+      when you left London?”
+
+      “Perfectly so, I thank you.”
+
+      She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a
+      short pause added:
+
+      “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of
+      ever returning to Netherfield again?”
+
+      “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may
+      spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many
+      friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements
+      are continually increasing.”
+
+      “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better
+      for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely,
+      for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But,
+      perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the
+      convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must
+      expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”
+
+      “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it
+      up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”
+
+      Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
+      friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to
+      leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.
+
+      He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very
+      comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to
+      it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”
+
+      “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
+      kindness on a more grateful object.”
+
+      “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a
+      wife.”
+
+      “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with
+      one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him,
+      or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent
+      understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her
+      marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems
+      perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is
+      certainly a very good match for her.”
+
+      “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
+      distance of her own family and friends.”
+
+      “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”
+
+      “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a
+      day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”
+
+      “I should never have considered the distance as one of the
+      _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have
+      said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.”
+
+      “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything
+      beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would
+      appear far.”
+
+      As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
+      understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
+      Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
+
+      “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near
+      her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on
+      many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the
+      expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But
+      that is not the case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a
+      comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent
+      journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself
+      _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_
+      cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_
+      cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
+
+      Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change
+      of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the
+      table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
+
+      “Are you pleased with Kent?”
+
+      A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either
+      side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of
+      Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The
+      _tête-à-tête_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which
+      had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a
+      few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.
+
+      “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he
+      was gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he
+      would never have called on us in this familiar way.”
+
+      But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very
+      likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after
+      various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to
+      proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was
+      the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were
+      over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a
+      billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and
+      in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk
+      to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a
+      temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day.
+      They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
+      separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by
+      their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam
+      came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which
+      of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded
+      by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his
+      evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George
+      Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less
+      captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she
+      believed he might have the best informed mind.
+
+      But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more
+      difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he
+      frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his
+      lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity
+      rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to
+      himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew
+      not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally
+      laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally
+      different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
+      her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the
+      effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she
+      set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him
+      whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford;
+      but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a
+      great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It
+      was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether
+      there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing
+      but absence of mind.
+
+      She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of
+      his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the
+      idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the
+      subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only
+      end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a
+      doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would vanish, if she could
+      suppose him to be in her power.
+
+      In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her
+      marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most
+      pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life
+      was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr.
+      Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin
+      could have none at all.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 33
+
+      More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
+      unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
+      mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought,
+      and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him
+      at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could
+      occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and
+      even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary
+      penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal
+      enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually
+      thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
+      said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of
+      talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of
+      their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected
+      questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of
+      solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s
+      happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly
+      understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she
+      came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
+      seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his
+      thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an
+      allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a
+      little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
+      pales opposite the Parsonage.
+
+      She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last
+      letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had
+      not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by
+      Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was
+      meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a
+      smile, she said:
+
+      “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”
+
+      “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I
+      generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at
+      the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”
+
+      “No, I should have turned in a moment.”
+
+      And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the
+      Parsonage together.
+
+      “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
+
+      “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
+      disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”
+
+      “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at
+      least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know
+      anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes
+      than Mr. Darcy.”
+
+      “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel
+      Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better
+      means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many
+      others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must
+      be inured to self-denial and dependence.”
+
+      “In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little
+      of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial
+      and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money
+      from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a
+      fancy for?”
+
+      “These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have
+      experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of
+      greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons
+      cannot marry where they like.”
+
+      “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very
+      often do.”
+
+      “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not
+      many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some
+      attention to money.”
+
+      “Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at
+      the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And
+      pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless
+      the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask
+      above fifty thousand pounds.”
+
+      He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To
+      interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with
+      what had passed, she soon afterwards said:
+
+      “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the
+      sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not
+      marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But,
+      perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is
+      under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”
+
+      “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he
+      must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of
+      Miss Darcy.”
+
+      “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make?
+      Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age
+      are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the
+      true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”
+
+      As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the
+      manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss
+      Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she
+      had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly
+      replied:
+
+      “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I
+      dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world.
+      She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my
+      acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard
+      you say that you know them.”
+
+      “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike
+      man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”
+
+      “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to
+      Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
+
+      “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him
+      in those points where he most wants care. From something that he
+      told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley
+      very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I
+      have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It
+      was all conjecture.”
+
+      “What is it you mean?”
+
+      “It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally
+      known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it
+      would be an unpleasant thing.”
+
+      “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”
+
+      “And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
+      Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated
+      himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences
+      of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any
+      other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from
+      believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that
+      sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of
+      last summer.”
+
+      “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”
+
+      “I understood that there were some very strong objections against
+      the lady.”
+
+      “And what arts did he use to separate them?”
+
+      “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam,
+      smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”
+
+      Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
+      indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her
+      why she was so thoughtful.
+
+      “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
+      cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the
+      judge?”
+
+      “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
+
+      “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety
+      of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement
+      alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend
+      was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as
+      we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.
+      It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the
+      case.”
+
+      “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is
+      a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”
+
+      This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a
+      picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an
+      answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked
+      on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There,
+      shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she
+      could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It
+      was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than
+      those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the
+      world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless
+      influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to
+      separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
+      always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
+      arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead
+      him, _he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of
+      all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had
+      ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most
+      affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say
+      how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
+
+      “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably
+      were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and
+      another who was in business in London.
+
+      “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility
+      of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her
+      understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners
+      captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father,
+      who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy
+      himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will
+      probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her
+      confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any
+      objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
+      pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the
+      want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their
+      want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had
+      been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by
+      the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
+
+      The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on
+      a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that,
+      added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her
+      not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to
+      drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did
+      not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband
+      from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his
+      apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her
+      staying at home.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 34
+
+      When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate
+      herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her
+      employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had
+      written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual
+      complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any
+      communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost
+      every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which
+      had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding
+      from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
+      disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded.
+      Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of
+      uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the
+      first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had
+      been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s
+      sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to
+      Rosings was to end on the day after the next—and, a still
+      greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with
+      Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
+      spirits, by all that affection could do.
+
+      She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering
+      that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had
+      made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as
+      he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.
+
+      While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound
+      of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the
+      idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once
+      before called late in the evening, and might now come to enquire
+      particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her
+      spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter
+      amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried
+      manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing
+      his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered
+      him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then
+      getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
+      said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came
+      towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
+
+      “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not
+      be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire
+      and love you.”
+
+      Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared,
+      coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient
+      encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long
+      felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were
+      feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was
+      not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His
+      sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family
+      obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on
+      with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was
+      wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
+
+      In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be
+      insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and
+      though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at
+      first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to
+      resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in
+      anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with
+      patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
+      representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in
+      spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer;
+      and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her
+      acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see
+      that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of
+      apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real
+      security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and,
+      when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:
+
+      “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
+      express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
+      unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation
+      should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now
+      thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion,
+      and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry
+      to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously
+      done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings
+      which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of
+      your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after
+      this explanation.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes
+      fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less
+      resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger,
+      and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He
+      was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not
+      open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The
+      pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, with a
+      voice of forced calmness, he said:
+
+      “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of
+      expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so
+      little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of
+      small importance.”
+
+      “I might as well enquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a
+      desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that
+      you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even
+      against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility,
+      if I _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I
+      have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been
+      indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that
+      any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been
+      the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
+      beloved sister?”
+
+      As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the
+      emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to
+      interrupt her while she continued:
+
+      “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive
+      can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You
+      dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if
+      not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing
+      one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and
+      the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving
+      them both in misery of the acutest kind.”
+
+      She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was
+      listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any
+      feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of
+      affected incredulity.
+
+      “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
+
+      With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of
+      denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend
+      from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_
+      I have been kinder than towards myself.”
+
+      Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil
+      reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to
+      conciliate her.
+
+      “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my
+      dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of
+      you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which
+      I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject,
+      what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can
+      you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you
+      here impose upon others?”
+
+      “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said
+      Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
+
+      “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling
+      an interest in him?”
+
+      “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his
+      misfortunes have been great indeed.”
+
+      “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have
+      reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty.
+      You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been
+      designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of
+      that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You
+      have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his
+      misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”
+
+      “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the
+      room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you
+      hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults,
+      according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,”
+      added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these
+      offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt
+      by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented
+      my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might
+      have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my
+      struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled
+      by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection,
+      by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor
+      am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
+      just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
+      connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations,
+      whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
+
+      Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she
+      tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
+
+      “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of
+      your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared
+      me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you
+      behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
+
+      She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she
+      continued:
+
+      “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible
+      way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
+
+      Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
+      expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
+
+      “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost
+      say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with
+      the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your
+      selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form
+      the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have
+      built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month
+      before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I
+      could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
+
+      “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
+      feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have
+      been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and
+      accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
+
+      And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth
+      heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
+
+      The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
+      to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried
+      for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had
+      passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should
+      receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have
+      been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to
+      wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made
+      him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must
+      appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost
+      incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
+      strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his
+      shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his
+      unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not
+      justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned
+      Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to
+      deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his
+      attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very
+      agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage
+      made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s
+      observation, and hurried her away to her room.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 35
+
+      Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and
+      meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not
+      yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was
+      impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for
+      employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge
+      herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her
+      favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes
+      coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she
+      turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
+      park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon
+      passed one of the gates into the ground.
+
+      After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she
+      was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the
+      gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now
+      passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and
+      every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was
+      on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of
+      a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was
+      moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was
+      directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near
+      enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,
+      pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself
+      called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she
+      moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it
+      also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,
+      said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in
+      the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me
+      the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow,
+      turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
+
+      With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest
+      curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still
+      increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of
+      letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The
+      envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the
+      lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight
+      o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:—
+
+      “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the
+      apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments
+      or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to
+      you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling
+      myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both,
+      cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation
+      and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
+      spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
+      You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
+      attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but
+      I demand it of your justice.
+
+      “Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of
+      equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first
+      mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I
+      had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I
+      had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and
+      humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the
+      prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown
+      off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my
+      father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on
+      our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its
+      exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two
+      young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few
+      weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that
+      blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each
+      circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the
+      following account of my actions and their motives has been read.
+      If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am
+      under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive
+      to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be
+      obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
+
+      “I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common
+      with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any
+      other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening
+      of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his
+      feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love
+      before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you,
+      I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental
+      information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given
+      rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it
+      as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.
+      From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively;
+      and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was
+      beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
+      watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging
+      as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I
+      remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she
+      received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by
+      any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken
+      here, _I_ must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of
+      your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have
+      been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment
+      has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert,
+      that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such
+      as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that,
+      however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily
+      touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
+      certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and
+      decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did
+      not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed
+      it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My
+      objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last
+      night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion
+      to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be
+      so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other
+      causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and
+      existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself
+      endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
+      me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of
+      your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in
+      comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so
+      almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger
+      sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It
+      pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects
+      of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
+      representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider
+      that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of
+      the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and
+      your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and
+      disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what
+      passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and
+      every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to
+      preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
+      connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,
+      as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon
+      returning.
+
+      “The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’
+      uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence
+      of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time
+      was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on
+      joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I
+      readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the
+      certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them
+      earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or
+      delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would
+      ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded
+      by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s
+      indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection
+      with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
+      natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than
+      on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived
+      himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
+      returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been
+      given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself
+      for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in
+      the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it
+      is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to
+      conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself,
+      as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet
+      ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence
+      is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough
+      extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
+      concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however,
+      and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more
+      to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your
+      sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives
+      which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient,
+      I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
+
+      “With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having
+      injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you
+      the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has
+      _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what
+      I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted
+      veracity.
+
+      “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for
+      many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose
+      good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my
+      father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was
+      his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My
+      father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most
+      important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the
+      extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
+      gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young
+      man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also
+      the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his
+      profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it
+      is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very
+      different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle,
+      which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best
+      friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly
+      the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing
+      him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here
+      again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But
+      whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
+      suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
+      real character—it adds even another motive.
+
+      “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his
+      attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his
+      will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his
+      advancement in the best manner that his profession might
+      allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family
+      living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a
+      legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
+      survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr.
+      Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against
+      taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for
+      him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of
+      the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some
+      intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that
+      the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient
+      support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be
+      sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his
+      proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman;
+      the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to
+      assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be
+      in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
+      thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.
+      I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
+      society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
+      studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
+      restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
+      about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of
+      the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he
+      applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His
+      circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in
+      believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most
+      unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being
+      ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of
+      which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well
+      assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could
+      not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will
+      hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for
+      resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in
+      proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was
+      doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his
+      reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of
+      acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last
+      summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
+
+      “I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
+      myself, and which no obligation less than the present should
+      induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I
+      feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten
+      years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s
+      nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she
+      was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in
+      London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over
+      it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly
+      by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance
+      between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most
+      unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far
+      recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart
+      retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child,
+      that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent
+      to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
+      excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that
+      I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly
+      a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana,
+      unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother
+      whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole
+      to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my
+      sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I
+      wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs.
+      Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief
+      object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty
+      thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
+      revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge
+      would have been complete indeed.
+
+      “This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
+      have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
+      it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
+      towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form
+      of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not
+      perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of
+      everything concerning either, detection could not be in your
+      power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
+
+      “You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last
+      night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what
+      could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here
+      related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of
+      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant
+      intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s
+      will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of
+      these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_
+      assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause
+      from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the
+      possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
+      opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of
+      the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
+
+      “FITZWILLIAM DARCY”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 36
+
+      If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect
+      it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no
+      expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may
+      well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a
+      contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read
+      were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first
+      understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and
+      steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
+      to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a
+      strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his
+      account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an
+      eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from
+      impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was
+      incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes.
+      His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved
+      to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to
+      the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him
+      justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which
+      satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was
+      all pride and insolence.
+
+      But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.
+      Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation
+      of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion
+      of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own
+      history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and
+      more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and
+      even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely,
+      repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This
+      must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through
+      the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last
+      page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
+      regard it, that she would never look in it again.
+
+      In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
+      nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the
+      letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she
+      could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related
+      to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the
+      meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the
+      Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the
+      kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known
+      its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each
+      recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the
+      difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was
+      fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
+      impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side
+      or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that
+      her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the
+      closest attention, the particulars immediately following of
+      Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his
+      receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds,
+      again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter,
+      weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
+      impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but
+      with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again
+      she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,
+      which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could
+      so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than
+      infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely
+      blameless throughout the whole.
+
+      The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to
+      lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more
+      so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never
+      heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in
+      which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on
+      meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight
+      acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in
+      Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,
+      had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
+      enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him
+      at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect
+      some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity
+      or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
+      Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for
+      those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what
+      Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’
+      continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could
+      see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address;
+      but she could remember no more substantial good than the general
+      approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social
+      powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a
+      considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas!
+      the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received
+      some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
+      Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she
+      was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel
+      Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the
+      information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and
+      whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she
+      had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked
+      by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly
+      banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have
+      hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
+      cousin’s corroboration.
+
+      She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in
+      conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening
+      at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in
+      her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such
+      communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her
+      before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he
+      had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his
+      conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of
+      seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
+      _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield
+      ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the
+      Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story
+      to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been
+      everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples
+      in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that
+      respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
+
+      How differently did everything now appear in which he was
+      concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence
+      of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of
+      her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but
+      his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself
+      could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been
+      deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his
+      vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had
+      most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour
+      grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr.
+      Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned
+      by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;
+      that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
+      the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had
+      latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
+      intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be
+      unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or
+      immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed
+      and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,
+      and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
+      sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had
+      his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a
+      violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed
+      from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of
+      it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
+
+      She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor
+      Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind,
+      partial, prejudiced, absurd.
+
+      “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided
+      myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my
+      abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my
+      sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust!
+      How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!
+      Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind!
+      But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the
+      preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on
+      the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
+      prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either
+      were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”
+
+      From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a
+      line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s
+      explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read
+      it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.
+      How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance,
+      which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared
+      himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment;
+      and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had
+      always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
+      description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though
+      fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant
+      complacency in her air and manner not often united with great
+      sensibility.
+
+      When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
+      mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her
+      sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her
+      too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he
+      particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball,
+      and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have
+      made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.
+
+      The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It
+      soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had
+      thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she
+      considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work
+      of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit
+      of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt
+      depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
+
+      After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
+      variety of thought—re-considering events, determining
+      probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to
+      a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection
+      of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she
+      entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,
+      and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make
+      her unfit for conversation.
+
+      She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had
+      each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few
+      minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been
+      sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and
+      almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.
+      Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she
+      really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an
+      object; she could think only of her letter.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 37
+
+      The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins
+      having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting
+      obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of
+      their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits
+      as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone
+      through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady
+      Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with
+      great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that
+      she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having
+      them all to dine with her.
+
+      Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that,
+      had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to
+      her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of
+      what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she
+      have said? how would she have behaved?” were questions with which
+      she amused herself.
+
+      Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I
+      assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I
+      believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I
+      am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be
+      so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so
+      they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably
+      till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely,
+      more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings
+      certainly increases.”
+
+      Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here,
+      which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
+
+      Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed
+      out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by
+      supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she
+      added:
+
+      “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg
+      that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad
+      of your company, I am sure.”
+
+      “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,”
+      replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I
+      must be in town next Saturday.”
+
+      “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I
+      expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before
+      you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs.
+      Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”
+
+      “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”
+
+      “Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.
+      Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if
+      you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to
+      take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in
+      June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the
+      barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and
+      indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not
+      object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”
+
+      “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
+      original plan.”
+
+      Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a
+      servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot
+      bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.
+      It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have
+      the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young
+      women should always be properly guarded and attended, according
+      to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to
+      Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two
+      men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy,
+      of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
+      propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to
+      all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs.
+      Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would
+      really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”
+
+      “My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
+
+      “Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad
+      you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you
+      change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at
+      the Bell, you will be attended to.”
+
+      Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their
+      journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention
+      was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or,
+      with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was.
+      Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was
+      alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day
+      went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in
+      all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
+
+      Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by
+      heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its
+      writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the
+      style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when
+      she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him,
+      her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed
+      feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited
+      gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not
+      approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or
+      feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own
+      past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and
+      regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of
+      yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father,
+      contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to
+      restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her
+      mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely
+      insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane
+      in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia;
+      but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what
+      chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
+      irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always
+      affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless,
+      would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and
+      vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt
+      with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they
+      would be going there forever.
+
+      Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr.
+      Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good
+      opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His
+      affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct
+      cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness
+      of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the
+      thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so
+      replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been
+      deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
+
+      When to these recollections was added the development of
+      Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy
+      spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much
+      affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear
+      tolerably cheerful.
+
+      Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last
+      week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening
+      was spent there; and her ladyship again enquired minutely into
+      the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the
+      best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of
+      placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself
+      obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and
+      pack her trunk afresh.
+
+      When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension,
+      wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford
+      again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to
+      curtsey and hold out her hand to both.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 38
+
+      On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a
+      few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the
+      opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed
+      indispensably necessary.
+
+      “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has
+      yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I
+      am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving
+      her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt,
+      I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our
+      humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few
+      domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford
+      extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will
+      believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done
+      everything in our power to prevent your spending your time
+      unpleasantly.”
+
+      Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness.
+      She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of
+      being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received,
+      must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and
+      with a more smiling solemnity replied:
+
+      “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your
+      time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most
+      fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very
+      superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the
+      frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may
+      flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been
+      entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s
+      family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing
+      which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see
+      how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
+      that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I
+      should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion,
+      while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
+
+      Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he
+      was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to
+      unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
+
+      “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
+      Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you
+      will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs.
+      Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust
+      it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but
+      on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure
+      you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most
+      cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte
+      and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in
+      everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas
+      between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”
+
+      Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where
+      that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she
+      firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was
+      not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by
+      the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy
+      to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes
+      open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to
+      go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her
+      housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent
+      concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
+
+      At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the
+      parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After
+      an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was
+      attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down
+      the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all
+      her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had
+      received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr.
+      and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria
+      followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he
+      suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
+      hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at
+      Rosings.
+
+      “But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble
+      respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their
+      kindness to you while you have been here.”
+
+      Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be
+      shut, and the carriage drove off.
+
+      “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it
+      seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many
+      things have happened!”
+
+      “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.
+
+      “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
+      twice! How much I shall have to tell!”
+
+      Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to
+      conceal!”
+
+      Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any
+      alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they
+      reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few
+      days.
+
+      Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of
+      studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the
+      kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go
+      home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for
+      observation.
+
+      It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even
+      for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s
+      proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would
+      so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so
+      highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been
+      able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing
+      could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she
+      remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her
+      fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into
+      repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
+      further.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 39
+
+      It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies
+      set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in
+      Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr.
+      Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in
+      token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking
+      out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an
+      hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite
+      milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad
+      and cucumber.
+
+      After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a
+      table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually
+      affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable
+      surprise?”
+
+      “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend
+      us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.”
+      Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this
+      bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might
+      as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get
+      home, and see if I can make it up any better.”
+
+      And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
+      unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the
+      shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim
+      it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it
+      will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the
+      ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”
+
+      “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest
+      satisfaction.
+
+      “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want
+      papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a
+      delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at
+      all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a
+      miserable summer else we shall have!”
+
+      “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme
+      indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton,
+      and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset
+      already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of
+      Meryton!”
+
+      “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down
+      at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital
+      news—and about a certain person we all like!”
+
+      Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told
+      he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
+
+      “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You
+      thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he
+      often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is
+      an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long
+      chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear
+      Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger
+      of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone
+      down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
+
+      “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
+      imprudent as to fortune.”
+
+      “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”
+
+      “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said
+      Jane.
+
+      “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never
+      cared three straws about her—who _could_ about such a nasty
+      little freckled thing?”
+
+      Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
+      coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
+      _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured
+      and fancied liberal!
+
+      As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
+      ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all
+      their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition
+      of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.
+
+      “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I
+      bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another
+      bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk
+      and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear
+      what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen
+      any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes
+      that one of you would have got a husband before you came back.
+      Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost
+      three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being
+      married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
+      get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have
+      taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any
+      fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before any of
+      you; and then I would _chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear
+      me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel
+      Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs.
+      Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the
+      bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so she asked
+      the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was
+      forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
+      dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for
+      a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel
+      and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were
+      forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how
+      well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or
+      three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the
+      least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I
+      should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect something, and
+      then they soon found out what was the matter.”
+
+      With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
+      Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to
+      amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened
+      as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent
+      mention of Wickham’s name.
+
+      Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to
+      see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner
+      did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
+
+      “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
+
+      Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the
+      Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were
+      the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was enquiring of
+      Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs.
+      Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of
+      the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and,
+      on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and
+      Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was
+      enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
+      would hear her.
+
+      “Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had
+      such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and
+      pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone
+      so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to
+      the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated
+      the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and
+      if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then
+      when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have
+      got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we
+      were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud,
+      that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”
+
+      To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear
+      sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be
+      congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they
+      would have no charms for _me_—I should infinitely prefer a book.”
+
+      But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
+      anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary
+      at all.
+
+      In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to
+      walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth
+      steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss
+      Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in
+      pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her
+      opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was
+      resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of
+      the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression.
+      In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there
+      could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
+
+      She had not been many hours at home before she found that the
+      Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn,
+      was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw
+      directly that her father had not the smallest intention of
+      yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and
+      equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never
+      yet despaired of succeeding at last.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 40
+
+      Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened
+      could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress
+      every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing
+      her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the
+      chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
+
+      Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong
+      sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear
+      perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other
+      feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his
+      sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but
+      still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s
+      refusal must have given him.
+
+      “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and
+      certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it
+      must increase his disappointment!”
+
+      “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he
+      has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his
+      regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”
+
+      “Blame you! Oh, no.”
+
+      “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”
+
+      “No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”
+
+      “But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very
+      next day.”
+
+      She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents
+      as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this
+      for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world
+      without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole
+      race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was
+      Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of
+      consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour
+      to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one
+      without involving the other.
+
+      “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to
+      make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you
+      must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of
+      merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and
+      of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am
+      inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you
+      choose.”
+
+      It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from
+      Jane.
+
+      “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham
+      so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear
+      Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a
+      disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too!
+      and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too
+      distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”
+
+      “Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you
+      so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that
+      I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your
+      profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much
+      longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”
+
+      “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
+      countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”
+
+      “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of
+      those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other
+      all the appearance of it.”
+
+      “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it
+      as you used to do.”
+
+      “And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a
+      dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s
+      genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind.
+      One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but
+      one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then
+      stumbling on something witty.”
+
+      “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not
+      treat the matter as you do now.”
+
+      “Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say
+      unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane
+      to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain
+      and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!”
+
+      “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong
+      expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they
+      _do_ appear wholly undeserved.”
+
+      “Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a
+      most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been
+      encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I
+      want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our
+      acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”
+
+      Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can
+      be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your
+      opinion?”
+
+      “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised
+      me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every
+      particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as
+      possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to
+      the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general
+      prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the
+      death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him
+      in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be
+      gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he
+      really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we
+      may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present
+      I will say nothing about it.”
+
+      “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin
+      him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and
+      anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him
+      desperate.”
+
+      The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation.
+      She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her
+      for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane,
+      whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was
+      still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the
+      disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s
+      letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been
+      valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
+      partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
+      understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing
+      off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if
+      that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely
+      be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable
+      manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till
+      it has lost all its value!”
+
+      She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the
+      real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still
+      cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even
+      fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of
+      first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater
+      steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so
+      fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every
+      other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
+      feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence
+      of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health
+      and their tranquillity.
+
+      “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion
+      _now_ of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am
+      determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my
+      sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane
+      saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving
+      young man—and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the
+      world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming
+      to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of
+      everybody, too, who is likely to know.”
+
+      “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
+
+      “Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come.
+      Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and
+      if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort
+      is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will
+      be sorry for what he has done.”
+
+      But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such
+      expectation, she made no answer.
+
+      “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
+      Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
+      it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is
+      an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
+      mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in
+      _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.”
+
+      “No, nothing at all.”
+
+      “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.
+      _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will
+      never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them!
+      And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your
+      father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say,
+      whenever that happens.”
+
+      “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
+
+      “No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt
+      they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be
+      easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the
+      better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only
+      entailed on me.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 41
+
+      The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.
+      It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the
+      young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The
+      dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were
+      still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course
+      of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for
+      this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was
+      extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in
+      any of the family.
+
+      “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would
+      they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be
+      smiling so, Lizzy?”
+
+      Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered
+      what she had herself endured on a similar occasion,
+      five-and-twenty years ago.
+
+      “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when
+      Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have
+      broken my heart.”
+
+      “I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.
+
+      “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
+
+      “Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
+      disagreeable.”
+
+      “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
+
+      “And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of
+      good,” added Kitty.
+
+      Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
+      Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all
+      sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of
+      Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed
+      to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.
+
+      But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for
+      she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the
+      colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This
+      invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately
+      married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had
+      recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_
+      months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
+
+      The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.
+      Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of
+      Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her
+      sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless
+      ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and
+      talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty
+      continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as
+      unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
+
+      “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as
+      Lydia,” said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I
+      have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for
+      I am two years older.”
+
+      In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to
+      make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was
+      so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother
+      and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all
+      possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as
+      such a step must make her were it known, she could not help
+      secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented
+      to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the
+      little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a
+      woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
+      imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the
+      temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her
+      attentively, and then said:
+
+      “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some
+      public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with
+      so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the
+      present circumstances.”
+
+      “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great
+      disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of
+      Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already
+      arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the
+      affair.”
+
+      “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened
+      away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast
+      down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a
+      little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the
+      list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s
+      folly.”
+
+      “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It
+      is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now
+      complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must
+      be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of
+      all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must
+      speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble
+      of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her
+      present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will
+      soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be
+      fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
+      that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in
+      the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any
+      attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the
+      ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off
+      any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for
+      admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is
+      comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
+      ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,
+      can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and
+      despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not
+      be often involved in the disgrace?”
+
+      Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
+      affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
+
+      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are
+      known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear
+      to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very
+      silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does
+      not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a
+      sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she
+      is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At
+      Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt
+      than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth
+      their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may
+      teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
+      many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the
+      rest of her life.”
+
+      With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own
+      opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and
+      sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her
+      vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having
+      performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or
+      augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
+
+      Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference
+      with her father, their indignation would hardly have found
+      expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a
+      visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly
+      happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets
+      of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself
+      the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present
+      unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched
+      forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
+      and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the
+      view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting
+      with at least six officers at once.
+
+      Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects
+      and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?
+      They could have been understood only by her mother, who might
+      have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that
+      consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never
+      intending to go there himself.
+
+      But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their
+      raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of
+      Lydia’s leaving home.
+
+      Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having
+      been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation
+      was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality
+      entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very
+      gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a
+      sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to
+      herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the
+      inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
+      had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,
+      after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern
+      for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such
+      idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed
+      it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing,
+      that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had
+      been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference
+      secured at any time by their renewal.
+
+      On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he
+      dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
+      was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
+      his making some enquiry as to the manner in which her time had
+      passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr.
+      Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,
+      if he was acquainted with the former.
+
+      He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s
+      recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly
+      seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very
+      gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer
+      was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon
+      afterwards added:
+
+      “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
+
+      “Nearly three weeks.”
+
+      “And you saw him frequently?”
+
+      “Yes, almost every day.”
+
+      “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”
+
+      “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon
+      acquaintance.”
+
+      “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her.
+      “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a
+      gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to
+      add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not
+      hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is
+      improved in essentials.”
+
+      “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very
+      much what he ever was.”
+
+      While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
+      rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
+      something in her countenance which made him listen with an
+      apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:
+
+      “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean
+      that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but
+      that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better
+      understood.”
+
+      Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and
+      agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off
+      his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the
+      gentlest of accents:
+
+      “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
+      comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to
+      assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that
+      direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others,
+      for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have
+      suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which
+      you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his
+      visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands
+      much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when
+      they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish
+      of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain
+      he has very much at heart.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered
+      only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted
+      to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was
+      in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with
+      the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no
+      further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last
+      with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never
+      meeting again.
+
+      When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to
+      Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning.
+      The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than
+      pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep
+      from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good
+      wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her
+      injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying
+      herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason
+      to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous
+      happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle
+      adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 42
+
+      Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she
+      could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal
+      felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and
+      beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty
+      generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and
+      illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all
+      real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had
+      vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were
+      overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek
+      comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had
+      brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the
+      unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the
+      country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his
+      principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise
+      indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his
+      amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in
+      general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of
+      entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive
+      benefit from such as are given.
+
+      Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of
+      her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with
+      pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his
+      affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what
+      she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that
+      continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in
+      exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so
+      highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now
+      the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable
+      a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
+      from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which,
+      rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of
+      his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his
+      wife.
+
+      When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found
+      little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment.
+      Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home
+      she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the
+      dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their
+      domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her
+      natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were
+      removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil
+      might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly
+      and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
+      watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found,
+      what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she
+      had looked forward with impatient desire did not, in taking
+      place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It
+      was consequently necessary to name some other period for the
+      commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which
+      her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the
+      pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and
+      prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now
+      the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
+      for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her
+      mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included
+      Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
+
+      “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to
+      wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment
+      would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless
+      source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to
+      have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which
+      every part promises delight can never be successful; and general
+      disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little
+      peculiar vexation.”
+
+      When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very
+      minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always
+      long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother
+      contained little else than that they were just returned from the
+      library, where such and such officers had attended them, and
+      where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite
+      wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would
+      have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
+      violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going
+      off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister,
+      there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty,
+      though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words
+      to be made public.
+
+      After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,
+      good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.
+      Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in
+      town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer
+      engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual
+      querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much
+      recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event
+      of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the
+      following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not
+      to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and
+      malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should
+      be quartered in Meryton.
+
+      The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now
+      fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a
+      letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its
+      commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be
+      prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in
+      July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that
+      left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as
+      they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and
+      comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the
+      Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to
+      the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than
+      Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy
+      the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a
+      peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly
+      passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a
+      few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all
+      the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the
+      Peak.
+
+      Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on
+      seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time
+      enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her
+      temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
+
+      With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.
+      It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of
+      Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his
+      county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without
+      his perceiving me.”
+
+      The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to
+      pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass
+      away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at
+      length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and
+      eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the
+      particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general
+      favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly
+      adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them,
+      playing with them, and loving them.
+
+      The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
+      next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
+      One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a
+      suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
+      inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and
+      affection and intelligence, which might supply it among
+      themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
+
+      It is not the object of this work to give a description of
+      Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which
+      their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth,
+      Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of
+      Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of
+      Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where
+      she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they
+      bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of
+      the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found
+      from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their
+      direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking
+      over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
+      inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
+      willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
+
+      “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have
+      heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many
+      of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth
+      there, you know.”
+
+      Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
+      Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing
+      it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after
+      going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or
+      satin curtains.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine
+      house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it
+      myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the
+      finest woods in the country.”
+
+      Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The
+      possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,
+      instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very
+      idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt
+      than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;
+      and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if
+      her private enquiries to the absence of the family were
+      unfavourably answered.
+
+      Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
+      whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name
+      of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family
+      were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the
+      last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at
+      leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house
+      herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and
+      she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper
+      air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the
+      scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 43
+
+      Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance
+      of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length
+      they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
+
+      The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.
+      They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some
+      time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
+
+      Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and
+      admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually
+      ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of
+      a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was
+      instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite
+      side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.
+      It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising
+      ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front,
+      a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but
+      without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal
+      nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen
+      a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty
+      had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
+      all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt
+      that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
+
+      They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
+      door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all
+      her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest
+      the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place,
+      they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited
+      for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she
+      was.
+
+      The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much
+      less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding
+      her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,
+      well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after
+      slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.
+      The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving
+      increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.
+      Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the
+      whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the
+      winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with
+      delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were
+      taking different positions; but from every window there were
+      beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their
+      furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but
+      Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither
+      gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real
+      elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
+
+      “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!
+      With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!
+      Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in
+      them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and
+      aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my
+      uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been
+      allowed to invite them.”
+
+      This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very
+      like regret.
+
+      She longed to enquire of the housekeeper whether her master was
+      really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,
+      the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with
+      alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we
+      expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How
+      rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any
+      circumstance been delayed a day!
+
+      Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and
+      saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other
+      miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,
+      how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it
+      was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s
+      steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He
+      is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has
+      turned out very wild.”
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth
+      could not return it.
+
+      “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
+      miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the
+      same time as the other—about eight years ago.”
+
+      “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs.
+      Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But,
+      Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”
+
+      Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
+      intimation of her knowing her master.
+
+      “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
+
+      Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”
+
+      “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
+
+      “Yes, very handsome.”
+
+      “I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up
+      stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
+      This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these
+      miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of
+      them.”
+
+      This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.
+
+      Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,
+      drawn when she was only eight years old.
+
+      “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs.
+      Gardiner.
+
+      “Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
+      accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room
+      is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my
+      master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”
+
+      Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,
+      encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;
+      Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great
+      pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
+
+      “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
+
+      “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend
+      half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer
+      months.”
+
+      “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
+
+      “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
+
+      “Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know
+      who is good enough for him.”
+
+      Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
+      “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think
+      so.”
+
+      “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows
+      him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty
+      far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the
+      housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in
+      my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”
+
+      This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite
+      to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her
+      firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed
+      to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
+
+      “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are
+      lucky in having such a master.”
+
+      “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I
+      could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that
+      they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when
+      they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most
+      generous-hearted boy in the world.”
+
+      Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought
+      she.
+
+      “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
+
+      “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like
+      him—just as affable to the poor.”
+
+      Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for
+      more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She
+      related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the
+      rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner,
+      highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he
+      attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led
+      again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many
+      merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
+
+      “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that
+      ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of
+      nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or
+      servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him
+      proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it
+      is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”
+
+      “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought
+      Elizabeth.
+
+      “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked,
+      “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
+
+      “Perhaps we might be deceived.”
+
+      “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
+
+      On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very
+      pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
+      lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it
+      was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a
+      liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
+
+      “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked
+      towards one of the windows.
+
+      Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should
+      enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added.
+      “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in
+      a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
+
+      The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,
+      were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good
+      paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such
+      as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to
+      look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects
+      were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.
+
+      In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could
+      have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked
+      in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.
+      At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to
+      Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to
+      have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several
+      minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and
+      returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.
+      Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s
+      lifetime.
+
+      There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more
+      gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at
+      the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on
+      him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is
+      more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a
+      brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s
+      happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain
+      was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be
+      done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the
+      housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood
+      before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
+      upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment
+      of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its
+      warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
+
+      When all of the house that was open to general inspection had
+      been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the
+      housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at
+      the hall-door.
+
+      As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth
+      turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and
+      while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,
+      the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,
+      which led behind it to the stables.
+
+      They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was
+      his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their
+      eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with
+      the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed
+      immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced
+      towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of
+      perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
+
+      She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
+      received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
+      overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the
+      picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure
+      the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s
+      expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately
+      have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to
+      their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift
+      her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to
+      his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of
+      his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered
+      was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
+      impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the
+      few minutes in which they continued were some of the most
+      uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;
+      when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and
+      he repeated his enquiries as to the time of her having left
+      Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so
+      hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
+
+      At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a
+      few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected
+      himself, and took leave.
+
+      The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his
+      figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by
+      her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered
+      by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate,
+      the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must
+      appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so
+      vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself
+      in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come
+      a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
+      sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
+      discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment
+      arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She
+      blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And
+      his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he
+      should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such
+      civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she
+      seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with
+      such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast
+      did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his
+      letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to
+      account for it.
+
+      They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,
+      and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a
+      finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it
+      was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and,
+      though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her
+      uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as
+      they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her
+      thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
+      whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to
+      know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he
+      thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was
+      still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt
+      himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
+      not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
+      seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her
+      with composure.
+
+      At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence
+      of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more
+      like herself.
+
+      They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a
+      while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where
+      the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many
+      charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long
+      range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the
+      stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole
+      park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant
+      smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the
+      matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought
+      them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to
+      the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They
+      crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air
+      of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet
+      visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed
+      room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough
+      coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its
+      windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived
+      their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great
+      walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the
+      carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,
+      obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on
+      the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but
+      their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to
+      indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
+      engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in
+      the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced
+      but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were
+      again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to
+      what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
+      them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
+      sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
+      they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more
+      prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and
+      to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a
+      few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into
+      some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk
+      concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was
+      immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost
+      none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she
+      began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she
+      had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
+      some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise
+      of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her
+      colour changed, and she said no more.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,
+      he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to
+      her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was
+      quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his
+      being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people
+      against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself.
+      “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they
+      are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”
+
+      The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named
+      their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to
+      see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his
+      decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.
+      That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident; he
+      sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going
+      away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with
+      Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but
+      triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some
+      relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
+      attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
+      expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his
+      intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
+
+      The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.
+      Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as
+      often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood,
+      offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and
+      pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually
+      most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with
+      Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said
+      nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be
+      all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
+      continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what
+      can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ sake
+      that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could
+      not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should
+      still love me.”
+
+      After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the
+      two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending
+      to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some
+      curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It
+      originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the
+      morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and
+      consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by
+      her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,
+      the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been
+      assured of his absence before she came to the place, and
+      accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very
+      unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
+      you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed,
+      before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not
+      immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth
+      of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned
+      his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with
+      whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,”
+      he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an
+      acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
+
+      Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were
+      instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had
+      been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by
+      his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.
+
+      “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after
+      a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will
+      you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to
+      your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”
+
+      The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too
+      great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She
+      immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of
+      being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,
+      without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying
+      to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of
+      her.
+
+      They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.
+      Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was
+      flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her
+      was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the
+      others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.
+      Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
+
+      He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself
+      not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time
+      much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She
+      wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every
+      subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling,
+      and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance.
+      Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas
+      were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over.
+
+      On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go
+      into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined,
+      and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy
+      handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,
+      Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
+
+      The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of
+      them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they
+      had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and
+      unassuming,” said her uncle.
+
+      “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,”
+      replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not
+      unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some
+      people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.”
+
+      “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was
+      more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no
+      necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was
+      very trifling.”
+
+      “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as
+      Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his
+      features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he
+      was so disagreeable?”
+
+      Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had
+      liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that
+      she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
+
+      “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”
+      replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I
+      shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind
+      another day, and warn me off his grounds.”
+
+      Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his
+      character, but said nothing.
+
+      “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I
+      really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so
+      cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not
+      an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing
+      about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity
+      in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea
+      of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his
+      house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help
+      laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,
+      and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”
+
+      Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
+      vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them
+      to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what
+      she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were
+      capable of a very different construction; and that his character
+      was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had
+      been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she
+      related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in
+      which they had been connected, without actually naming her
+      authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
+      approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave
+      way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in
+      pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its
+      environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by
+      the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off
+      again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was
+      spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many
+      years’ discontinuance.
+
+      The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave
+      Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she
+      could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s
+      civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted
+      with his sister.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 44
+
+      Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to
+      visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was
+      consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole
+      of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very
+      morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They
+      had been walking about the place with some of their new friends,
+      and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining
+      with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a
+      window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving
+      up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery,
+      guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
+      surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour
+      which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and
+      the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the
+      circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the
+      preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing
+      had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no
+      other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter
+      than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
+      newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation
+      of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was
+      quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of
+      disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should
+      have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious
+      to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing
+      would fail her.
+
+      She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she
+      walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw
+      such looks of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made
+      everything worse.
+
+      Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable
+      introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that
+      her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.
+      Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was
+      exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes
+      convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it
+      difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
+
+      Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and,
+      though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her
+      appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her
+      brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her
+      manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had
+      expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as
+      ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such
+      different feelings.
+
+      They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that
+      Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time
+      to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when
+      Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he
+      entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long
+      done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood
+      its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he
+      expressed himself on seeing her again. He enquired in a friendly,
+      though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
+      the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
+
+      To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting
+      personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The
+      whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The
+      suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece
+      directed their observation towards each with an earnest though
+      guarded enquiry; and they soon drew from those enquiries the full
+      conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of
+      the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
+      the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
+
+      Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain
+      the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her
+      own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter
+      object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of
+      success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were
+      prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was
+      eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
+
+      In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
+      and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his
+      were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he
+      talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased
+      herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying
+      to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she
+      could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had
+      been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side
+      that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that
+      could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon
+      satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere
+      they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
+      recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of
+      saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared.
+      He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking
+      together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that
+      it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing
+      her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight
+      months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were
+      all dancing together at Netherfield.”
+
+      Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he
+      afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of
+      the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was
+      not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there
+      was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.
+
+      It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy
+      himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an
+      expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she
+      heard an accent so removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his
+      companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners
+      which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence
+      might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus
+      seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people
+      with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
+      disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to
+      the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected
+      their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the
+      change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she
+      could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never,
+      even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his
+      dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to
+      please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as
+      now, when no importance could result from the success of his
+      endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his
+      attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and
+      censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
+
+      Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they
+      arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in
+      expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss
+      Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country.
+      Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in
+      the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner
+      looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how _she_, whom the
+      invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance,
+      but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that
+      this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment
+      than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who
+      was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she
+      ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next
+      was fixed on.
+
+      Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing
+      Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and
+      many enquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.
+      Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak
+      of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some
+      others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of
+      considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though
+      while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager
+      to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and
+      aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
+      favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
+
+      But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity;
+      it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident
+      that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had
+      before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love
+      with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify
+      enquiry.
+
+      Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,
+      as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.
+      They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn
+      his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report,
+      without any reference to any other account, the circle in
+      Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it
+      for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing
+      the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority
+      of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and
+      whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily
+      rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
+      their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight.
+      They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably
+      had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants
+      of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was
+      acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much
+      good among the poor.
+
+      With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was
+      not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his
+      concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood,
+      it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he
+      had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards
+      discharged.
+
+      As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening
+      more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it
+      seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings
+      towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours
+      endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him.
+      No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been
+      ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so
+      called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable
+      qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
+      time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now
+      heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony
+      so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in
+      so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all,
+      above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of
+      goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;
+      gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving
+      her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony
+      of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
+      accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would
+      avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental
+      meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any
+      indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where
+      their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good
+      opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his
+      sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only
+      astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be
+      attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be
+      encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
+      exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to
+      him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted
+      to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,
+      and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should
+      employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed,
+      of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses.
+
+      It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the
+      niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to
+      see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had
+      reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though
+      it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their
+      side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to
+      wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,
+      therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked
+      herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
+
+      Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme
+      had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made
+      of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 45
+
+      Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her
+      had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how
+      unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was
+      curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the
+      acquaintance would now be renewed.
+
+      On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the
+      saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer.
+      Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing
+      view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the
+      beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over
+      the intermediate lawn.
+
+      In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting
+      there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom
+      she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very
+      civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though
+      proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily
+      give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her
+      being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,
+      did her justice, and pitied her.
+
+      By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a
+      curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such
+      pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first
+      broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman,
+      whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to
+      be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between
+      her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the
+      conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished
+      for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
+      short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
+
+      Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss
+      Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss
+      Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not
+      have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they
+      not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not
+      sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts
+      were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the
+      gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the
+      master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished
+      or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in
+      this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s
+      voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold enquiry
+      after the health of her family. She answered with equal
+      indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
+
+      The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
+      entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all
+      the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till
+      after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to
+      Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was
+      now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all
+      talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,
+      nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.
+
+      While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding
+      whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.
+      Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;
+      and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes
+      to predominate, she began to regret that he came.
+
+      He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three
+      other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had
+      left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended
+      a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than
+      Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;
+      a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the
+      more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the
+      whole party were awakened against them, and that there was
+      scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first
+      came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so
+      strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles
+      which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
+      objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her
+      attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her
+      brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and
+      Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to
+      get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt
+      at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this
+      likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first
+      opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
+
+      “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from
+      Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”
+
+      In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but
+      Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her
+      thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave
+      her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel
+      the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a
+      tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance
+      showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking
+      at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to
+      lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then
+      giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained
+      from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
+      Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she
+      believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which
+      might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the
+      latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of
+      her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had
+      ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no
+      creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except
+      to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was
+      particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which
+      Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
+      hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and
+      without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate
+      him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something
+      to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
+
+      Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his
+      emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not
+      approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,
+      though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,
+      whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest
+      in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed
+      to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on
+      her more and more cheerfully.
+
+      Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
+      above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
+      carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
+      Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not
+      join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her
+      favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such
+      terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of
+      finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy
+      returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
+      him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
+
+      “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”
+      she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she
+      is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and
+      I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”
+
+      However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he
+      contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other
+      alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous
+      consequence of travelling in the summer.
+
+      “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never
+      could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion
+      has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her
+      nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her
+      teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for
+      her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never
+      see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish
+      look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there
+      is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”
+
+      Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this
+      was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people
+      are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat
+      nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely
+      silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak,
+      she continued:
+
+      “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed
+      we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I
+      particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been
+      dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ a beauty!—I should as soon call her
+      mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I
+      believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”
+
+      “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but
+      _that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since
+      I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my
+      acquaintance.”
+
+      He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
+      satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any
+      pain but herself.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred
+      during their visit, as they returned, except what had
+      particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of
+      everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who
+      had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister,
+      his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet
+      Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him,
+      and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s
+      beginning the subject.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 46
+
+      Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a
+      letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this
+      disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had
+      now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and
+      her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at
+      once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent
+      elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written
+      the direction remarkably ill.
+
+      They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
+      her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off
+      by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had
+      been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of
+      all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the
+      country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day
+      later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important
+      intelligence. It was to this effect:
+
+      “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
+      of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of
+      alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say
+      relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just
+      as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us
+      that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to
+      own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,
+      however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very
+      sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to
+      hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
+      Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this
+      step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His
+      choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can
+      give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father
+      bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know
+      what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They
+      were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were
+      not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent
+      off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten
+      miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here
+      soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their
+      intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
+      mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I
+      hardly know what I have written.”
+
+      Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely
+      knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter
+      instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost
+      impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than
+      the conclusion of the first.
+
+      “By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
+      letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
+      confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
+      for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
+      write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
+      Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
+      would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place,
+      for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to
+      Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton
+      the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s
+      short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were
+      going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing
+      his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia
+      at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking
+      the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did
+      trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering
+      that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the
+      chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this
+      is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not
+      what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side
+      London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
+      them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and
+      Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to
+      pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn,
+      and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to
+      his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one
+      can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very
+      great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think
+      so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for
+      them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first
+      plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young
+      woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
+      her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however,
+      that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he
+      shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W.
+      was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and
+      keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but
+      this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my
+      life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having
+      concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence,
+      one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have
+      been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as
+      the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return?
+      I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if
+      inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have
+      just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I
+      cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as
+      possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not
+      afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to
+      ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
+      Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I
+      am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him
+      to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel
+      Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In
+      such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be
+      everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I
+      must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
+
+      “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her
+      seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him,
+      without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she
+      reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy
+      appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and
+      before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind
+      every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily
+      exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
+      Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I
+      have not an instant to lose.”
+
+      “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
+      politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a
+      minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.
+      Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
+
+      Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she
+      felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
+      Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though
+      in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to
+      fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
+
+      On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself,
+      and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to
+      leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and
+      commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could
+      take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you
+      one? You are very ill.”
+
+      “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.
+      “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only
+      distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from
+      Longbourn.”
+
+      She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes
+      could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could
+      only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her
+      in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just
+      had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be
+      concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her
+      friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.
+      Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him
+      too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
+      nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”
+
+      Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in
+      a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_
+      who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it
+      only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his
+      character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
+      all—all too late now.”
+
+      “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it
+      certain—absolutely certain?”
+
+      “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were
+      traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not
+      gone to Scotland.”
+
+      “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
+      her?”
+
+      “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my
+      uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in
+      half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that
+      nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are
+      they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is
+      every way horrible!”
+
+      Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
+
+      “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known
+      what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of
+      doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
+
+      Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was
+      walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow
+      contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and
+      instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything _must_
+      sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of
+      the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but
+      the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to
+      her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the
+      contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
+      wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have
+      loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
+
+      But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
+      Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,
+      soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with
+      her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else;
+      and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a
+      sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a
+      manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise
+      restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my
+      absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but
+      real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
+      could be either said or done on my part that might offer
+      consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with
+      vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.
+      This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having
+      the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
+
+      “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say
+      that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the
+      unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be
+      long.”
+
+      He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow
+      for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was
+      at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her
+      relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
+
+      As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that
+      they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality
+      as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she
+      threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their
+      acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at
+      the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted
+      its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its
+      termination.
+
+      If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
+      Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor
+      faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is
+      unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often
+      described as arising on a first interview with its object, and
+      even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in
+      her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the
+      latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill
+      success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less
+      interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
+      with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy
+      must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that
+      wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had
+      she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one
+      but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an
+      expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this
+      development. While the contents of the first letter remained in
+      her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham
+      should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for
+      money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
+      incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an
+      attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though
+      she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an
+      elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no
+      difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her
+      understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
+
+      She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,
+      that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that
+      Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody.
+      Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite,
+      as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections
+      had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The
+      mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a
+      girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
+
+      She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot
+      to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon
+      her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable
+      of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost
+      persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s
+      interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered
+      the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had
+      hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that
+      their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly
+      on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
+      summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the
+      postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had
+      never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not
+      but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned
+      in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror,
+      Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth,
+      though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude;
+      and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating
+      to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as
+      soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried
+      Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
+      us; was it so?”
+
+      “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our
+      engagement. _That_ is all settled.”
+
+      “That is all settled;” repeated the other, as she ran into her
+      room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to
+      disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
+
+      But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her
+      in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth
+      been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that
+      all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but
+      she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst
+      the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at
+      Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour,
+      however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile
+      having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be
+      done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the
+      morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
+      have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to
+      Longbourn.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 47
+
+      “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,
+      as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious
+      consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as
+      your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very
+      unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a
+      girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was
+      actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly
+      inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would
+      not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
+      regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His
+      temptation is not adequate to the risk!”
+
+      “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a
+      moment.
+
+      “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your
+      uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,
+      honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so
+      very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him
+      up, as to believe him capable of it?”
+
+      “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
+      neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!
+      But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if
+      that had been the case?”
+
+      “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute
+      proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”
+
+      “Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is
+      such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be
+      found on the Barnet road.”
+
+      “Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
+      though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional
+      purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on
+      either side; and it might strike them that they could be more
+      economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than
+      in Scotland.”
+
+      “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
+      their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His
+      most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded
+      of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a
+      woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims
+      has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good
+      humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of
+      benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
+      apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
+      dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I
+      know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But
+      as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good.
+      Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from
+      my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little
+      attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in
+      his family, that _he_ would do as little, and think as little
+      about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”
+
+      “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love
+      of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than
+      marriage?”
+
+      “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied
+      Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of
+      decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,
+      really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her
+      justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to
+      think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a
+      twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and
+      vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most
+      idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in
+      her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton,
+      nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head.
+      She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and
+      talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?
+      susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively
+      enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person
+      and address that can captivate a woman.”
+
+      “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very
+      ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”
+
+      “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever
+      might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of
+      such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane
+      knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that
+      he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has
+      neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful
+      as he is insinuating.”
+
+      “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
+      curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
+
+      “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the
+      other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you
+      yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke
+      of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality
+      towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at
+      liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about
+      the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss
+      Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved,
+      disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must
+      know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
+      her.”
+
+      “But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what
+      you and Jane seem so well to understand?”
+
+      “Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and
+      saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel
+      Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I
+      returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or
+      fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I
+      related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our
+      knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any
+      one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him
+      should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that
+      Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her
+      eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
+      in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such
+      a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was
+      far enough from my thoughts.”
+
+      “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,
+      I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
+
+      “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on
+      either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you
+      must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be
+      thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready
+      enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near
+      Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months;
+      but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention;
+      and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
+      wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the
+      regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
+      favourites.”
+
+      It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could
+      be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this
+      interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could
+      detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From
+      Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the
+      keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval
+      of ease or forgetfulness.
+
+      They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one
+      night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day.
+      It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not
+      have been wearied by long expectations.
+
+      The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were
+      standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;
+      and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise
+      that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their
+      whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first
+      pleasing earnest of their welcome.
+
+      Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty
+      kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running
+      down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.
+
+      Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears
+      filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether
+      anything had been heard of the fugitives.
+
+      “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I
+      hope everything will be well.”
+
+      “Is my father in town?”
+
+      “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
+
+      “And have you heard from him often?”
+
+      “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday
+      to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his
+      directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely
+      added that he should not write again till he had something of
+      importance to mention.”
+
+      “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”
+
+      “My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are
+      greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction
+      in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary
+      and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.”
+
+      “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much
+      you must have gone through!”
+
+      Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and
+      their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.
+      Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to
+      by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and
+      aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles
+      and tears.
+
+      When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which
+      Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the
+      others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to
+      give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence
+      of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still
+      expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would
+      bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain
+      their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few
+      minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be
+      expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives
+      against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her
+      own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to
+      whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must
+      principally be owing.
+
+      “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to
+      Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but
+      poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the
+      Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was
+      some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the
+      kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked
+      after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge
+      of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And
+      now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
+      Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and
+      what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out
+      before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,
+      brother, I do not know what we shall do.”
+
+      They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,
+      after general assurances of his affection for her and all her
+      family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,
+      and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering
+      Lydia.
+
+      “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right
+      to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it
+      as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a
+      few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know
+      that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not
+      let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I
+      shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to
+      Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what
+      is to be done.”
+
+      “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what
+      I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find
+      them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married
+      already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not
+      let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much
+      money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And,
+      above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a
+      dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and
+      have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms
+      in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
+      I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not
+      to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,
+      for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
+      how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”
+
+      But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest
+      endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation
+      to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with
+      her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left
+      her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in
+      the absence of her daughters.
+
+      Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no
+      real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not
+      attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence
+      enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited
+      at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household,
+      and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her
+      fears and solicitude on the subject.
+
+      In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who
+      had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make
+      their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other
+      from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably
+      calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss
+      of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself
+      incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than
+      usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress
+      enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of
+      grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
+
+      “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much
+      talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the
+      wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”
+
+      Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
+      added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from
+      it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is
+      irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;
+      that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and
+      that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the
+      undeserving of the other sex.”
+
+      Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much
+      oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console
+      herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before
+      them.
+
+      In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
+      half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed
+      herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane
+      was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general
+      lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which
+      Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could
+      not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
+      subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it
+      which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What
+      did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything
+      before the elopement took place? They must have seen them
+      together for ever.”
+
+      “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some
+      partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him
+      any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive
+      and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure
+      us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone
+      to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened
+      his journey.”
+
+      “And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he
+      know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny
+      himself?”
+
+      “Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing
+      anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion
+      about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
+      marrying—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have
+      been misunderstood before.”
+
+      “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you
+      entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”
+
+      “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I
+      felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness
+      with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not
+      been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of
+      that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then
+      owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest
+      of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such
+      a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each
+      other, many weeks.”
+
+      “But not before they went to Brighton?”
+
+      “No, I believe not.”
+
+      “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself?
+      Does he know his real character?”
+
+      “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he
+      formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.
+      And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he
+      left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”
+
+      “Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of
+      him, this could not have happened!”
+
+      “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to
+      expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their
+      present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the
+      best intentions.”
+
+      “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to
+      his wife?”
+
+      “He brought it with him for us to see.”
+
+      Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.
+      These were the contents:
+
+      “My dear Harriet,
+      “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
+      laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I
+      am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess
+      with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man
+      in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy
+      without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send
+      them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it
+      will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign
+      my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can
+      hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not
+      keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I
+      hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
+      dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I
+      shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you
+      would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown
+      before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel
+      Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
+
+      “Your affectionate friend,
+      “LYDIA BENNET.”
+
+      “Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she
+      had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a
+      moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the
+      subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade
+      her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor
+      father! how he must have felt it!”
+
+      “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for
+      full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the
+      whole house in such confusion!”
+
+      “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it
+      who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”
+
+      “I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a
+      time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I
+      endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid
+      I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what
+      might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”
+
+      “Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not
+      look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care
+      and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
+
+      “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in
+      every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either
+      of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,
+      that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt
+      Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away;
+      and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of
+      great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very
+      kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us,
+      and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they
+      should be of use to us.”
+
+      “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps
+      she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one
+      cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is
+      impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at
+      a distance, and be satisfied.”
+
+      She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father
+      had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his
+      daughter.
+
+      “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place
+      where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if
+      anything could be made out from them. His principal object must
+      be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them
+      from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he
+      thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing
+      from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make
+      enquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house
+      the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make
+      enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out
+      the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other
+      designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be
+      gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had
+      difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 48
+
+      The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the
+      next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line
+      from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a
+      most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time
+      they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he
+      had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of _that_ they
+      would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only
+      for the letters before he set off.
+
+      When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving
+      constant information of what was going on, and their uncle
+      promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to
+      Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his
+      sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband’s
+      not being killed in a duel.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a
+      few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be
+      serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs.
+      Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of
+      freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and
+      always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening
+      them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh
+      instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom
+      went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
+      them.
+
+      All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three
+      months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared
+      to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues,
+      all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into
+      every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the
+      wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out
+      that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness.
+      Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said,
+      believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin
+      more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it,
+      became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
+      when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
+      entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained
+      some news of them.
+
+      Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife
+      received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he
+      had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come
+      to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and
+      Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory
+      information; and that he was now determined to enquire at all the
+      principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they
+      might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,
+      before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not
+      expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
+      eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that
+      Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London
+      and promised to write again very soon. There was also a
+      postscript to this effect:
+
+      “I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
+      possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment,
+      whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be
+      likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself.
+      If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability
+      of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential
+      consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel
+      Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy
+      us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could
+      tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other
+      person.”
+
+      Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference
+      to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give
+      any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment
+      deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations,
+      except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many
+      years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in
+      the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though
+      she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a
+      something to look forward to.
+
+      Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most
+      anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival
+      of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience.
+      Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be
+      communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some
+      news of importance.
+
+      But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived
+      for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins;
+      which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for
+      him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew
+      what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and
+      read it likewise. It was as follows:
+
+      “My dear Sir,
+      “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
+      in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are
+      now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a
+      letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.
+      Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your
+      respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of
+      the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time
+      can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can
+      alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a
+      circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a
+      parent’s mind. The death of your daughter would have been a
+      blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be
+      lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
+      informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your
+      daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence;
+      though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and
+      Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must
+      be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity,
+      at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to
+      be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins,
+      but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have
+      related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this
+      false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
+      all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself
+      condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?
+      And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with
+      augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for
+      had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your
+      sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console
+      yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
+      from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of
+      her own heinous offense.
+
+      “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”
+
+      Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer
+      from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant
+      nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single
+      relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was
+      certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances
+      had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did
+      not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any
+      of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as
+      likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his
+      own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in
+      addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it
+      had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
+      very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than
+      a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at
+      Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour
+      were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to
+      conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard
+      them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly
+      unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”
+
+      Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see
+      their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday.
+      Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours,
+      he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would
+      return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion
+      might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When
+      Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much
+      satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her
+      anxiety for his life had been before.
+
+      “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried.
+      “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is
+      to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”
+
+      As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that
+      she and the children should go to London, at the same time that
+      Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the
+      first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to
+      Longbourn.
+
+      Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and
+      her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the
+      world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them
+      by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs.
+      Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from
+      him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her
+      return that could come from Pemberley.
+
+      The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse
+      for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore,
+      could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who
+      was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings,
+      was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she
+      could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It
+      would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of
+      two.
+
+      When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
+      philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in
+      the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had
+      taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had
+      courage to speak of it.
+
+      It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea,
+      that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on
+      her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured,
+      he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself?
+      It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”
+
+      “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.
+
+      “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so
+      prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how
+      much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered
+      by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”
+
+      “Do you suppose them to be in London?”
+
+      “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
+
+      “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.
+
+      “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence
+      there will probably be of some duration.”
+
+      Then after a short silence he continued:
+
+      “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice
+      to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some
+      greatness of mind.”
+
+      They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her
+      mother’s tea.
+
+      “This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such
+      an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will
+      sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as
+      much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty
+      runs away.”
+
+      “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If _I_
+      should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”
+
+      “_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as
+      Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to
+      be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is
+      ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the
+      village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up
+      with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors
+      till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day
+      in a rational manner.”
+
+      Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to
+      cry.
+
+      “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are
+      a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review
+      at the end of them.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 49
+
+      Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were
+      walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the
+      housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to
+      call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead
+      of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to
+      Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but
+      I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I
+      took the liberty of coming to ask.”
+
+      “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”
+
+      “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you
+      know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He
+      has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”
+
+      Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.
+      They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from
+      thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were
+      on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when
+      they were met by the butler, who said:
+
+      “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards
+      the little copse.”
+
+      Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall
+      once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was
+      deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of
+      the paddock.
+
+      Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
+      Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for
+      breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
+
+      “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”
+
+      “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
+
+      “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”
+
+      “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the
+      letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
+
+      Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
+
+      “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself
+      what it is about.”
+
+      “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.
+
+      “My dear Brother,
+      “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
+      as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon
+      after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out
+      in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till
+      we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen
+      them both—”
+          “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are
+          married!”
+
+      Elizabeth read on:
+
+      “I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
+      there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to
+      perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your
+      side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
+      required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,
+      her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your
+      children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
+      moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during
+      your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
+      which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying
+      with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall
+      send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me
+      your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,
+      that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are
+      generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that
+      respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,
+      even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in
+      addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case,
+      you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole
+      of this business, I will immediately give directions to
+      Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be
+      the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore
+      stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care.
+      Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write
+      explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be
+      married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She
+      comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more
+      is determined on. Yours, etc.,
+
+      “EDW. GARDINER.”
+
+      “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it
+      be possible that he will marry her?”
+
+      “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said
+      her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”
+
+      “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.
+
+      “No; but it must be done soon.”
+
+      Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time
+      before he wrote.
+
+      “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write
+      immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a
+      case.”
+
+      “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
+      yourself.”
+
+      “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”
+
+      And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the
+      house.
+
+      “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must
+      be complied with.”
+
+      “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”
+
+      “And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”
+
+      “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But
+      there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how
+      much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the
+      other, how am I ever to pay him.”
+
+      “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”
+
+      “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight
+      a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty
+      after I am gone.”
+
+      “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred
+      to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to
+      remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I
+      am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all
+      this.”
+
+      “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a
+      farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to
+      think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”
+
+      “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
+      repaid?”
+
+      Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,
+      continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then
+      went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the
+      breakfast-room.
+
+      “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as
+      they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we
+      are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their
+      chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are
+      forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
+
+      “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he
+      certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for
+      her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing
+      him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like
+      it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have
+      more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”
+
+      “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”
+      said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our
+      sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for
+      them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness
+      of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her
+      home, and affording her their personal protection and
+      countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of
+      gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually
+      with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she
+      will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
+      first sees my aunt!”
+
+      “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”
+      said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His
+      consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is
+      come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will
+      steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,
+      and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past
+      imprudence forgotten.”
+
+      “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither
+      you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of
+      it.”
+
+      It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
+      likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to
+      the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would
+      not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and,
+      without raising his head, coolly replied:
+
+      “Just as you please.”
+
+      “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”
+
+      “Take whatever you like, and get away.”
+
+      Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went
+      up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:
+      one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight
+      preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet
+      could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr.
+      Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst
+      forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She
+      was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever
+      been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
+      would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
+      felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
+
+      “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She
+      will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at
+      sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he
+      would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear
+      Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write
+      to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run
+      down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,
+      stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will
+      put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we
+      shall be together when we meet!”
+
+      Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the
+      violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the
+      obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under.
+
+      “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a
+      great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
+      pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”
+
+      “Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it
+      but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and
+      my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the
+      first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few
+      presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a
+      daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was
+      only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter,
+      that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write
+      for me. We will settle with your father about the money
+      afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”
+
+      She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,
+      and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful
+      orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her
+      to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s
+      delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother
+      was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes,
+      too, came into her head.
+
+      “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and
+      tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come
+      back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and
+      order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I
+      am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here
+      comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss
+      Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of
+      punch to make merry at her wedding.”
+
+      Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received
+      her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this
+      folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with
+      freedom.
+
+      Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it
+      was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and
+      though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor
+      worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in
+      looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she
+      felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 50
+
+      Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life
+      that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an
+      annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his
+      wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had
+      he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been
+      indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now
+      be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of
+      the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband
+      might then have rested in its proper place.
+
+      He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to
+      anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his
+      brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out
+      the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as
+      soon as he could.
+
+      When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be
+      perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The
+      son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should
+      be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means
+      be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world,
+      but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years
+      after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event
+      had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be
+      saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s
+      love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
+      income.
+
+      Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.
+      Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be
+      divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents.
+      This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now
+      to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in
+      acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful
+      acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed
+      most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
+      approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil
+      the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before
+      supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his
+      daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to
+      himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten
+      pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them;
+      for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual
+      presents in money which passed to her through her mother’s hands,
+      Lydia’s expenses had been very little within that sum.
+
+      That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,
+      too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present
+      was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When
+      the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in
+      seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former
+      indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory
+      in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged
+      to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his
+      brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
+
+      The good news spread quickly through the house, and with
+      proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in
+      the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been
+      more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come
+      upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded
+      from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to
+      be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her
+      well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old
+      ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this
+      change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
+      was considered certain.
+
+      It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on
+      this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table,
+      and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a
+      damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been
+      the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on
+      the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran
+      wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new
+      carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the
+      neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,
+      without knowing or considering what their income might be,
+      rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
+
+      “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit
+      it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger;
+      but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten
+      miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”
+
+      Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
+      servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:
+      “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your
+      son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into
+      _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have
+      admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by
+      receiving them at Longbourn.”
+
+      A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was
+      firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with
+      amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea
+      to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should
+      receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion.
+      Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be
+      carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse
+      his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would
+      scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She
+      was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must
+      reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at
+      her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took
+      place.
+
+      Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the
+      distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted
+      with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so
+      shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might
+      hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who
+      were not immediately on the spot.
+
+      She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There
+      were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently
+      depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge
+      of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not,
+      however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to
+      herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between
+      them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable
+      terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect
+      himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now
+      be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a
+      man whom he so justly scorned.
+
+      From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink.
+      The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself
+      of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation
+      survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved;
+      she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous
+      of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by
+      it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance
+      of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have
+      been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should
+      meet.
+
+      What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that
+      the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago,
+      would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was
+      as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex;
+      but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.
+
+      She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
+      disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding
+      and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her
+      wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of
+      both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been
+      softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement,
+      information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received
+      benefit of greater importance.
+
+      But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude
+      what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different
+      tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon
+      to be formed in their family.
+
+      How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable
+      independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent
+      happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together
+      because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could
+      easily conjecture.
+
+      Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s
+      acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his
+      eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and
+      concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be
+      mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was
+      to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the
+      militia.
+
+      “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon
+      as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,
+      in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable,
+      both on his account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention
+      to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are
+      still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He
+      has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——’s regiment, now
+      quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from
+      this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among
+      different people, where they may each have a character to
+      preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to
+      Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and
+      to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr.
+      Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment,
+      for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the
+      trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in
+      Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his
+      information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he
+      has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will
+      be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless
+      they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
+      Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before
+      she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully
+      remembered to you and her mother.—Yours, etc.,
+
+      “E. GARDINER.”
+
+      Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s
+      removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But
+      Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being
+      settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure
+      and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her
+      plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe
+      disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia
+      should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with
+      everybody, and had so many favourites.
+
+      “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite
+      shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young
+      men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so
+      pleasant in General ——’s regiment.”
+
+      His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being
+      admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
+      received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
+      who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings
+      and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by
+      her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so
+      mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as
+      they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they
+      thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the
+      satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her
+      married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to
+      the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore,
+      he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that
+      as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to
+      Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should
+      consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own
+      inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object
+      of her wishes.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 51
+
+      Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt
+      for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was
+      sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by
+      dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets,
+      and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would
+      have attended herself, had _she_ been the culprit, and was
+      wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
+
+      They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to
+      receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the
+      carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably
+      grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
+
+      Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown
+      open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,
+      embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with
+      an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and
+      wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of
+      their happiness.
+
+      Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was
+      not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;
+      and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young
+      couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was
+      disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia
+      still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned
+      from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when
+      at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took
+      notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a
+      laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
+
+      Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his
+      manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his
+      marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy
+      address, while he claimed their relationship, would have
+      delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite
+      equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within
+      herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an
+      impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
+      the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of
+      colour.
+
+      There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could
+      neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to
+      sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in
+      that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very
+      unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have
+      the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was
+      recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects
+      which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
+
+      “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went
+      away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been
+      things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went
+      away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came
+      back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
+
+      Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth
+      looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
+      anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,
+      “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I
+      was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in
+      his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let
+      down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let
+      my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the
+      ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”
+
+      Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the
+      room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through
+      the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough
+      to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right
+      hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take
+      your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married
+      woman.”
+
+      It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
+      embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.
+      Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.
+      Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to
+      hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the
+      mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of
+      being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
+
+      “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the
+      breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a
+      charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope
+      they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton.
+      That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we
+      did not all go.”
+
+      “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I
+      don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
+
+      “Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
+      things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.
+      We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there
+      will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for
+      them all.”
+
+      “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
+
+      “And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my
+      sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them
+      before the winter is over.”
+
+      “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I
+      do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”
+
+      Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.
+      Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he
+      was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
+
+      No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so
+      short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with
+      her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These
+      parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even
+      more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.
+
+      Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had
+      expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had
+      scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the
+      reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the
+      strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have
+      wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope
+      with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was
+      rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were
+      the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of
+      having a companion.
+
+      Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on
+      every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He
+      did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill
+      more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the
+      country.
+
+      One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
+      her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
+
+      “Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe.
+      You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.
+      Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”
+
+      “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too
+      little said on the subject.”
+
+      “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We
+      were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s
+      lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should
+      all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to
+      go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well,
+      Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,
+      you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I
+      should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the
+      time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she
+      was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
+      ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I
+      longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”
+
+      “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would
+      never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my
+      uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with
+      them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of
+      doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme,
+      or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the
+      Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came
+      to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that
+      horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
+      together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did
+      not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
+      were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But,
+      luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all
+      set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he _had_ been
+      prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy
+      might have done as well.”
+
+      “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
+
+      “Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But
+      gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word
+      about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say?
+      It was to be such a secret!”
+
+      “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
+      subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
+
+      “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
+      “we will ask you no questions.”
+
+      “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell
+      you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”
+
+      On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out
+      of her power, by running away.
+
+      But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at
+      least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had
+      been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly
+      among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least
+      temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and
+      wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none.
+      Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the
+      noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such
+      suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short
+      letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had
+      dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
+      intended.
+
+      “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must
+      be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and
+      (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have
+      been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me
+      understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in
+      the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must
+      endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”
+
+      “Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she
+      finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in
+      an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and
+      stratagems to find it out.”
+
+      Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
+      Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was
+      glad of it;—till it appeared whether her enquiries would receive
+      any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 52
+
+      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her
+      letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in
+      possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she
+      was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the
+      benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter
+      convinced her that it did not contain a denial.
+
+      “Gracechurch Street, _Sept_. 6.
+
+      “My dear Niece,
+
+      “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
+      morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing
+      will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
+      surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
+      Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know
+      that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
+      side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
+      impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing
+      but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed
+      him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
+      ignorant, I must be more explicit.
+
+      “On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had
+      a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with
+      him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my
+      curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have
+      been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where
+      your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked
+      with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can
+      collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and
+      came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive
+      professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that
+      Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it
+      impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in
+      him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
+      confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his
+      private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for
+      itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and
+      endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.
+      If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace
+      him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
+      discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which
+      was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another
+      reason for his resolving to follow us.
+
+      “There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
+      governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on
+      some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She
+      then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since
+      maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he
+      knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for
+      intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or
+      three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would
+      not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,
+      for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham
+      indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
+      she been able to receive them into her house, they would have
+      taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind
+      friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street.
+      He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His
+      first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her
+      to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
+      friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
+      offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found
+      Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
+      for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not
+      hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some
+      time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were
+      her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and
+      expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with
+      Wickham, he easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He
+      confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of
+      some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not
+      to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own
+      folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and
+      as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about
+      it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew
+      he should have nothing to live on.
+
+      “Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once.
+      Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have
+      been able to do something for him, and his situation must have
+      been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this
+      question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
+      effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country.
+      Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
+      against the temptation of immediate relief.
+
+      “They met several times, for there was much to be discussed.
+      Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length
+      was reduced to be reasonable.
+
+      “Everything being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step
+      was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
+      Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr.
+      Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further
+      enquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town
+      the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person
+      whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore
+      readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the
+      former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was
+      only known that a gentleman had called on business.
+
+      “On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at
+      home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk
+      together.
+
+      “They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not
+      all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was
+      sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I
+      fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,
+      after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times,
+      but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did
+      not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be
+      thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most
+      readily have settled the whole.
+
+      “They battled it together for a long time, which was more than
+      either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at
+      last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed
+      to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having
+      the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain;
+      and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great
+      pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him
+      of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due.
+      But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at
+      most.
+
+      “You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the
+      young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to
+      considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in
+      addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission
+      purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone,
+      was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
+      reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s
+      character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had
+      been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
+      in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_
+      reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all
+      this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured
+      that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him
+      credit for _another interest_ in the affair.
+
+      “When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends,
+      who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he
+      should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and
+      all money matters were then to receive the last finish.
+
+      “I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation
+      which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least
+      it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and
+      Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was exactly
+      what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would
+      not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
+      while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter
+      last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
+      piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no
+      fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious
+      manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
+      done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If
+      she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not
+      listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my
+      dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with
+      her.
+
+      “Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
+      attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to
+      leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry
+      with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying
+      (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him.
+      His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as
+      when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all
+      please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and
+      _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach him. I
+      thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
+      slyness seems the fashion.
+
+      “Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do
+      not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be
+      quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton,
+      with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.
+
+      “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this
+      half hour.
+
+      “Yours, very sincerely,
+      “M. GARDINER.”
+
+      The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of
+      spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure
+      or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled
+      suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might
+      have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had
+      feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be
+      probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain
+      of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be
+      true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on
+      himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a
+      research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman
+      whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to
+      meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe,
+      the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name
+      it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a
+      girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did
+      whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
+      checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
+      vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection
+      for her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to
+      overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
+      relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind
+      of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure,
+      done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a
+      reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch
+      of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
+      wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;
+      and though she would not place herself as his principal
+      inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality
+      for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of
+      mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly
+      painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who
+      could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,
+      her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she
+      grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,
+      every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself
+      she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
+      of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of
+      himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and
+      again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
+      sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding
+      how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that
+      affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
+
+      She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s
+      approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
+      overtaken by Wickham.
+
+      “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”
+      said he, as he joined her.
+
+      “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not
+      follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
+
+      “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good
+      friends; and now we are better.”
+
+      “True. Are the others coming out?”
+
+      “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage
+      to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and
+      aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”
+
+      She replied in the affirmative.
+
+      “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be
+      too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle.
+      And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she
+      was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my
+      name to you.”
+
+      “Yes, she did.”
+
+      “And what did she say?”
+
+      “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not
+      turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things
+      are strangely misrepresented.”
+
+      “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
+      silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
+
+      “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each
+      other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”
+
+      “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
+      Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at
+      this time of year.”
+
+      “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I
+      thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”
+
+      “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
+
+      “And do you like her?”
+
+      “Very much.”
+
+      “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within
+      this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very
+      promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out
+      well.”
+
+      “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”
+
+      “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”
+
+      “I do not recollect that we did.”
+
+      “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have
+      had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would
+      have suited me in every respect.”
+
+      “How should you have liked making sermons?”
+
+      “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my
+      duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought
+      not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing
+      for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have
+      answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you
+      ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
+
+      “I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that
+      it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the
+      present patron.”
+
+      “You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from
+      the first, you may remember.”
+
+      “I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was
+      not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you
+      actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and
+      that the business had been compromised accordingly.”
+
+      “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may
+      remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of
+      it.”
+
+      They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked
+      fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to
+      provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:
+
+      “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not
+      let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be
+      always of one mind.”
+
+      She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,
+      though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 53
+
+      Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation
+      that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear
+      sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
+      pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
+
+      The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
+      was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no
+      means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle,
+      was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
+
+      “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”
+
+      “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”
+
+      “Write to me very often, my dear.”
+
+      “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
+      time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have
+      nothing else to do.”
+
+      Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.
+      He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
+
+      “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
+      out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and
+      makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even
+      Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”
+
+      The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several
+      days.
+
+      “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as
+      parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”
+
+      “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a
+      daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied
+      that your other four are single.”
+
+      “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is
+      married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so
+      far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so
+      soon.”
+
+      But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was
+      shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of
+      hope, by an article of news which then began to be in
+      circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders
+      to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in
+      a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was
+      quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook
+      her head by turns.
+
+      “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for
+      Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the
+      better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,
+      you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But,
+      however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes
+      it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that is nothing to us.
+      You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word
+      about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”
+
+      “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was
+      in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself
+      on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was
+      certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very
+      likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me,
+      on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got
+      three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”
+
+      Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without
+      changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his
+      name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together,
+      she said:
+
+      “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the
+      present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t
+      imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the
+      moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure
+      you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or
+      pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we
+      shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of _myself_, but
+      I dread other people’s remarks.”
+
+      Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him
+      in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming
+      there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she
+      still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the
+      greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend’s
+      permission, or being bold enough to come without it.
+
+      “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man
+      cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
+      raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”
+
+      In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
+      her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could
+      easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were
+      more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.
+
+      The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
+      parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
+
+      “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,
+      “you will wait on him of course.”
+
+      “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,
+      if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it
+      ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand
+      again.”
+
+      His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
+      attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
+      returning to Netherfield.
+
+      “’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our
+      society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not
+      spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they
+      go away and come back again.”
+
+      “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do
+      not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him
+      to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the
+      Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there
+      will be just room at table for him.”
+
+      Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
+      husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that
+      her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it,
+      before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—
+
+      “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her
+      sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
+      indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
+      talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one
+      can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be,
+      when his stay at Netherfield is over!”
+
+      “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;
+      “but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the
+      usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied
+      me, because you have always so much.”
+
+      Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of
+      servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the
+      period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as
+      it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their
+      invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on
+      the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw
+      him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride
+      towards the house.
+
+      Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane
+      resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy
+      her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with
+      him, and sat down again by her sister.
+
+      “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it
+      be?”
+
+      “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do
+      not know.”
+
+      “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be
+      with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
+
+      “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any
+      friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure;
+      but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”
+
+      Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but
+      little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the
+      awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost
+      for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both
+      sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and
+      of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her
+      dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only
+      as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them.
+      But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
+      suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew
+      Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment
+      towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she
+      had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own
+      more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole
+      family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she
+      regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at
+      least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her
+      astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to
+      Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to
+      what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in
+      Derbyshire.
+
+      The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half
+      a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added
+      lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that
+      his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would
+      not be secure.
+
+      “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be
+      early enough for expectation.”
+
+      She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without
+      daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them
+      to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the
+      door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than
+      Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour
+      increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a
+      propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of
+      resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
+
+      Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and
+      sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not
+      often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He
+      looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been
+      used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at
+      Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be
+      what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not
+      an improbable, conjecture.
+
+      Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short
+      period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was
+      received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her
+      two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold
+      and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his
+      friend.
+
+      Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the
+      latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
+      irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful
+      degree by a distinction so ill applied.
+
+      Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
+      question which she could not answer without confusion, said
+      scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the
+      reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.
+      There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.
+      But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his
+      voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of
+      curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found
+      him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object
+      but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
+      than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was
+      disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.
+
+      “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he
+      come?”
+
+      She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;
+      and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
+
+      She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.
+
+      “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.
+      Bennet.
+
+      He readily agreed to it.
+
+      “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
+      _did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;
+      but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have
+      happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is
+      married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you
+      have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It
+      was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put
+      in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham,
+      Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said
+      of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was
+      my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
+      make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”
+
+      Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.
+      Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,
+      therefore, she could not tell.
+
+      “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
+      married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr.
+      Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me.
+      They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it
+      seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His
+      regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving
+      the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank
+      Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he
+      deserves.”
+
+      Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
+      misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew
+      from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else
+      had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he
+      meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he
+      believed.
+
+      “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her
+      mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you
+      please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy
+      to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”
+
+      Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
+      attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
+      flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would
+      be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,
+      she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself
+      amends for moments of such painful confusion.
+
+      “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more
+      to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no
+      pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me
+      never see either one or the other again!”
+
+      Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
+      compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from
+      observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the
+      admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had
+      spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be
+      giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she
+      had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though
+      not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should
+      be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she
+      talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that
+      she did not always know when she was silent.
+
+      When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of
+      her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine
+      at Longbourn in a few days time.
+
+      “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for
+      when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family
+      dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you
+      see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did
+      not come back and keep your engagement.”
+
+      Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
+      something of his concern at having been prevented by business.
+      They then went away.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and
+      dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good
+      table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be
+      good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or
+      satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a
+      year.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 54
+
+      As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her
+      spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on
+      those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour
+      astonished and vexed her.
+
+      “Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said
+      she, “did he come at all?”
+
+      She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
+
+      “He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt,
+      when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come
+      hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing,
+      teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”
+
+      Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the
+      approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look,
+      which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than
+      Elizabeth.
+
+      “Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel
+      perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be
+      embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on
+      Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we
+      meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”
+
+      “Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh,
+      Jane, take care.”
+
+      “My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
+      now?”
+
+      “I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in
+      love with you as ever.”
+
+      They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs.
+      Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy
+      schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley,
+      in half an hour’s visit, had revived.
+
+      On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and
+      the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their
+      punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they
+      repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see
+      whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former
+      parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother,
+      occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by
+      herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane
+      happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He
+      placed himself by her.
+
+      Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his
+      friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have
+      imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had
+      she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an
+      expression of half-laughing alarm.
+
+      His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as
+      showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than
+      formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself,
+      Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though
+      she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received
+      pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the
+      animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no
+      cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the
+      table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She
+      knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either,
+      or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to
+      hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they
+      spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner
+      whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of
+      what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she
+      would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him
+      that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of
+      the family.
+
+      She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity
+      of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not
+      pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of
+      conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his
+      entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the
+      drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull
+      to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to
+      their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure
+      for the evening must depend.
+
+      “If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him
+      up for ever.”
+
+      The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
+      answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the
+      table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring
+      out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a
+      single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the
+      gentlemen’s approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her
+      than ever, and said, in a whisper:
+
+      “The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none
+      of them; do we?”
+
+      Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed
+      him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely
+      patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged
+      against herself for being so silly!
+
+      “A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish
+      enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the
+      sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second
+      proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to
+      their feelings!”
+
+      She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
+      coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
+
+      “Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
+
+      “Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
+
+      “And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
+
+      “Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
+      Scarborough, these three weeks.”
+
+      She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to
+      converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her,
+      however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young
+      lady’s whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
+
+      When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the
+      ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined
+      by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a
+      victim to her mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few
+      moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost
+      every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening
+      at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his
+      eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to
+      make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
+      supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of
+      the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
+
+      “Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
+      “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off
+      uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as
+      any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody
+      said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times
+      better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr.
+      Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well
+      done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least.
+      And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.
+      Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what
+      do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have
+      her at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long
+      is as good a creature as ever lived—and her nieces are very
+      pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them
+      prodigiously.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen
+      enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she
+      would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her
+      family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that
+      she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next
+      day, to make his proposals.
+
+      “It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to
+      Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one
+      with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”
+
+      Elizabeth smiled.
+
+      “Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies
+      me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation
+      as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish
+      beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now
+      are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is
+      only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a
+      stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”
+
+      “You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me
+      smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”
+
+      “How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
+
+      “And how impossible in others!”
+
+      “But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
+      acknowledge?”
+
+      “That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all
+      love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth
+      knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not
+      make _me_ your confidante.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 55
+
+      A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone.
+      His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to
+      return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and
+      was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine
+      with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed
+      himself engaged elsewhere.
+
+      “Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”
+
+      He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if
+      she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of
+      waiting on them.
+
+      “Can you come to-morrow?”
+
+      Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
+      invitation was accepted with alacrity.
+
+      He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of
+      them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her
+      dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
+
+      “My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley
+      is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come
+      to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never
+      mind Miss Lizzy’s hair.”
+
+      “We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say
+      Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half
+      an hour ago.”
+
+      “Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be
+      quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”
+
+      But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
+      go down without one of her sisters.
+
+      The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in
+      the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was
+      his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two
+      obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking
+      and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time,
+      without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not
+      observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently
+      said, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me
+      for? What am I to do?”
+
+      “Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat
+      still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious
+      occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here,
+      my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane
+      instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at
+      such premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in
+      to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and
+      called out:
+
+      “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
+
+      Elizabeth was forced to go.
+
+      “We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her
+      mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up
+      stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”
+
+      Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
+      quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then
+      returned into the drawing-room.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was
+      every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her
+      daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable
+      addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged
+      officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with
+      a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to
+      the daughter.
+
+      He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he
+      went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and
+      Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot with
+      her husband.
+
+      After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word
+      passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went
+      to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded,
+      unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously,
+      however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have
+      taken place with that gentleman’s concurrence.
+
+      Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet
+      spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was
+      much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was
+      nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his
+      ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more
+      communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen
+      him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the
+      evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every
+      body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
+      to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon
+      after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards,
+      she could not be wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes.
+
+      But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was
+      finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to
+      fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening
+      the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together
+      over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had
+      this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily
+      turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it
+      all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she thought
+      was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
+      Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who
+      as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering
+      a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.
+
+      Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence
+      would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged,
+      with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in
+      the world.
+
+      “’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve
+      it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”
+
+      Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a
+      warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every
+      sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But
+      she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half
+      that remained to be said for the present.
+
+      “I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on
+      any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her
+      to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father
+      already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give
+      such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much
+      happiness!”
+
+      She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up
+      the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
+
+      Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity
+      and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given
+      them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
+
+      “And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious
+      circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance!
+      the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”
+
+      In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with
+      her father had been short and to the purpose.
+
+      “Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.
+
+      “With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare
+      say.”
+
+      He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good
+      wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily
+      expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They
+      shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came
+      down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own
+      happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being a
+      lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity
+      to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the
+      excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane,
+      and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
+      himself.
+
+      It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the
+      satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet
+      animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever.
+      Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon.
+      Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation
+      in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked
+      to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet
+      joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how
+      really happy he was.
+
+      Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till
+      their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was
+      gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
+
+      “Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”
+
+      Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
+      goodness.
+
+      “You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
+      thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of
+      your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means
+      unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever
+      be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and
+      so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”
+
+      “I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
+      would be unpardonable in _me_.”
+
+      “Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what
+      are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and
+      very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear,
+      dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep
+      all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so,
+      at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I
+      remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into
+      Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you
+      should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
+      ever was seen!”
+
+      Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition
+      her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
+      younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects
+      of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.
+
+      Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
+      Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
+
+      Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
+      Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always
+      remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous
+      neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an
+      invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.
+
+      Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her
+      sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow
+      on anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both
+      of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur.
+      In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth,
+      for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone,
+      Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
+
+      “He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me
+      that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I
+      had not believed it possible.”
+
+      “I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account
+      for it?”
+
+      “It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no
+      friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,
+      since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many
+      respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their
+      brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we
+      shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once
+      were to each other.”
+
+      “That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I
+      ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see
+      you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”
+
+      “Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
+      November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of
+      _my_ being indifferent would have prevented his coming down
+      again!”
+
+      “He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of
+      his modesty.”
+
+      This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his
+      diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good
+      qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed
+      the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most
+      generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a
+      circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
+
+      “I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!”
+      cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and
+      blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there
+      were but such another man for you!”
+
+      “If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy
+      as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can
+      have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and,
+      perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr.
+      Collins in time.”
+
+      The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be
+      long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs.
+      Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the
+      same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
+
+      The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in
+      the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first
+      run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for
+      misfortune.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 56
+
+      One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane
+      had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting
+      together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn
+      to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a
+      chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the
+      morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to
+      that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and
+      neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded
+      it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
+      somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet
+      to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with
+      him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of
+      the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction,
+      till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was
+      Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
+
+      They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
+      astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of
+      Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them,
+      even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
+
+      She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,
+      made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight
+      inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.
+      Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s
+      entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of
+      such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness.
+      After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to
+      Elizabeth,
+
+      “I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
+      mother.”
+
+      Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
+
+      “And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”
+
+      “Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady
+      Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all
+      is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds,
+      walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part
+      of the family.”
+
+      “You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after
+      a short silence.
+
+      “It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but
+      I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.”
+
+      “This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,
+      in summer; the windows are full west.”
+
+      Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,
+      and then added:
+
+      “May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left
+      Mr. and Mrs. Collins well.”
+
+      “Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”
+
+      Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her
+      from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her
+      calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
+
+      Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take
+      some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not
+      very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up,
+      said to Elizabeth,
+
+      “Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
+      wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a
+      turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”
+
+      “Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
+      different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”
+
+      Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
+      attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
+      hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
+      drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be
+      decent looking rooms, walked on.
+
+      Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
+      waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the
+      gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to
+      make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more
+      than usually insolent and disagreeable.
+
+      “How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she
+      looked in her face.
+
+      As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
+      following manner:—
+
+      “You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of
+      my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell
+      you why I come.”
+
+      Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
+
+      “Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to
+      account for the honour of seeing you here.”
+
+      “Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought
+      to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere
+      _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character
+      has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in
+      a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from
+      it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I
+      was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most
+      advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
+      would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew,
+      my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scandalous
+      falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
+      the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for
+      this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”
+
+      “If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth,
+      colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the
+      trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by
+      it?”
+
+      “At once to insist upon having such a report universally
+      contradicted.”
+
+      “Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said
+      Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if,
+      indeed, such a report is in existence.”
+
+      “If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
+      industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such
+      a report is spread abroad?”
+
+      “I never heard that it was.”
+
+      “And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for
+      it?”
+
+      “I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
+      _You_ may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.”
+
+      “This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
+      satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
+
+      “Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
+
+      “It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of
+      his reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of
+      infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to
+      all his family. You may have drawn him in.”
+
+      “If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
+
+      “Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to
+      such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in
+      the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”
+
+      “But you are not entitled to know _mine;_ nor will such behaviour
+      as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”
+
+      “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
+      presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy
+      is engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?”
+
+      “Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
+      he will make an offer to me.”
+
+      Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
+
+      “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
+      infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the
+      favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in
+      their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when
+      the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their
+      marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of
+      no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do
+      you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
+      engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
+      propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his
+      earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”
+
+      “Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there
+      is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall
+      certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt
+      wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you
+      could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on
+      others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination
+      confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And
+      if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”
+
+      “Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it.
+      Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by
+      his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the
+      inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and
+      despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a
+      disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”
+
+      “These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife
+      of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness
+      necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the
+      whole, have no cause to repine.”
+
+      “Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your
+      gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to
+      me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss
+      Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of
+      carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not
+      been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the
+      habit of brooking disappointment.”
+
+      “_That_ will make your ladyship’s situation at present more
+      pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_.”
+
+      “I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and
+      my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the
+      maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s,
+      from respectable, honourable, and ancient—though
+      untitled—families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They
+      are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their
+      respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart
+      pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or
+      fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If
+      you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit
+      the sphere in which you have been brought up.”
+
+      “In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
+      quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s
+      daughter; so far we are equal.”
+
+      “True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother?
+      Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of
+      their condition.”
+
+      “Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew
+      does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”
+
+      “Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”
+
+      Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
+      Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say,
+      after a moment’s deliberation:
+
+      “I am not.”
+
+      Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
+
+      “And will you promise me, never to enter into such an
+      engagement?”
+
+      “I will make no promise of the kind.”
+
+      “Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a
+      more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a
+      belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have
+      given me the assurance I require.”
+
+      “And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be
+      intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship
+      wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you
+      the wished-for promise make _their_ marriage at all more
+      probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing
+      to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
+      Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which
+      you have supported this extraordinary application have been as
+      frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely
+      mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such
+      persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your
+      interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have
+      certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
+      therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”
+
+      “Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
+      objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I
+      am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s
+      infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying
+      her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and
+      uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is _her_
+      husband, who is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his
+      brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the
+      shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”
+
+      “You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully
+      answered. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must
+      beg to return to the house.”
+
+      And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
+      turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
+
+      “You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my
+      nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a
+      connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
+
+      “Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my
+      sentiments.”
+
+      “You are then resolved to have him?”
+
+      “I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that
+      manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
+      without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly
+      unconnected with me.”
+
+      “It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey
+      the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to
+      ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the
+      contempt of the world.”
+
+      “Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,
+      “have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No
+      principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr.
+      Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the
+      indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his
+      marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the
+      world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”
+
+      “And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very
+      well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet,
+      that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I
+      hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry
+      my point.”
+
+      In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
+      door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I
+      take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your
+      mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously
+      displeased.”
+
+      Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
+      ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it
+      herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up
+      stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the
+      dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again
+      and rest herself.
+
+      “She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”
+
+      “She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
+      prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the
+      Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say,
+      and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call
+      on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you,
+      Lizzy?”
+
+      Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
+      acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 57
+
+      The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
+      Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for
+      many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady
+      Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this
+      journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her
+      supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to
+      be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could
+      originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she
+      recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, and
+      _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
+      expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to
+      supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the
+      marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together.
+      And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their
+      communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had
+      reached Lady Catherine), had only set _that_ down as almost
+      certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked forward to as
+      possible at some future time.
+
+      In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not
+      help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of
+      her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of
+      her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to
+      Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew;
+      and how he might take a similar representation of the evils
+      attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She
+      knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his
+      dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he
+      thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
+      was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with
+      _one_, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own,
+      his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions
+      of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to
+      Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good
+      sense and solid reasoning.
+
+      If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had
+      often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a
+      relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to
+      be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case
+      he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way
+      through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to
+      Netherfield must give way.
+
+      “If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come
+      to his friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to
+      understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every
+      wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting
+      me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall
+      soon cease to regret him at all.”
+
+      The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
+      visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied
+      it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs.
+      Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on
+      the subject.
+
+      The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
+      father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
+
+      “Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my
+      room.”
+
+      She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had
+      to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in
+      some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck
+      her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated
+      with dismay all the consequent explanations.
+
+      She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
+      down. He then said,
+
+      “I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
+      exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to
+      know its contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_
+      daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a
+      very important conquest.”
+
+      The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the
+      instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew,
+      instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be
+      pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his
+      letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father
+      continued:
+
+      “You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such
+      matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to
+      discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr.
+      Collins.”
+
+      “From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”
+
+      “Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
+      congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest
+      daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the
+      good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your
+      impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates
+      to yourself, is as follows: ‘Having thus offered you the sincere
+      congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event,
+      let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which
+      we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
+      Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet,
+      after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of
+      her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most
+      illustrious personages in this land.’
+
+      “Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? ‘This young
+      gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the
+      heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble
+      kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these
+      temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of
+      what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this
+      gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to
+      take immediate advantage of.’
+
+      “Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
+      comes out:
+
+      “‘My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to
+      imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on
+      the match with a friendly eye.’
+
+      “_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
+      surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man
+      within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have
+      given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy,
+      who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who
+      probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!”
+
+      Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could
+      only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been
+      directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
+
+      “Are you not diverted?”
+
+      “Oh! yes. Pray read on.”
+
+      “‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her
+      ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual
+      condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it
+      became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on
+      the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what
+      she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give
+      the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her
+      noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
+      hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’
+      Mr. Collins moreover adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin
+      Lydia’s sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only
+      concerned that their living together before the marriage took
+      place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect
+      the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement
+      at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as
+      soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and
+      had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously
+      have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them, as a
+      Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
+      names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of
+      Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his
+      dear Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young
+      olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it.
+      You are not going to be _missish_, I hope, and pretend to be
+      affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make
+      sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”
+
+      “Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
+      strange!”
+
+      “Yes—_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other
+      man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference,
+      and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much
+      as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s
+      correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter
+      of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over
+      Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my
+      son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this
+      report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
+
+      To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as
+      it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not
+      distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at
+      a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was
+      necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father
+      had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s
+      indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want
+      of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too
+      _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 58
+
+      Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend,
+      as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to
+      bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed
+      after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and,
+      before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his
+      aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who
+      wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It
+      was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary
+      could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together.
+      Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip
+      them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were
+      to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
+      was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly
+      forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the
+      same.
+
+      They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call
+      upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a
+      general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him
+      alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and,
+      while her courage was high, she immediately said:
+
+      “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of
+      giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be
+      wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your
+      unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known
+      it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully
+      I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not
+      have merely my own gratitude to express.”
+
+      “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of
+      surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what
+      may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not
+      think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”
+
+      “You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first
+      betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of
+      course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me
+      thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that
+      generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble,
+      and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering
+      them.”
+
+      “If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself
+      alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force
+      to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to
+      deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I
+      believe I thought only of _you_.”
+
+      Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short
+      pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with
+      me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me
+      so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one
+      word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”
+
+      Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and
+      anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and
+      immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand
+      that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the
+      period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude
+      and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this
+      reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;
+      and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
+      warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had
+      Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how
+      well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face,
+      became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and
+      he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she
+      was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
+
+      They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too
+      much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any
+      other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their
+      present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_
+      call on him in her return through London, and there relate her
+      journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her
+      conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every
+      expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s apprehension,
+      peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief
+      that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that
+      promise from her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But,
+      unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly
+      contrariwise.
+
+      “It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed
+      myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be
+      certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided
+      against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine,
+      frankly and openly.”
+
+      Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know
+      enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After
+      abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple
+      in abusing you to all your relations.”
+
+      “What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
+      accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
+      behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It
+      was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
+
+      “We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to
+      that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if
+      strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
+      have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
+
+      “I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of
+      what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions
+      during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,
+      inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I
+      shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike
+      manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely
+      conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I
+      confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
+
+      “I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong
+      an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever
+      felt in such a way.”
+
+      “I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every
+      proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I
+      shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed
+      you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”
+
+      “Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not
+      do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily
+      ashamed of it.”
+
+      Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make
+      you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit
+      to its contents?”
+
+      She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
+      all her former prejudices had been removed.
+
+      “I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it
+      was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was
+      one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your
+      having the power of reading again. I can remember some
+      expressions which might justly make you hate me.”
+
+      “The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential
+      to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason
+      to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I
+      hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”
+
+      “When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself
+      perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
+      written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
+
+      “The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so.
+      The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The
+      feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it,
+      are now so widely different from what they were then, that every
+      unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You
+      must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its
+      remembrance gives you pleasure.”
+
+      “I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
+      retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the
+      contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is
+      much better, of innocence. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful
+      recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be
+      repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice,
+      though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was
+      _right_, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given
+      good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
+      Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_), I was
+      spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father,
+      particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed,
+      encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to
+      care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all
+      the rest of the world; to _wish_ at least to think meanly of
+      their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from
+      eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but
+      for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
+      taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous.
+      By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of
+      my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my
+      pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
+
+      “Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
+
+      “Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you
+      to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
+
+      “My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I
+      assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might
+      often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_
+      evening?”
+
+      “Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began
+      to take a proper direction.”
+
+      “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met
+      at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
+
+      “No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”
+
+      “Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed
+      by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary
+      politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive _more_
+      than my due.”
+
+      “My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every
+      civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the
+      past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill
+      opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended
+      to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly
+      tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
+
+      He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and
+      of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally
+      leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that
+      his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her
+      sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his
+      gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other
+      struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.
+
+      She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a
+      subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
+
+      After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy
+      to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their
+      watches, that it was time to be at home.
+
+      “What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
+      introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted
+      with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest
+      information of it.
+
+      “I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
+
+      “Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
+
+      “That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
+      much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had
+      been pretty much the case.
+
+      “On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
+      confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago.
+      I told him of all that had occurred to make my former
+      interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise
+      was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him,
+      moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had
+      done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could
+      easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt
+      no doubt of their happiness together.”
+
+      Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing
+      his friend.
+
+      “Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you
+      told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information
+      last spring?”
+
+      “From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two
+      visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her
+      affection.”
+
+      “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
+      conviction to him.”
+
+      “It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
+      prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case,
+      but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to
+      confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended
+      him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had
+      been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and
+      purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am
+      persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your
+      sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”
+
+      Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most
+      delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
+      invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had
+      yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to
+      begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course
+      was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation
+      till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 59
+
+      “My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a
+      question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she
+      entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to
+      table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered
+      about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she
+      spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a suspicion
+      of the truth.
+
+      The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary.
+      The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged
+      were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness
+      overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather
+      _knew_ that she was happy than _felt_ herself to be so; for,
+      besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils
+      before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when
+      her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him
+      but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_
+      which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
+
+      At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very
+      far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely
+      incredulous here.
+
+      “You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,
+      no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”
+
+      “This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on
+      you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not.
+      Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He
+      still loves me, and we are engaged.”
+
+      Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know
+      how much you dislike him.”
+
+      “You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot.
+      Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in
+      such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the
+      last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
+
+      Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
+      seriously assured her of its truth.
+
+      “Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,”
+      cried Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate
+      you—but are you certain? forgive the question—are you quite
+      certain that you can be happy with him?”
+
+      “There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already,
+      that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you
+      pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”
+
+      “Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself
+      more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as
+      impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh,
+      Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you
+      quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?”
+
+      “Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do,
+      when I tell you all.”
+
+      “What do you mean?”
+
+      “Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I
+      am afraid you will be angry.”
+
+      “My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very
+      seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without
+      delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?”
+
+      “It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it
+      began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his
+      beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”
+
+      Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
+      desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn
+      assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss
+      Bennet had nothing further to wish.
+
+      “Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as
+      myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his
+      love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as
+      Bingley’s friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and
+      yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very
+      reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at
+      Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another,
+      not to you.”
+
+      Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been
+      unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own
+      feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But
+      now she would no longer conceal from her his share in Lydia’s
+      marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in
+      conversation.
+
+      “Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the
+      next morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here
+      again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so
+      tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he
+      would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us
+      with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk
+      out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”
+
+      Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;
+      yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him
+      such an epithet.
+
+      As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,
+      and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good
+      information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet,
+      have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way
+      again to-day?”
+
+      “I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to
+      walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and
+      Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”
+
+      “It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I
+      am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” Kitty
+      owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
+      curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
+      consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet
+      followed her, saying:
+
+      “I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
+      disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind
+      it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion
+      for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put
+      yourself to inconvenience.”
+
+      During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent
+      should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved
+      to herself the application for her mother’s. She could not
+      determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting
+      whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome
+      her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set
+      against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain
+      that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her
+      sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
+      first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
+      disapprobation.
+
+      In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,
+      she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on
+      seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition,
+      but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be
+      through her means—that _she_, his favourite child, should be
+      distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears
+      and regrets in disposing of her—was a wretched reflection, and
+      she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at
+      him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he
+      approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
+      pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your
+      father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.
+
+      Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
+      “Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your
+      senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”
+
+      How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been
+      more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have
+      spared her from explanations and professions which it was
+      exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she
+      assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
+
+      “Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich,
+      to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages
+      than Jane. But will they make you happy?”
+
+      “Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief
+      of my indifference?”
+
+      “None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of
+      man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
+
+      “I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I
+      love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly
+      amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain
+      me by speaking of him in such terms.”
+
+      “Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the
+      kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything,
+      which he condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are
+      resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of
+      it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be
+      neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your
+      husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively
+      talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal
+      marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My
+      child, let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to
+      respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”
+
+      Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her
+      reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was
+      really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change
+      which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute
+      certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had
+      stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with
+      energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s
+      incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
+
+      “Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no
+      more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not
+      have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
+
+      To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr.
+      Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
+      astonishment.
+
+      “This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every
+      thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s
+      debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will
+      save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle’s
+      doing, I must and _would_ have paid him; but these violent young
+      lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him
+      to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and
+      there will be an end of the matter.”
+
+      He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his
+      reading Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some
+      time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted the room,
+      “If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am
+      quite at leisure.”
+
+      Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and,
+      after half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was
+      able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was
+      too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away;
+      there was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the
+      comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.
+
+      When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she
+      followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect
+      was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat
+      quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under
+      many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard;
+      though not in general backward to credit what was for the
+      advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to
+      any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
+      her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
+
+      “Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy!
+      Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest
+      Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what
+      jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane’s is nothing to
+      it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming
+      man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for
+      my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook
+      it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is
+      charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord!
+      What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”
+
+      This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be
+      doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard
+      only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three
+      minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.
+
+      “My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
+      thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord!
+      And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special
+      licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is
+      particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”
+
+      This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the
+      gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in
+      the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of
+      her relations’ consent, there was still something to be wished
+      for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for
+      Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law
+      that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power
+      to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his
+      opinion.
+
+      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains
+      to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that
+      he was rising every hour in his esteem.
+
+      “I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham,
+      perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband
+      quite as well as Jane’s.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 60
+
+      Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted
+      Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.
+      “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on
+      charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could
+      set you off in the first place?”
+
+      “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the
+      words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in
+      the middle before I knew that I _had_ begun.”
+
+      “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my
+      behaviour to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil,
+      and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain
+      than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
+
+      “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
+
+      “You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little
+      less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference,
+      of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who
+      were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for _your_
+      approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so
+      unlike _them_. Had you not been really amiable, you would have
+      hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise
+      yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your
+      heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
+      courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
+      it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it
+      perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of
+      me—but nobody thinks of _that_ when they fall in love.”
+
+      “Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
+      she was ill at Netherfield?”
+
+      “Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a
+      virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your
+      protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;
+      and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing
+      and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin
+      directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the
+      point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called,
+      and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
+      you look as if you did not care about me?”
+
+      “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no
+      encouragement.”
+
+      “But I was embarrassed.”
+
+      “And so was I.”
+
+      “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
+
+      “A man who had felt less, might.”
+
+      “How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,
+      and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder
+      how long you _would_ have gone on, if you had been left to
+      yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have spoken, if I had not
+      asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to
+      Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too much_, I am afraid; for
+      what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach
+      of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This
+      will never do.”
+
+      “You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly
+      fair. Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us
+      were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for
+      my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your
+      gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of
+      yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, and I was
+      determined at once to know every thing.”
+
+      “Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her
+      happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come
+      down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and
+      be embarrassed? or had you intended any more serious
+      consequence?”
+
+      “My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could,
+      whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or
+      what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were
+      still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession
+      to him which I have since made.”
+
+      “Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what
+      is to befall her?”
+
+      “I am more likely to want  time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
+      ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it
+      shall be done directly.”
+
+      “And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you
+      and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady
+      once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer
+      neglected.”
+
+      From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr.
+      Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs.
+      Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate
+      which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to
+      find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of
+      happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
+
+      “I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to
+      have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of
+      particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You
+      supposed more than really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as
+      you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your
+      imagination in every possible flight which the subject will
+      afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot
+      greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
+      great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and
+      again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to
+      wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round
+      the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world.
+      Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such
+      justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh.
+      Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare
+      from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours,
+      etc.”
+
+      Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;
+      and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr.
+      Collins, in reply to his last.
+
+      “Dear Sir,
+      “I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
+      soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
+      you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has
+      more to give.
+
+      “Yours sincerely, etc.”
+
+      Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
+      marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote
+      even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat
+      all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but
+      she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could
+      not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was
+      deserved.
+
+      The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar
+      information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four
+      sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and
+      all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.
+
+      Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
+      congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family
+      heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The
+      reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine
+      had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her
+      nephew’s letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match,
+      was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a
+      moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to
+      Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must
+      sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr.
+      Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
+      husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could
+      even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on
+      carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed
+      his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James’s, with
+      very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not
+      till Sir William was out of sight.
+
+      Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax
+      on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her
+      sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the
+      familiarity which Bingley’s good humour encouraged, yet, whenever
+      she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him,
+      though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more
+      elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the
+      frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to
+      herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
+      without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings
+      arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of
+      its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked
+      forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from
+      society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and
+      elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 61
+
+      Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs.
+      Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what
+      delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked
+      of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake
+      of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in
+      the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an
+      effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman
+      for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her
+      husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so
+      unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
+      invariably silly.
+
+      Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection
+      for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do.
+      He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least
+      expected.
+
+      Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.
+      So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not
+      desirable even to _his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart.
+      The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an
+      estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and
+      Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were
+      within thirty miles of each other.
+
+      Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her
+      time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what
+      she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not
+      of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the
+      influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and
+      management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From
+      the further disadvantage of Lydia’s society she was of course
+      carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to
+      come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men,
+      her father would never consent to her going.
+
+      Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was
+      necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs.
+      Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix
+      more with the world, but she could still moralize over every
+      morning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons
+      between her sisters’ beauty and her own, it was suspected by her
+      father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.
+
+      As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution
+      from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the
+      conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with
+      whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown
+      to her; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope
+      that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The
+      congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her
+      marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by
+      himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
+      effect:
+
+      “My dear Lizzy,
+      “I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my
+      dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to
+      have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope
+      you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at
+      court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money
+      enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of
+      about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to
+      Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
+
+      “Yours, etc.”
+
+      As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
+      endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and
+      expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her
+      power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy
+      in her own private expences, she frequently sent them. It had
+      always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under
+      the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and
+      heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their
+      support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
+      herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
+      towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even
+      when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was
+      unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to
+      place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more
+      than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into
+      indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and in spite of her
+      youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation
+      which her marriage had given her.
+
+      Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
+      Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his profession.
+      Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone
+      to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they
+      both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley’s good
+      humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of
+      giving them a hint to be gone.
+
+      Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but
+      as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at
+      Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of
+      Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid
+      off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.
+
+      Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the
+      sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able
+      to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had
+      the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first
+      she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her
+      lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had
+      always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her
+      affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind
+      received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By
+      Elizabeth’s instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman
+      may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
+      always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than
+      himself.
+
+      Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her
+      nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her
+      character in her reply to the letter which announced its
+      arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of
+      Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But
+      at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to
+      overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a
+      little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment
+      gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to
+      see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
+      on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods
+      had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,
+      but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
+
+      With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
+      Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were
+      both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons
+      who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of
+      uniting them.
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/AustenNovels/Austen_SenseAndSensibility.txt b/AustenNovels/Austen_SenseAndSensibility.txt
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+++ b/AustenNovels/Austen_SenseAndSensibility.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,12611 @@
+
+Sense and Sensibility
+
+by Jane Austen
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate
+was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
+their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
+respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
+surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single
+man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
+life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her
+death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
+alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received
+into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal
+inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
+bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
+children, the old Gentleman’s days were comfortably spent. His
+attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and
+Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
+interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
+comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
+children added a relish to his existence.
+
+By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
+lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was
+amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
+and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own
+marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
+wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
+so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
+of what might arise to them from their father’s inheriting that
+property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their
+father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
+remaining moiety of his first wife’s fortune was also secured to her
+child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
+
+The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other
+will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so
+unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;—but
+he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
+bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
+and daughters than for himself or his son;—but to his son, and his
+son’s son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as
+to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear
+to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or
+by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the
+benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and
+mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by
+such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three
+years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
+own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh
+all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received
+from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however,
+and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a
+thousand pounds a-piece.
+
+Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was
+cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
+and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce
+of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
+improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
+his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
+thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for
+his widow and daughters.
+
+His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
+Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
+could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
+
+Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
+family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
+such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
+them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
+and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might
+prudently be in his power to do for them.
+
+He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
+and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
+respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
+his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have
+been made still more respectable than he was:—he might even have been
+made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very
+fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of
+himself;—more narrow-minded and selfish.
+
+When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
+increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
+pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The
+prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
+besides the remaining half of his own mother’s fortune, warmed his
+heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. “Yes, he would give
+them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
+be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could
+spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.” He thought of
+it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
+
+No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
+without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
+arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her
+right to come; the house was her husband’s from the moment of his
+father’s decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
+greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation, with only common
+feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;—but in _her_ mind there was
+a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
+the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
+immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with
+any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
+present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of
+other people she could act when occasion required it.
+
+So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
+earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
+arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
+not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the
+propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children
+determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
+with their brother.
+
+Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
+a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
+her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
+enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
+that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
+to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;—her disposition was
+affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
+them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
+one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
+
+Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor’s.
+She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
+joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting:
+she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her
+mother was strikingly great.
+
+Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister’s sensibility; but
+by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each
+other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which
+overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was
+created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their
+sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could
+afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.
+Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she
+could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive
+her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention;
+and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage
+her to similar forbearance.
+
+Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but
+as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne’s romance, without
+having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
+her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
+mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
+As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
+her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
+beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them, with
+some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan
+appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could
+accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation
+was accepted.
+
+A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
+delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,
+no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
+degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
+itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
+and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
+
+Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
+to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
+of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
+dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How
+could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,
+of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
+who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
+relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It
+was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
+between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he
+to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
+money to his half sisters?
+
+“It was my father’s last request to me,” replied her husband, “that I
+should assist his widow and daughters.”
+
+“He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
+was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could
+not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your
+fortune from your own child.”
+
+“He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
+requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
+situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it
+would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could
+hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I
+could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The
+promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be
+done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home.”
+
+“Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something
+need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,” she added, “that when the
+money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will
+marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored
+to our poor little boy—”
+
+“Why, to be sure,” said her husband, very gravely, “that would make
+great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so
+large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for
+instance, it would be a very convenient addition.”
+
+“To be sure it would.”
+
+“Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
+diminished one half.—Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase
+to their fortunes!”
+
+“Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much
+for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is—only half
+blood!—But you have such a generous spirit!”
+
+“I would not wish to do any thing mean,” he replied. “One had rather,
+on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can
+think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly
+expect more.”
+
+“There is no knowing what _they_ may expect,” said the lady, “but we
+are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
+afford to do.”
+
+“Certainly—and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
+a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
+about three thousand pounds on their mother’s death—a very comfortable
+fortune for any young woman.”
+
+“To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
+addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
+them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
+not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
+thousand pounds.”
+
+“That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
+whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
+while she lives, rather than for them—something of the annuity kind I
+mean.—My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
+A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.”
+
+His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
+plan.
+
+“To be sure,” said she, “it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
+pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
+we shall be completely taken in.”
+
+“Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
+purchase.”
+
+“Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
+there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
+and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
+and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not
+aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble
+of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
+old superannuated servants by my father’s will, and it is amazing how
+disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be
+paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
+one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
+no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her
+own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
+unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
+entirely at my mother’s disposal, without any restriction whatever. It
+has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
+not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.”
+
+“It is certainly an unpleasant thing,” replied Mr. Dashwood, “to have
+those kind of yearly drains on one’s income. One’s fortune, as your
+mother justly says, is _not_ one’s own. To be tied down to the regular
+payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
+takes away one’s independence.”
+
+“Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think
+themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
+no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my
+own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any
+thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
+hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.”
+
+“I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
+be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
+be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
+would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
+income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
+year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty
+pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
+money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my
+father.”
+
+“To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
+myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
+all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
+be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
+comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
+and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
+are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
+it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider,
+my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
+and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
+besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
+brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
+pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have
+five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
+for more than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be
+nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any
+servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any
+kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year!
+I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to
+your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be
+much more able to give _you_ something.”
+
+“Upon my word,” said Mr. Dashwood, “I believe you are perfectly right.
+My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
+what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
+my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
+have described. When my mother removes into another house my services
+shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little
+present of furniture too may be acceptable then.”
+
+“Certainly,” returned Mrs. John Dashwood. “But, however, _one_ thing
+must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,
+though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
+linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will
+therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.”
+
+“That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy
+indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
+addition to our own stock here.”
+
+“Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
+belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
+any place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
+Your father thought only of _them_. And I must say this: that you owe
+no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we
+very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything
+in the world to _them_.”
+
+This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
+decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
+absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
+widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as
+his own wife pointed out.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
+disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
+to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
+her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
+exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
+remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
+inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
+to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear
+of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease,
+and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment
+rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother
+would have approved.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
+the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
+earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
+more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
+daughters’ sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
+persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000£ would support her in
+affluence. For their brother’s sake, too, for the sake of his own
+heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his
+merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive
+behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
+was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the
+liberality of his intentions.
+
+The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
+her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
+of her character, which half a year’s residence in her family afforded;
+and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
+affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
+impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
+circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
+the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters’ continuance at
+Norland.
+
+This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
+the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young
+man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister’s
+establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
+his time there.
+
+Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
+interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
+very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
+for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
+will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
+consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
+that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It
+was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
+should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
+disposition; and that Elinor’s merit should not be acknowledged by
+every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
+
+Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
+peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his
+manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident
+to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
+his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His
+understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
+improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
+answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
+distinguished—as—they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine
+figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
+interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
+see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
+Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
+superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
+ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for
+great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and
+the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was
+more promising.
+
+Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
+much of Mrs. Dashwood’s attention; for she was, at that time, in such
+affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw
+only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He
+did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
+She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a
+reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference
+between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him
+most forcibly to her mother.
+
+“It is enough,” said she; “to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It
+implies everything amiable. I love him already.”
+
+“I think you will like him,” said Elinor, “when you know more of him.”
+
+“Like him!” replied her mother with a smile. “I feel no sentiment of
+approbation inferior to love.”
+
+“You may esteem him.”
+
+“I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
+were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily
+comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
+perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
+worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
+her established ideas of what a young man’s address ought to be, was no
+longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
+affectionate.
+
+No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
+Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
+looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
+
+“In a few months, my dear Marianne,” said she, “Elinor will, in all
+probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be
+happy.”
+
+“Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?”
+
+“My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
+miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
+gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest
+opinion in the world of Edward’s heart. But you look grave, Marianne;
+do you disapprove your sister’s choice?”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Marianne, “I may consider it with some surprise. Edward
+is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet—he is not the kind of
+young man—there is something wanting—his figure is not striking; it has
+none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously
+attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at
+once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am
+afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract
+him, and though he admires Elinor’s drawings very much, it is not the
+admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident,
+in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact
+he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a
+connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could
+not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide
+with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the
+same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was
+Edward’s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most
+severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely
+to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful
+lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such
+impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!”
+
+
+“He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
+I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper.”
+
+“Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!—but we must allow
+for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
+may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_
+heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
+Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
+shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He
+must have all Edward’s virtues, and his person and manners must
+ornament his goodness with every possible charm.”
+
+“Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
+life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
+than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
+destiny be different from hers!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+“What a pity it is, Elinor,” said Marianne, “that Edward should have no
+taste for drawing.”
+
+“No taste for drawing!” replied Elinor, “why should you think so? He
+does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
+performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
+deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
+improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would
+have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so
+much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture;
+but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in
+general direct him perfectly right.”
+
+Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
+the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
+drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,
+which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling
+within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind
+partiality to Edward which produced it.
+
+“I hope, Marianne,” continued Elinor, “you do not consider him as
+deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
+for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your
+opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.”
+
+Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of
+her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
+impossible. At length she replied:
+
+“Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
+equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities
+of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations
+and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of
+his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and
+amiable.”
+
+“I am sure,” replied Elinor, with a smile, “that his dearest friends
+could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
+perceive how you could express yourself more warmly.”
+
+Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
+
+“Of his sense and his goodness,” continued Elinor, “no one can, I
+think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
+unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his
+principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
+him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
+But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
+peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I
+have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
+wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I
+have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
+his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
+venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
+exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
+correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every
+respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At
+first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can
+hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are
+uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
+perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
+handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?”
+
+“I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When
+you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
+in his face, than I now do in his heart.”
+
+Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
+had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood
+very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she
+required greater certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their
+attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother
+conjectured one moment, they believed the next—that with them, to wish
+was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real
+state of the case to her sister.
+
+“I do not attempt to deny,” said she, “that I think very highly of
+him—that I greatly esteem, that I like him.”
+
+Marianne here burst forth with indignation—
+
+“Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than
+cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I
+will leave the room this moment.”
+
+Elinor could not help laughing. “Excuse me,” said she; “and be assured
+that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
+own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe
+them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope of
+his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But
+farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of
+his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems
+doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
+my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
+believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel
+little—scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points
+to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being
+independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
+Fanny’s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
+been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
+Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
+his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
+fortune or high rank.”
+
+Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
+and herself had outstripped the truth.
+
+“And you really are not engaged to him!” said she. “Yet it certainly
+soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_
+shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
+improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be
+so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be
+so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
+delightful it would be!”
+
+Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider
+her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had
+believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if
+it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as
+unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not
+give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that
+dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable
+cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
+indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved
+to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
+any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly
+attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as
+this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was
+far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her
+mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they
+were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and
+sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
+than friendship.
+
+But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
+by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
+still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity
+of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so
+expressively of her brother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s
+resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger
+attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in;_ that Mrs.
+Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be
+calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly
+left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or
+expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be
+exposed another week to such insinuations.
+
+In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
+post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
+offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
+her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The
+letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
+of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a
+dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
+he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
+think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed
+her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with
+her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
+whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses
+were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable
+to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of
+his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of
+giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
+suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
+connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her
+resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county
+so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours
+before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
+possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first
+recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an
+evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of
+the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law’s guest; and to remove for
+ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or
+visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir
+John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance
+of his proposal; and then hastened to show both letters to her
+daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her
+answer were sent.
+
+Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
+at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
+acquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
+her mother’s intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as
+described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
+uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
+point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
+to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
+beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
+sending a letter of acquiescence.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged
+herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife
+that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer
+than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her
+with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly
+hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
+satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.—Edward
+turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of
+surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
+“Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to
+what part of it?” She explained the situation. It was within four miles
+northward of Exeter.
+
+“It is but a cottage,” she continued, “but I hope to see many of my
+friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
+find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
+find none in accommodating them.”
+
+She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
+to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
+affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
+made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was
+unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that
+point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was
+as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John
+Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she
+disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
+
+Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
+he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
+prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He
+really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
+exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his
+father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.—The furniture
+was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen,
+plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne’s. Mrs.
+John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help
+feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood’s income would be so trifling in
+comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of
+furniture.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
+and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either
+side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
+effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
+set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
+performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.—The
+horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
+death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
+she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest
+daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
+own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor
+prevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited the number of their servants to
+three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from
+amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.
+
+The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
+to prepare the house for their mistress’s arrival; for as Lady
+Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
+directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
+relied so undoubtingly on Sir John’s description of the house, as to
+feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
+Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
+the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
+removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
+under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time
+when her son-in-law’s promise to his father might with particular
+propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming
+to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most
+suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly
+to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the
+general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther
+than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently
+talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual
+demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was
+beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need
+of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away.
+
+In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton’s
+first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future
+abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
+journey.
+
+Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
+much beloved. “Dear, dear Norland!” said Marianne, as she wandered
+alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; “when
+shall I cease to regret you!—when learn to feel a home elsewhere!—Oh!
+happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
+spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!—And you, ye
+well-known trees!—but you will continue the same.—No leaf will decay
+because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we
+can observe you no longer!—No; you will continue the same; unconscious
+of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any
+change in those who walk under your shade!—But who will remain to enjoy
+you?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
+disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they
+drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
+country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view
+of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a
+pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding
+along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small
+green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket
+gate admitted them into it.
+
+As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
+but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
+roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were
+the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly
+through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance
+was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the
+offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest
+of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
+In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!—but the tears
+which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon
+dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
+arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
+It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first
+seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an
+impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending
+it to their lasting approbation.
+
+The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately
+behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open
+downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was
+chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the
+cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded
+the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills
+which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction;
+under another name, and in another course, it branched out again
+between two of the steepest of them.
+
+With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
+whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many
+additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a
+delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply
+all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. “As for the
+house itself, to be sure,” said she, “it is too small for our family,
+but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it
+is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I
+have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about
+building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our
+friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts
+of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the
+other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,
+with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber
+and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish
+the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I
+suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how
+much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan
+our improvements accordingly.”
+
+In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
+savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved
+in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it
+was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,
+and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to
+form themselves a home. Marianne’s pianoforte was unpacked and properly
+disposed of; and Elinor’s drawings were affixed to the walls of their
+sitting room.
+
+In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast
+the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome
+them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own
+house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir
+John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly
+visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to
+remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his
+manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival
+seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an
+object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of
+their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed
+them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were
+better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a
+point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His
+kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left
+them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the
+park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of
+game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from
+the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending
+them his newspaper every day.
+
+Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
+intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
+that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
+answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced
+to them the next day.
+
+They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
+their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
+was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or
+seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,
+and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her
+husband’s wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of
+his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract
+something from their first admiration, by showing that, though
+perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for
+herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.
+
+Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
+Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their
+eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means
+there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
+extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,
+and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung
+about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her
+ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could
+make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of
+the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it
+took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his
+father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
+course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the
+opinion of the others.
+
+An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the
+rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without
+securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had
+passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
+their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and
+handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and
+elegance. The former was for Sir John’s gratification, the latter for
+that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying
+with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than
+any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the
+happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
+behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
+talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
+such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a
+sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she
+humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady
+Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the
+year round, while Sir John’s independent employments were in existence
+only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,
+supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the
+good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his
+wife.
+
+Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
+all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
+greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John’s satisfaction
+in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him
+more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were
+the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part
+of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to
+eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls
+were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the
+unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
+
+The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy
+to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
+he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were
+young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good
+opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
+make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his
+disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
+might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In
+showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
+of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
+cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,
+though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is
+not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a
+residence within his own manor.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by
+Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
+and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young
+ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day
+before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They
+would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
+particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very
+young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the
+party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had
+been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some
+addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full
+of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton’s mother had arrived at Barton
+within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,
+he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might
+imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly
+satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for
+no more.
+
+Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton’s mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
+fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
+rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
+was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
+husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
+and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was
+vexed at it for her sister’s sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
+to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
+Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
+as Mrs. Jennings’s.
+
+Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
+resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
+his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton’s mother. He was silent
+and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his
+being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor,
+for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face
+was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was
+particularly gentlemanlike.
+
+There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
+companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
+was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
+Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
+mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
+enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
+who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
+discourse except what related to themselves.
+
+In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
+invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be
+charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
+through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
+the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
+the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
+that event by giving up music, although by her mother’s account, she
+had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
+
+Marianne’s performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
+admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
+with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
+called him to order, wondered how any one’s attention could be diverted
+from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
+which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
+party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the
+compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the
+occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
+want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
+ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was
+estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the
+others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and
+thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
+exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every
+allowance for the colonel’s advanced state of life which humanity
+required.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two
+daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
+she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
+world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far
+as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
+weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was
+remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
+advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by
+insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
+discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
+pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
+Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
+of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
+sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining
+at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
+It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an
+excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.
+Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever
+since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;
+and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
+
+The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
+it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she
+laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former
+her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
+perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
+incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
+whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
+for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel’s
+advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
+herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of
+her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of
+wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
+
+“But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
+though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon
+is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be
+_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must
+have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!
+When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
+protect him?”
+
+“Infirmity!” said Elinor, “do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can
+easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
+mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of
+his limbs!”
+
+“Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the
+commonest infirmity of declining life?”
+
+“My dearest child,” said her mother, laughing, “at this rate you must
+be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle
+that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.”
+
+“Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel
+Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
+losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.
+But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Elinor, “thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
+any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any
+chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should
+not think Colonel Brandon’s being thirty-five any objection to his
+marrying _her_.”
+
+“A woman of seven and twenty,” said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
+“can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
+uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring
+herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
+provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman
+therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of
+convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be
+no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only
+a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the
+expense of the other.”
+
+“It would be impossible, I know,” replied Elinor, “to convince you that
+a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
+anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.
+But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the
+constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to
+complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in
+one of his shoulders.”
+
+“But he talked of flannel waistcoats,” said Marianne; “and with me a
+flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
+rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
+the feeble.”
+
+“Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
+half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
+you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?”
+
+Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room, “Mama,” said Marianne,
+“I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from
+you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost
+a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition
+could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at
+Norland?”
+
+“Had you any idea of his coming so soon?” said Mrs. Dashwood. “_I_ had
+none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
+subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of
+pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his
+coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?”
+
+“I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.”
+
+“I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
+yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
+that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the
+room would be wanted for some time.”
+
+“How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of
+their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
+composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
+last evening of their being together! In Edward’s farewell there was no
+distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
+affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together
+in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
+unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting
+Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is
+invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
+avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
+themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
+them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
+given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
+enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their
+father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first
+fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at
+home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
+
+Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
+spite of Sir John’s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
+neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
+their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood’s spirit overcame the
+wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
+visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who
+could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
+About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
+valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
+described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
+ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little
+of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
+better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
+possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
+too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
+
+The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high
+downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
+seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
+alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
+beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
+memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine
+of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the
+settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was
+not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
+book, in spite of Marianne’s declaration that the day would be
+lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off
+from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
+
+They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
+every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
+animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears
+which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
+delightful sensations.
+
+“Is there a felicity in the world,” said Marianne, “superior to
+this?—Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.”
+
+Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting
+it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly
+the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in
+their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though
+unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own
+house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence
+of the moment gave more than usual propriety,—it was that of running
+with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led
+immediately to their garden gate.
+
+They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
+brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop
+herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the
+bottom in safety.
+
+A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
+passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
+accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She
+had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in
+her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his
+services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation
+rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and
+carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of
+which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the
+house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till
+he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
+
+Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while
+the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret
+admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for
+his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
+graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received
+additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old,
+ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would
+have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the
+influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the
+action which came home to her feelings.
+
+She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which
+always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as
+he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was
+obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was
+at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of
+calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily
+granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting,
+in the midst of a heavy rain.
+
+His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
+theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised
+against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
+attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the
+rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting
+her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their
+entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the
+admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
+praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn
+for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the
+house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of
+thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every
+circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his
+residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that
+of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her
+imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a
+sprained ankle was disregarded.
+
+Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
+that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne’s accident
+being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
+gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
+
+“Willoughby!” cried Sir John; “what, is _he_ in the country? That is
+good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
+Thursday.”
+
+“You know him then,” said Mrs. Dashwood.
+
+“Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year.”
+
+“And what sort of a young man is he?”
+
+“As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent
+shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.”
+
+“And is _that_ all you can say for him?” cried Marianne, indignantly.
+“But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
+pursuits, his talents, and genius?”
+
+Sir John was rather puzzled.
+
+“Upon my soul,” said he, “I do not know much about him as to all
+_that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the
+nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him
+today?”
+
+But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
+Willoughby’s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
+mind.
+
+“But who is he?” said Elinor. “Where does he come from? Has he a house
+at Allenham?”
+
+On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he
+told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the
+country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady
+at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was
+to inherit; adding, “Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can
+tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in
+Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my
+younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne
+must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be
+jealous, if she does not take care.”
+
+“I do not believe,” said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
+“that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of
+_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an
+employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with
+us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you
+say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance
+will not be ineligible.”
+
+“He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,” repeated
+Sir John. “I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he
+danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sitting down.”
+
+“Did he indeed?” cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, “and with
+elegance, with spirit?”
+
+“Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.”
+
+“That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be
+his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
+leave him no sense of fatigue.”
+
+“Aye, aye, I see how it will be,” said Sir John, “I see how it will be.
+You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
+Brandon.”
+
+“That is an expression, Sir John,” said Marianne, warmly, “which I
+particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is
+intended; and ‘setting one’s cap at a man,’ or ‘making a conquest,’ are
+the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if
+their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
+destroyed all its ingenuity.”
+
+Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as
+heartily as if he did, and then replied,
+
+“Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor
+Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting
+your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and
+spraining of ankles.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+Marianne’s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
+styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make
+his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than
+politeness; with a kindness which Sir John’s account of him and her own
+gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended
+to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic
+comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their
+personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.
+
+Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
+remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,
+though not so correct as her sister’s, in having the advantage of
+height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the
+common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less
+violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but,
+from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her
+features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her
+eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,
+which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their
+expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the
+remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when
+her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect
+good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and
+above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was
+passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured
+the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.
+
+It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
+to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
+she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily
+discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
+that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related
+to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions,
+she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite
+authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a
+delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been
+insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence
+of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly
+alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each—or if
+any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than
+till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be
+displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her
+enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with
+the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
+
+“Well, Marianne,” said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, “for _one_
+morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained
+Mr. Willoughby’s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know
+what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating
+their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of
+his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance
+to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every
+subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite
+topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on
+picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing
+farther to ask.”
+
+“Elinor,” cried Marianne, “is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
+scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too
+happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of
+decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
+reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful—had I talked only of the
+weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
+reproach would have been spared.”
+
+“My love,” said her mother, “you must not be offended with Elinor—she
+was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
+wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend.”
+Marianne was softened in a moment.
+
+Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
+acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He
+came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his
+excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave
+greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased
+to be possible, by Marianne’s perfect recovery. She was confined for
+some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less
+irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick
+imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was
+exactly formed to engage Marianne’s heart, for with all this, he joined
+not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was
+now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which
+recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
+
+His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,
+they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;
+and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had
+unfortunately wanted.
+
+In Mrs. Dashwood’s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne’s; and
+Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
+strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
+much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or
+circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
+people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided
+attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the
+forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor
+could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in
+its support.
+
+Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized
+her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her
+ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was
+all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every
+brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour
+declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities
+were strong.
+
+Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
+marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the
+end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
+herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.
+
+Colonel Brandon’s partiality for Marianne, which had so early been
+discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when
+it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off
+to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had
+incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings
+began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
+Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments
+which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now
+actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance
+of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
+Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no
+hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern;
+for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a
+very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him
+successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him—in spite
+of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest.
+His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather
+the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess
+of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and
+disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate
+man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.
+
+Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by
+Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither
+lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.
+
+“Brandon is just the kind of man,” said Willoughby one day, when they
+were talking of him together, “whom every body speaks well of, and
+nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers
+to talk to.”
+
+“That is exactly what I think of him,” cried Marianne.
+
+“Do not boast of it, however,” said Elinor, “for it is injustice in
+both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I
+never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him.”
+
+“That he is patronised by _you_,” replied Willoughby, “is certainly in
+his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in
+itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a
+woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
+indifference of any body else?”
+
+“But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will
+make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their
+praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
+undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.”
+
+“In defence of your _protégé_ you can even be saucy.”
+
+“My _protégé_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will
+always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between
+thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been
+abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of
+giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always
+answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.”
+
+“That is to say,” cried Marianne contemptuously, “he has told you, that
+in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
+troublesome.”
+
+“He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such
+inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been
+previously informed.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Willoughby, “his observations may have extended to the
+existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.”
+
+“I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much
+further than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him?”
+
+“I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
+respectable man, who has every body’s good word, and nobody’s notice;
+who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
+employ, and two new coats every year.”
+
+“Add to which,” cried Marianne, “that he has neither genius, taste, nor
+spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
+ardour, and his voice no expression.”
+
+“You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,” replied Elinor,
+“and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
+commendation _I_ am able to give of him is comparatively cold and
+insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
+well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable
+heart.”
+
+“Miss Dashwood,” cried Willoughby, “you are now using me unkindly. You
+are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
+will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
+artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
+Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has
+found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him
+to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however,
+to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects
+irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an
+acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the
+privilege of disliking him as much as ever.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
+into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
+time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
+frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
+leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne
+was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
+John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private
+balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
+accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every
+meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
+familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
+calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
+Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
+Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
+in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
+affection.
+
+Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that
+it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the
+propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all
+concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim
+at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable,
+appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful
+subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby
+thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration
+of their opinions.
+
+When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he
+did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at
+the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
+of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of
+the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
+separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
+scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of
+course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
+seemed hardly to provoke them.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
+her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her
+it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
+ardent mind.
+
+This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to
+Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
+her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
+possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
+present home.
+
+Elinor’s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease,
+nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no
+companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that
+could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither
+Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation
+she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the
+first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share
+of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor
+three or four times; and had Elinor’s memory been equal to her means of
+improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all
+the particulars of Mr. Jennings’s last illness, and what he said to his
+wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable
+than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
+observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner
+with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she
+was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be
+looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not
+said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her
+spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
+arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style
+and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive
+more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at
+home;—and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,
+by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only
+reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her
+troublesome boys.
+
+In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
+a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
+the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby
+was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly
+regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly
+Marianne’s, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally
+pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such
+encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor
+he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
+
+Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
+that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
+This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
+him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
+mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on
+Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
+smile, “Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
+attachments.”
+
+“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”
+
+“Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.”
+
+“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the
+character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A
+few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
+common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
+and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.”
+
+“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is
+something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
+sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”
+
+“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences
+attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of
+enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems
+have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a
+better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her
+greatest possible advantage.”
+
+After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,—
+
+“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
+second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those
+who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
+inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
+equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?”
+
+“Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
+I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
+attachment’s being pardonable.”
+
+“This,” said he, “cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
+sentiments—No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
+of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
+succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I
+speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
+greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
+from an enforced change—from a series of unfortunate circumstances—”
+Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
+and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
+otherwise have entered Elinor’s head. The lady would probably have
+passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
+concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but
+a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
+recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in
+her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have
+been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
+established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+
+As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
+latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
+all that she knew before of Marianne’s imprudence and want of thought,
+surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,
+with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
+that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
+exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
+not in her mother’s plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
+her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
+servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
+to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
+told her sister of it in raptures.
+
+“He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,”
+she added, “and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share
+its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a
+gallop on some of these downs.”
+
+Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
+comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
+some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
+the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
+it; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the
+park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
+ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
+man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
+
+“You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing I know very
+little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
+better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
+world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
+to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
+insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
+days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
+greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
+Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
+for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.”
+
+Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
+sister’s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
+her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
+her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
+mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
+consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
+subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
+kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
+him next, that it must be declined.
+
+She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
+cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
+him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
+present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related,
+and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.
+His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with
+earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,—“But, Marianne, the horse
+is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till
+you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment
+in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you.”
+
+This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
+sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
+sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
+decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
+them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
+other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
+any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
+it by accident.
+
+Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
+matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding
+evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
+with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
+which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
+sister, when they were next by themselves.
+
+“Oh, Elinor!” she cried, “I have such a secret to tell you about
+Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.”
+
+“You have said so,” replied Elinor, “almost every day since they first
+met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
+believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
+her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
+uncle.”
+
+“But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married
+very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.”
+
+“Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
+_his_.”
+
+“But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne’s. I am almost sure it is, for I
+saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of
+the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
+be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
+up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
+tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
+white paper; and put it into his pocket-book.”
+
+For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
+withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
+was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
+
+Margaret’s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
+to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park,
+to give the name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular
+favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
+Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, “I must not
+tell, may I, Elinor?”
+
+This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
+But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
+on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
+standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
+
+Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
+to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
+Margaret,
+
+“Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
+repeat them.”
+
+“I never had any conjectures about it,” replied Margaret; “it was you
+who told me of it yourself.”
+
+This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
+pressed to say something more.
+
+“Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,” said Mrs.
+Jennings. “What is the gentleman’s name?”
+
+“I must not tell, ma’am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
+where he is too.”
+
+“Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
+sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say.”
+
+“No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all.”
+
+“Margaret,” said Marianne with great warmth, “you know that all this is
+an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
+existence.”
+
+“Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
+a man once, and his name begins with an F.”
+
+Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
+moment, “that it rained very hard,” though she believed the
+interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
+ladyship’s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
+delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was
+immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
+mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
+rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
+Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
+different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so
+easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
+
+A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
+very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
+brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
+be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
+on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir
+John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be
+a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least,
+twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece
+of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning’s
+amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be
+employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete
+party of pleasure.
+
+To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
+considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
+last fortnight;—and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
+persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
+what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued,
+and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did
+not go at all.
+
+By ten o’clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
+were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had
+rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
+and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good
+humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest
+inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
+
+While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the
+rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;—he took it, looked at the
+direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
+
+“What is the matter with Brandon?” said Sir John.
+
+Nobody could tell.
+
+“I hope he has had no bad news,” said Lady Middleton. “It must be
+something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
+breakfast table so suddenly.”
+
+In about five minutes he returned.
+
+“No bad news, Colonel, I hope;” said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
+entered the room.
+
+“None at all, ma’am, I thank you.”
+
+“Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is
+worse.”
+
+“No, ma’am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.”
+
+“But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
+letter of business? Come, come, this won’t do, Colonel; so let us hear
+the truth of it.”
+
+“My dear madam,” said Lady Middleton, “recollect what you are saying.”
+
+“Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?” said
+Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter’s reproof.
+
+“No, indeed, it is not.”
+
+“Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well.”
+
+“Whom do you mean, ma’am?” said he, colouring a little.
+
+“Oh! you know who I mean.”
+
+“I am particularly sorry, ma’am,” said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
+“that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
+requires my immediate attendance in town.”
+
+“In town!” cried Mrs. Jennings. “What can you have to do in town at
+this time of year?”
+
+“My own loss is great,” he continued, “in being obliged to leave so
+agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
+is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.”
+
+What a blow upon them all was this!
+
+“But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,” said
+Marianne, eagerly, “will it not be sufficient?”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“We must go,” said Sir John.—“It shall not be put off when we are so
+near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.”
+
+“I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to
+delay my journey for one day!”
+
+“If you would but let us know what your business is,” said Mrs.
+Jennings, “we might see whether it could be put off or not.”
+
+“You would not be six hours later,” said Willoughby, “if you were to
+defer your journey till our return.”
+
+“I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour.”
+
+Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, “There
+are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of
+them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
+trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
+of his own writing.”
+
+“I have no doubt of it,” replied Marianne.
+
+“There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
+old,” said Sir John, “when once you are determined on anything. But,
+however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two
+Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up
+from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual
+time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.”
+
+Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
+disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
+unavoidable.
+
+“Well, then, when will you come back again?”
+
+“I hope we shall see you at Barton,” added her ladyship, “as soon as
+you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
+Whitwell till you return.”
+
+“You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
+my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.”
+
+“Oh! he must and shall come back,” cried Sir John. “If he is not here
+by the end of the week, I shall go after him.”
+
+“Ay, so do, Sir John,” cried Mrs. Jennings, “and then perhaps you may
+find out what his business is.”
+
+“I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I suppose it is
+something he is ashamed of.”
+
+Colonel Brandon’s horses were announced.
+
+“You do not go to town on horseback, do you?” added Sir John.
+
+“No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.”
+
+“Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you
+had better change your mind.”
+
+“I assure you it is not in my power.”
+
+He then took leave of the whole party.
+
+“Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
+winter, Miss Dashwood?”
+
+“I am afraid, none at all.”
+
+“Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
+do.”
+
+To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
+
+“Come Colonel,” said Mrs. Jennings, “before you go, do let us know what
+you are going about.”
+
+He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
+
+The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
+restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
+again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
+
+“I can guess what his business is, however,” said Mrs. Jennings
+exultingly.
+
+“Can you, ma’am?” said almost every body.
+
+“Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.”
+
+“And who is Miss Williams?” asked Marianne.
+
+“What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
+heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel’s, my dear; a
+very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
+young ladies.” Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
+“She is his natural daughter.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will
+leave her all his fortune.”
+
+When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
+on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
+they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
+happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
+happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
+tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages
+were then ordered; Willoughby’s was first, and Marianne never looked
+happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast,
+and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till
+their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the
+rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in
+general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on
+the downs.
+
+It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
+every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the
+Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
+twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
+Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
+Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor’s right hand; and they had not been long
+seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
+Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, “I have found you out in
+spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning.”
+
+Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, “Where, pray?”
+
+“Did not you know,” said Willoughby, “that we had been out in my
+curricle?”
+
+“Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
+to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss
+Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I
+hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I
+was there six years ago.”
+
+Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
+heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
+had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
+Willoughby’s groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
+they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
+walking about the garden and going all over the house.
+
+Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
+that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
+while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
+acquaintance.
+
+As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
+and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
+related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry
+with her for doubting it.
+
+“Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
+did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do
+yourself?”
+
+“Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
+no other companion than Mr. Willoughby.”
+
+“Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to show
+that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
+have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
+life.”
+
+“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment
+does not always evince its propriety.”
+
+“On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
+there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
+sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
+wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.”
+
+“But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
+impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
+your own conduct?”
+
+“If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
+impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
+I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I
+am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
+Smith’s grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr.
+Willoughby’s, and—”
+
+“If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
+justified in what you have done.”
+
+She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
+and after a ten minutes’ interval of earnest thought, she came to her
+sister again, and said with great good humour, “Perhaps, Elinor, it
+_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby
+wanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house, I
+assure you.—There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a
+nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it
+would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.
+On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
+beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
+and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
+often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more
+forlorn than the furniture,—but if it were newly fitted up—a couple of
+hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest
+summer-rooms in England.”
+
+Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,
+she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+
+The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon’s visit at the park, with his
+steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the
+wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great
+wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all
+the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with
+little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must
+be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could
+have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape
+them all.
+
+“Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,” said she. “I
+could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may
+be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two
+thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do
+think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can
+it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the
+truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare
+say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be
+she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a
+notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about
+Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
+circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must
+have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be
+his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting
+off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his
+trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.”
+
+So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every
+fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
+Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel
+Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,
+which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the
+circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or
+variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was
+engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on
+the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
+all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange
+and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not
+openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant
+behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not
+imagine.
+
+She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
+their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
+to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six
+or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that
+income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of
+his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them
+relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,
+she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their
+general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind
+of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her
+making any inquiry of Marianne.
+
+Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
+Willoughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
+tenderness which a lover’s heart could give, and to the rest of the
+family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The
+cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more
+of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general
+engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him
+out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest
+of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
+favourite pointer at her feet.
+
+One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
+country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
+attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood’s happening
+to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
+opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
+perfect with him.
+
+“What!” he exclaimed—“Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will
+never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch
+to its size, if my feelings are regarded.”
+
+“Do not be alarmed,” said Miss Dashwood, “nothing of the kind will be
+done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.”
+
+“I am heartily glad of it,” he cried. “May she always be poor, if she
+can employ her riches no better.”
+
+“Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not
+sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one
+whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it
+that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
+the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it
+in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this
+place as to see no defect in it?”
+
+“I am,” said he. “To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as
+the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I
+rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in
+the exact plan of this cottage.”
+
+“With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,” said
+Elinor.
+
+“Yes,” cried he in the same eager tone, “with all and every thing
+belonging to it;—in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,
+should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under
+such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at
+Barton.”
+
+“I flatter myself,” replied Elinor, “that even under the disadvantage
+of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your
+own house as faultless as you now do this.”
+
+“There certainly are circumstances,” said Willoughby, “which might
+greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of
+my affection, which no other can possibly share.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
+fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
+understood him.
+
+“How often did I wish,” added he, “when I was at Allenham this time
+twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within
+view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
+should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news
+I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would
+be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction
+and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of
+what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it
+not have been so, Marianne?” speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then
+continuing his former tone, he said, “And yet this house you would
+spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary
+improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first
+began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us
+together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and
+every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto
+contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any
+other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could
+possibly afford.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
+be attempted.
+
+“You are a good woman,” he warmly replied. “Your promise makes me easy.
+Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not
+only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you
+and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always
+consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to
+you so dear to me.”
+
+The promise was readily given, and Willoughby’s behaviour during the
+whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
+
+“Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?” said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was
+leaving them. “I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
+walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.”
+
+He engaged to be with them by four o’clock.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+
+Mrs. Dashwood’s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and
+two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from
+being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her
+mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the
+night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly
+satisfied with her remaining at home.
+
+On their return from the park they found Willoughby’s curricle and
+servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
+her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;
+but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
+to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
+hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
+handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
+Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
+just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
+the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their
+coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the
+emotion which over-powered Marianne.
+
+“Is anything the matter with her?” cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
+entered—“is she ill?”
+
+“I hope not,” he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
+smile presently added, “It is I who may rather expect to be ill—for I
+am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!”
+
+“Disappointment?”
+
+“Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has
+this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
+cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my
+dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
+exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.”
+
+“To London!—and are you going this morning?”
+
+“Almost this moment.”
+
+“This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;—and her
+business will not detain you from us long I hope.”
+
+He coloured as he replied, “You are very kind, but I have no idea of
+returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are
+never repeated within the twelvemonth.”
+
+“And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the
+neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can
+you wait for an invitation here?”
+
+His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
+replied, “You are too good.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal
+amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first
+spoke.
+
+“I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
+will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
+immediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be
+pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to
+question your judgment than to doubt your inclination.”
+
+“My engagements at present,” replied Willoughby, confusedly, “are of
+such a nature—that—I dare not flatter myself—”
+
+He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
+pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
+smile, “It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself
+any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible
+for me now to enjoy.”
+
+He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him
+step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
+parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
+sudden departure occasioned.
+
+Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s. She thought of
+what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby’s behaviour
+in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
+cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s
+invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
+greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had
+ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
+quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;—the distress in
+which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
+most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s
+love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
+
+But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister’s
+affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
+compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
+not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
+duty.
+
+In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
+red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
+
+“Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,” said she,
+as she sat down to work, “and with how heavy a heart does he travel?”
+
+“It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
+of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
+affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice—Gone too without
+intending to return!—Something more than what he owned to us must have
+happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. _You_ must
+have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have
+quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept
+your invitation here?”
+
+“It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
+_that_. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all
+over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
+first seemed strange to me as well as to you.”
+
+“Can you, indeed!”
+
+“Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;—but
+you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it will not satisfy _you_,
+I know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am
+persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
+of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
+account is eager to get him away;—and that the business which she sends
+him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is
+what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she _does_
+disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to
+her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from
+his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself
+from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or
+may _not_ have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can
+point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory
+at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?”
+
+“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”
+
+“Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
+Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take
+evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for
+Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
+latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave
+of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no
+allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by
+recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
+because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we
+have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill
+of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though
+unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect
+him of?”
+
+“I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the
+inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in
+him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the
+allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
+candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have
+very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
+But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
+once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
+its being practiced by him.”
+
+“Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
+deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I
+have said in his defence?—I am happy—and he is acquitted.”
+
+“Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
+_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith—and if that is the case, it must be
+highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
+present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.”
+
+“Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
+Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
+been reproaching them every day for incautiousness.”
+
+“I want no proof of their affection,” said Elinor; “but of their
+engagement I do.”
+
+“I am perfectly satisfied of both.”
+
+“Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
+them.”
+
+“I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has
+not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
+fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
+wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
+Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been
+daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
+respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could
+such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby,
+persuaded as he must be of your sister’s love, should leave her, and
+leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his
+affection;—that they should part without a mutual exchange of
+confidence?”
+
+“I confess,” replied Elinor, “that every circumstance except _one_ is
+in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of
+both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other.”
+
+“How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
+if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
+nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a
+part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him
+really indifferent to her?”
+
+“No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure.”
+
+“But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
+indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to
+him.”
+
+“You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
+matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
+fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we
+find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.”
+
+“A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you
+would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_
+require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify
+doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and
+unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister’s wishes. It must be
+Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of
+honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
+create alarm? can he be deceitful?”
+
+“I hope not, I believe not,” cried Elinor. “I love Willoughby,
+sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
+painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not
+encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
+manners this morning;—he did not speak like himself, and did not return
+your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by
+such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just
+parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
+affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
+Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
+that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
+some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
+our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,
+a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his
+honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
+character;—but I will not raise objections against any one’s conduct on
+so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or
+a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.”
+
+“You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
+suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in
+this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
+Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
+it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging
+everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement
+in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at
+a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be
+observed, may now be very advisable.”
+
+They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
+at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
+acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
+
+They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
+room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes
+were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
+restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could
+neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother’s silently
+pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude
+was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
+
+This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was
+without any power, because she was without any desire of command over
+herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
+overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
+anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
+spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
+connected with him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+
+Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
+to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She
+would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
+morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
+when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a
+disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the
+whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a
+headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
+giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
+attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!
+
+When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
+the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
+and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
+
+The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played
+over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
+every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
+the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
+for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
+gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent
+whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
+often totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in
+music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
+present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been
+used to read together.
+
+Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
+sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
+to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
+still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
+
+No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
+Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.
+Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
+least satisfied herself.
+
+“Remember, Elinor,” said she, “how very often Sir John fetches our
+letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already
+agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
+could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
+Sir John’s hands.”
+
+Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
+motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so
+direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
+state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
+could not help suggesting it to her mother.
+
+“Why do you not ask Marianne at once,” said she, “whether she is or she
+is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so
+indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be
+the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all
+unreserve, and to you more especially.”
+
+“I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible
+that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
+inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never
+deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
+what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know
+Marianne’s heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
+be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
+the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the
+confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
+would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.”
+
+Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister’s
+youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
+care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood’s romantic
+delicacy.
+
+It was several days before Willoughby’s name was mentioned before
+Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
+not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;—but
+one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
+Shakespeare, exclaimed,
+
+“We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
+before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes
+again...But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens.”
+
+“Months!” cried Marianne, with strong surprise. “No—nor many weeks.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
+pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
+confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
+
+One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
+prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
+wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
+companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs,
+she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
+valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
+found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the
+exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
+They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
+for Marianne’s _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied
+with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the
+entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less
+wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled
+on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point,
+they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed
+the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
+never happened to reach in any of their walks before.
+
+Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
+it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they
+could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
+Marianne rapturously exclaimed,
+
+“It is he; it is indeed;—I know it is!”—and was hastening to meet him,
+when Elinor cried out,
+
+“Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The
+person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.”
+
+“He has, he has,” cried Marianne, “I am sure he has. His air, his coat,
+his horse. I knew how soon he would come.”
+
+She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
+particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
+quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty
+yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
+her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
+of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
+known as Willoughby’s, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
+turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.
+
+He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
+forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
+smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and in
+her sister’s happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
+
+He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
+them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
+
+He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
+Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
+even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
+and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
+which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On
+Edward’s side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
+lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused,
+seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
+rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
+questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne
+saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a
+dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
+carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
+contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
+
+After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
+of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,
+he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.
+
+“A fortnight!” she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
+county with Elinor without seeing her before.
+
+He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
+some friends near Plymouth.
+
+“Have you been lately in Sussex?” said Elinor.
+
+“I was at Norland about a month ago.”
+
+“And how does dear, dear Norland look?” cried Marianne.
+
+“Dear, dear Norland,” said Elinor, “probably looks much as it always
+does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with
+dead leaves.”
+
+“Oh,” cried Marianne, “with what transporting sensation have I formerly
+seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
+in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season,
+the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They
+are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
+possible from the sight.”
+
+“It is not every one,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead
+leaves.”
+
+“No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But
+_sometimes_ they are.”—As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
+few moments;—but rousing herself again, “Now, Edward,” said she,
+calling his attention to the prospect, “here is Barton valley. Look up
+to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever
+see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
+plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that
+farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.”
+
+“It is a beautiful country,” he replied; “but these bottoms must be
+dirty in winter.”
+
+“How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?”
+
+“Because,” replied he, smiling, “among the rest of the objects before
+me, I see a very dirty lane.”
+
+“How strange!” said Marianne to herself as she walked on.
+
+“Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant
+people?”
+
+“No, not all,” answered Marianne; “we could not be more unfortunately
+situated.”
+
+“Marianne,” cried her sister, “how can you say so? How can you be so
+unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us
+have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how
+many pleasant days we have owed to them?”
+
+“No,” said Marianne, in a low voice, “nor how many painful moments.”
+
+Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
+visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
+talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
+from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve
+mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
+regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
+avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
+as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+
+Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
+coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
+Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received
+the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
+stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he
+entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
+manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love
+with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
+Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
+himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
+interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in
+spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
+attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family
+perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
+liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
+selfish parents.
+
+“What are Mrs. Ferrars’s views for you at present, Edward?” said she,
+when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; “are you still
+to be a great orator in spite of yourself?”
+
+“No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
+inclination for a public life!”
+
+“But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
+satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
+affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
+it a difficult matter.”
+
+“I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
+every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
+into genius and eloquence.”
+
+“You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.”
+
+“As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as
+well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
+else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.”
+
+“Strange that it would!” cried Marianne. “What have wealth or grandeur
+to do with happiness?”
+
+“Grandeur has but little,” said Elinor, “but wealth has much to do with
+it.”
+
+“Elinor, for shame!” said Marianne, “money can only give happiness
+where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can
+afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Elinor, smiling, “we may come to the same point. _Your_
+competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
+them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
+external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than
+mine. Come, what is your competence?”
+
+“About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that_.”
+
+Elinor laughed. “_two_ thousand a year! _one_ is my wealth! I guessed
+how it would end.”
+
+“And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,” said Marianne.
+“A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not
+extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a
+carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.”
+
+Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
+future expenses at Combe Magna.
+
+“Hunters!” repeated Edward—“but why must you have hunters? Every body
+does not hunt.”
+
+Marianne coloured as she replied, “But most people do.”
+
+“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody
+would give us all a large fortune apiece!”
+
+“Oh that they would!” cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
+animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
+happiness.
+
+“We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,” said Elinor, “in spite
+of the insufficiency of wealth.”
+
+“Oh dear!” cried Margaret, “how happy I should be! I wonder what I
+should do with it!”
+
+Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
+
+“I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,” said Mrs.
+Dashwood, “if my children were all to be rich without my help.”
+
+“You must begin your improvements on this house,” observed Elinor, “and
+your difficulties will soon vanish.”
+
+“What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,” said
+Edward, “in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,
+music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
+general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you—and as
+for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
+enough in London to content her. And books!—Thomson, Cowper, Scott—she
+would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I
+believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would
+have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.
+Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was
+willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.”
+
+“I love to be reminded of the past, Edward—whether it be melancholy or
+gay, I love to recall it—and you will never offend me by talking of
+former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be
+spent—some of it, at least—my loose cash would certainly be employed in
+improving my collection of music and books.”
+
+“And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
+authors or their heirs.”
+
+“No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.”
+
+“Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
+wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
+be in love more than once in their life—your opinion on that point is
+unchanged, I presume?”
+
+“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is
+not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.”
+
+“Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,” said Elinor, “she is not
+at all altered.”
+
+“She is only grown a little more grave than she was.”
+
+“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “_you_ need not reproach me. You are not
+very gay yourself.”
+
+“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “But gaiety never
+was a part of _my_ character.”
+
+“Nor do I think it a part of Marianne’s,” said Elinor; “I should hardly
+call her a lively girl—she is very earnest, very eager in all she
+does—sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation—but she is
+not often really merry.”
+
+“I believe you are right,” he replied, “and yet I have always set her
+down as a lively girl.”
+
+“I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,” said
+Elinor, “in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
+other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
+stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
+deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
+themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
+without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.”
+
+“But I thought it was right, Elinor,” said Marianne, “to be guided
+wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were
+given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has
+always been your doctrine, I am sure.”
+
+“No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
+the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
+behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of
+having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
+greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
+sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?”
+
+“You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
+general civility,” said Edward to Elinor, “Do you gain no ground?”
+
+“Quite the contrary,” replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.
+
+“My judgment,” he returned, “is all on your side of the question; but I
+am afraid my practice is much more on your sister’s. I never wish to
+offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
+am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought
+that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
+am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!”
+
+“Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,” said
+Elinor.
+
+“She knows her own worth too well for false shame,” replied Edward.
+“Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
+other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
+and graceful, I should not be shy.”
+
+“But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.”
+
+Edward started—“Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?”
+
+“Yes, very.”
+
+“I do not understand you,” replied he, colouring. “Reserved!—how, in
+what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?”
+
+Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
+subject, she said to him, “Do not you know my sister well enough to
+understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved
+who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously
+as herself?”
+
+Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
+in their fullest extent—and he sat for some time silent and dull.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+
+Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His
+visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
+enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was
+unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
+her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
+inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
+uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
+one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.
+
+He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
+before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
+promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to
+themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour
+door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
+come out.
+
+“I am going into the village to see my horses,” said he, “as you are
+not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.”
+
+
+Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
+country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
+valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
+than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
+exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne’s
+attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
+these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
+particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, “You
+must not enquire too far, Marianne—remember I have no knowledge in the
+picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
+if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
+bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
+rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
+indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be
+satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very
+fine country—the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber,
+and the valley looks comfortable and snug—with rich meadows and several
+neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea
+of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility—and I dare say
+it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily
+believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush
+wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque.”
+
+“I am afraid it is but too true,” said Marianne; “but why should you
+boast of it?”
+
+“I suspect,” said Elinor, “that to avoid one kind of affectation,
+Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend
+to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and
+is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and
+less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is
+fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.”
+
+“It is very true,” said Marianne, “that admiration of landscape scenery
+is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to
+describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
+picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
+have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
+describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
+meaning.”
+
+“I am convinced,” said Edward, “that you really feel all the delight in
+a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister
+must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect,
+but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted,
+blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and
+flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of
+nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug
+farm-house than a watch-tower—and a troop of tidy, happy villagers
+please me better than the finest banditti in the world.”
+
+Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
+sister. Elinor only laughed.
+
+The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
+thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
+She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
+his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait
+of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
+
+“I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,” she cried. “Is that
+Fanny’s hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should
+have thought her hair had been darker.”
+
+Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt—but when she saw
+how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
+could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a
+momentary glance at Elinor, replied, “Yes; it is my sister’s hair. The
+setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.”
+
+Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair
+was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
+the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
+considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
+have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She
+was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting
+to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something
+else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity
+of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it
+was exactly the shade of her own.
+
+Edward’s embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
+mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.
+Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
+forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
+offence it had given her sister.
+
+Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
+Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
+cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his
+mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of
+Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery
+against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their
+acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately
+sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant
+looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret’s instructions,
+extended.
+
+Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
+dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
+On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,
+towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
+to engage them for both.
+
+“You _must_ drink tea with us to night,” said he, “for we shall be
+quite alone—and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall
+be a large party.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. “And who knows but you may raise
+a dance,” said she. “And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne.”
+
+“A dance!” cried Marianne. “Impossible! Who is to dance?”
+
+“Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.—What!
+you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
+nameless is gone!”
+
+“I wish with all my soul,” cried Sir John, “that Willoughby were among
+us again.”
+
+This, and Marianne’s blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. “And who
+is Willoughby?” said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
+was sitting.
+
+She gave him a brief reply. Marianne’s countenance was more
+communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of
+others, but such of Marianne’s expressions as had puzzled him before;
+and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and
+said, in a whisper, “I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Shall I tell you?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.”
+
+Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
+the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment’s silence, said,
+
+“Oh, Edward! How can you?—But the time will come I hope...I am sure you
+will like him.”
+
+“I do not doubt it,” replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
+and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
+acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
+between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
+mention it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+
+Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
+Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on
+self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment
+among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two
+or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved—he grew
+more and more partial to the house and environs—never spoke of going
+away without a sigh—declared his time to be wholly disengaged—even
+doubted to what place he should go when he left them—but still, go he
+must. Never had any week passed so quickly—he could hardly believe it
+to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which
+marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had
+no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but either to
+Norland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any
+thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must
+leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own,
+and without any restraint on his time.
+
+Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
+mother’s account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose
+character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse
+for every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,
+and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain
+behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard
+his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,
+which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for
+Willoughby’s service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness,
+and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of
+independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars’s disposition
+and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose
+in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same
+inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old
+well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,
+was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these
+difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,—when Mrs.
+Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But
+from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal
+of her confidence in Edward’s affection, to the remembrance of every
+mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and
+above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round
+his finger.
+
+“I think, Edward,” said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the
+last morning, “you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
+engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some
+inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it—you would
+not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you
+would be materially benefited in one particular at least—you would know
+where to go when you left them.”
+
+“I do assure you,” he replied, “that I have long thought on this point,
+as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a
+heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage
+me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like
+independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my
+friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never
+could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the
+church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.
+They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The
+law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers
+in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and
+drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the
+law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved.
+As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the
+subject was first started to enter it—and, at length, as there was no
+necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing
+and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was
+pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a
+young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy
+as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was
+therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since.”
+
+“The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,” said Mrs. Dashwood,
+“since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will
+be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades
+as Columella’s.”
+
+“They will be brought up,” said he, in a serious accent, “to be as
+unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in
+every thing.”
+
+“Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
+Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike
+yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from
+friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their
+education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but
+patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother
+will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for;
+it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to
+prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may
+not a few months do?”
+
+“I think,” replied Edward, “that I may defy many months to produce any
+good to me.”
+
+This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to
+Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which
+shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor’s
+feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.
+But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself
+from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his
+going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by
+Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by
+seeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different
+as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.
+
+Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
+house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor
+avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as
+much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this
+conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented
+from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much
+solicitude on her account.
+
+Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
+more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
+The business of self-command she settled very easily;—with strong
+affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
+That her sister’s affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though
+she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave
+a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in
+spite of this mortifying conviction.
+
+Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
+determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
+indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough
+to think of Edward, and of Edward’s behaviour, in every possible
+variety which the different state of her spirits at different times
+could produce,—with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.
+There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her
+mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,
+conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was
+produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be
+chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so
+interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross
+her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
+
+From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
+roused one morning, soon after Edward’s leaving them, by the arrival of
+company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little
+gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew
+her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the
+door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,
+but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown
+to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John
+perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
+knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open
+the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the
+door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one
+without being heard at the other.
+
+“Well,” said he, “we have brought you some strangers. How do you like
+them?”
+
+“Hush! they will hear you.”
+
+“Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very
+pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way.”
+
+As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
+taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
+
+“Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
+instrument is open.”
+
+“She is walking, I believe.”
+
+They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
+wait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came
+hallooing to the window, “How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.
+Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be
+glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son
+and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I
+thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,
+but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of
+nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so
+I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel
+Brandon come back again—”
+
+Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
+receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two
+strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same
+time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings
+continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,
+attended by Sir John.
+
+Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
+unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty
+face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could
+possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister’s,
+but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled
+all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she
+went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and
+twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of
+less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a
+look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without
+speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
+apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read
+it as long as he staid.
+
+Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a
+turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
+admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.
+
+“Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
+charming! Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last! I
+always thought it such a sweet place, ma’am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood)
+but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful
+every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not
+you, Mr. Palmer?”
+
+Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the
+newspaper.
+
+“Mr. Palmer does not hear me,” said she, laughing; “he never does
+sometimes. It is so ridiculous!”
+
+This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
+find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
+surprise at them both.
+
+Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
+continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing
+their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer
+laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every
+body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an
+agreeable surprise.
+
+“You may believe how glad we all were to see them,” added Mrs.
+Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice
+as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on
+different sides of the room; “but, however, I can’t help wishing they
+had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,
+for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for
+you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was
+wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this
+morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you
+all!”
+
+Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
+
+“She expects to be confined in February,” continued Mrs. Jennings.
+
+Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
+therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in
+the paper.
+
+“No, none at all,” he replied, and read on.
+
+“Here comes Marianne,” cried Sir John. “Now, Palmer, you shall see a
+monstrous pretty girl.”
+
+He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
+ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she
+appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so
+heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer
+looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and
+then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer’s eye was now caught by the
+drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.
+
+“Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,
+mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at
+them for ever.” And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that
+there were any such things in the room.
+
+When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down
+the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
+
+“My love, have you been asleep?” said his wife, laughing.
+
+He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
+room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
+He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.
+
+Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at
+the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener
+than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;
+her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to
+see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of
+pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,
+likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not
+likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied—the carriage
+should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though
+she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
+Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a
+family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
+
+“Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
+“The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very
+hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying
+either with them, or with us.”
+
+“They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,” said Elinor, “by
+these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a
+few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are
+grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+
+As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
+day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as
+good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most
+affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them
+again.
+
+“I am so glad to see you!” said she, seating herself between Elinor and
+Marianne, “for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
+which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must
+go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a
+sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the
+carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I
+would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any
+thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again
+in town very soon, I hope.”
+
+They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
+
+“Not go to town!” cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, “I shall be quite
+disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world
+for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I
+am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
+confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.”
+
+They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
+
+“Oh, my love,” cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
+the room—“you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town
+this winter.”
+
+Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began
+complaining of the weather.
+
+“How horrid all this is!” said he. “Such weather makes every thing and
+every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as
+without, by rain. It makes one detest all one’s acquaintance. What the
+devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?
+How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the
+weather.”
+
+The rest of the company soon dropt in.
+
+“I am afraid, Miss Marianne,” said Sir John, “you have not been able to
+take your usual walk to Allenham today.”
+
+Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
+
+“Oh, don’t be so sly before us,” said Mrs. Palmer; “for we know all
+about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think
+he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the
+country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say.”
+
+“Much nearer thirty,” said her husband.
+
+“Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but
+they say it is a sweet pretty place.”
+
+“As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,” said Mr. Palmer.
+
+Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
+interest in what was said.
+
+“Is it very ugly?” continued Mrs. Palmer—“then it must be some other
+place that is so pretty I suppose.”
+
+When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret
+that they were only eight all together.
+
+“My dear,” said he to his lady, “it is very provoking that we should be
+so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?”
+
+“Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
+that it could not be done? They dined with us last.”
+
+“You and I, Sir John,” said Mrs. Jennings, “should not stand upon such
+ceremony.”
+
+“Then you would be very ill-bred,” cried Mr. Palmer.
+
+“My love you contradict every body,” said his wife with her usual
+laugh. “Do you know that you are quite rude?”
+
+“I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
+ill-bred.”
+
+“Ay, you may abuse me as you please,” said the good-natured old lady,
+“you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.
+So there I have the whip hand of you.”
+
+Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
+of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
+as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more
+thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.
+Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
+husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
+highly diverted.
+
+“Mr. Palmer is so droll!” said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. “He is
+always out of humour.”
+
+Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit
+for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
+wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
+finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
+bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman—but
+she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man
+to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she
+believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and
+his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of
+appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be
+wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing
+his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to
+him except his wife.
+
+“Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,” said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, “I have
+got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and
+spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,—and come
+while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!
+It will be quite delightful!—My love,” applying to her husband, “don’t
+you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?”
+
+“Certainly,” he replied, with a sneer—“I came into Devonshire with no
+other view.”
+
+“There now,”—said his lady, “you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
+cannot refuse to come.”
+
+They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
+
+“But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all
+things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
+You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay
+now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
+against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I
+never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very
+fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him.”
+
+Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
+hardship of such an obligation.
+
+“How charming it will be,” said Charlotte, “when he is in
+Parliament!—won’t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to
+see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.—But do you know, he
+says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won’t. Don’t you, Mr.
+Palmer?”
+
+Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
+
+“He cannot bear writing, you know,” she continued—“he says it is quite
+shocking.”
+
+“No,” said he, “I never said any thing so irrational. Don’t palm all
+your abuses of language upon me.”
+
+“There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!
+Sometimes he won’t speak to me for half a day together, and then he
+comes out with something so droll—all about any thing in the world.”
+
+She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
+by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
+
+“Certainly,” said Elinor; “he seems very agreeable.”
+
+“Well—I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and
+Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell
+you, and you can’t think how disappointed he will be if you don’t come
+to Cleveland.—I can’t imagine why you should object to it.”
+
+Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the
+subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as
+they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some
+more particular account of Willoughby’s general character, than could
+be gathered from the Middletons’ partial acquaintance with him; and she
+was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as
+might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by
+inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether
+they were intimately acquainted with him.
+
+“Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,” replied Mrs. Palmer;—“Not
+that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
+Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was
+at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;—but I was with my uncle at
+Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him
+in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should
+never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I
+believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer
+would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it
+is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your
+sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall
+have her for a neighbour you know.”
+
+“Upon my word,” replied Elinor, “you know much more of the matter than
+I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.”
+
+“Don’t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks
+of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.”
+
+“My dear Mrs. Palmer!”
+
+“Upon my honour I did.—I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
+Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.”
+
+“You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you
+must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not
+be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect
+Colonel Brandon to do.”
+
+“But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how
+it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so
+we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another,
+and I said to him, ‘So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton
+cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that
+one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is
+it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in
+Devonshire so lately.’”
+
+“And what did the Colonel say?”
+
+“Oh—he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so
+from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful,
+I declare! When is it to take place?”
+
+“Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?”
+
+“Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
+say fine things of you.”
+
+“I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I
+think him uncommonly pleasing.”
+
+“So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should
+be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister
+too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
+ever falls in love with any body.”
+
+“Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?” said
+Elinor.
+
+“Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
+acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all
+think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than
+Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She
+is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he
+is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
+agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don’t
+think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think
+you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,
+though we could not get him to own it last night.”
+
+Mrs. Palmer’s information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
+but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
+
+“I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,” continued Charlotte.—“And
+now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can’t think how much I
+longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the
+cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your
+sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at
+Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts.”
+
+“You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?”
+
+“Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular
+friend of Sir John’s. I believe,” she added in a low voice, “he would
+have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady
+Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good
+enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the
+Colonel, and we should have been married immediately.”
+
+“Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John’s proposal to your mother
+before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?”
+
+“Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have
+liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was
+before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is
+the kind of man I like.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+
+The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
+Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last
+long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had
+hardly done wondering at Charlotte’s being so happy without a cause, at
+Mr. Palmer’s acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
+unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir
+John’s and Mrs. Jennings’s active zeal in the cause of society,
+procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.
+
+In a morning’s excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
+whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
+relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to
+the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.
+Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
+invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the
+return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a
+visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose
+elegance,—whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for
+the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
+nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the
+worse; and Mrs. Jennings’s attempts at consolation were therefore
+unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about
+their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put
+up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent
+their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with
+all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely
+giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
+every day.
+
+The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or
+unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,
+they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
+and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady
+Middleton’s good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had
+been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls
+indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s
+confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he
+set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss
+Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls
+in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not
+much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the
+world were to be met with in every part of England, under every
+possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John
+wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his
+guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to
+keep a third cousin to himself.
+
+“Do come now,” said he—“pray come—you must come—I declare you shall
+come—You can’t think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty,
+and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about
+her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to
+see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the
+most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all
+very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am
+sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the
+children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your
+cousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my cousins, and they are
+my wife’s, so you must be related.”
+
+But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their
+calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in
+amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their
+attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the
+Miss Steeles to them.
+
+When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to
+these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the
+eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible
+face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or
+three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features
+were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,
+which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction
+to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon
+allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what
+constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable
+to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures,
+extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their
+whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
+demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of
+whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing,
+or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her
+appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
+Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond
+mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
+rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands
+are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive
+affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were
+viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
+distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent
+encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
+She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their
+work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt
+no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other
+surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,
+without claiming a share in what was passing.
+
+“John is in such spirits today!” said she, on his taking Miss Steeles’s
+pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window—“He is full of
+monkey tricks.”
+
+And soon afterwards, on the second boy’s violently pinching one of the
+same lady’s fingers, she fondly observed, “How playful William is!”
+
+“And here is my sweet little Annamaria,” she added, tenderly caressing
+a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last
+two minutes; “And she is always so gentle and quiet—Never was there
+such a quiet little thing!”
+
+But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship’s
+head dress slightly scratching the child’s neck, produced from this
+pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone
+by any creature professedly noisy. The mother’s consternation was
+excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
+every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which
+affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little
+sufferer. She was seated in her mother’s lap, covered with kisses, her
+wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was
+on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by
+the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to
+cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
+brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were
+ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
+similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
+successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly
+proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
+screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that
+it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in
+her mother’s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose
+to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind,
+the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not
+known for many hours.
+
+“Poor little creatures!” said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.
+“It might have been a very sad accident.”
+
+“Yet I hardly know how,” cried Marianne, “unless it had been under
+totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of
+heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality.”
+
+“What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!” said Lucy Steele.
+
+Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not
+feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole
+task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did
+her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more
+warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
+
+“And Sir John too,” cried the elder sister, “what a charming man he
+is!”
+
+Here too, Miss Dashwood’s commendation, being only simple and just,
+came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly
+good humoured and friendly.
+
+“And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine
+children in my life.—I declare I quite doat upon them already, and
+indeed I am always distractedly fond of children.”
+
+“I should guess so,” said Elinor, with a smile, “from what I have
+witnessed this morning.”
+
+“I have a notion,” said Lucy, “you think the little Middletons rather
+too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
+so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children
+full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and
+quiet.”
+
+“I confess,” replied Elinor, “that while I am at Barton Park, I never
+think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.”
+
+A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
+Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now
+said rather abruptly, “And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I
+suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.”
+
+In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of
+the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
+
+“Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?” added Miss
+Steele.
+
+“We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,” said Lucy, who seemed
+to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
+
+“I think every one _must_ admire it,” replied Elinor, “who ever saw the
+place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
+beauties as we do.”
+
+“And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so
+many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast
+addition always.”
+
+“But why should you think,” said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,
+“that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?”
+
+“Nay, my dear, I’m sure I don’t pretend to say that there an’t. I’m
+sure there’s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could
+I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only
+afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not
+so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care
+about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my
+part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and
+behave civil. But I can’t bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there’s
+Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk
+to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning,
+he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss
+Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?”
+
+“Upon my word,” replied Elinor, “I cannot tell you, for I do not
+perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that
+if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is
+not the smallest alteration in him.”
+
+“Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men’s being beaux—they have
+something else to do.”
+
+“Lord! Anne,” cried her sister, “you can talk of nothing but beaux;—you
+will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else.” And then to
+turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
+
+This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and
+folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not
+blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want
+of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish
+of knowing them better.
+
+Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with
+admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his
+relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair
+cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
+accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
+they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be
+better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable
+lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,
+their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of
+intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two
+together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more;
+but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in
+his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their
+meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established
+friends.
+
+To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
+unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew
+or supposed of his cousins’ situations in the most delicate
+particulars; and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the
+eldest of them wished her joy on her sister’s having been so lucky as
+to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.
+
+“’Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,” said
+she, “and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I
+hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,—but perhaps you may have
+a friend in the corner already.”
+
+Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
+proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been
+with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of
+the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since
+Edward’s visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to
+her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and
+winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F—had been likewise
+invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless
+jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had
+been long established with Elinor.
+
+The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these
+jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the
+name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently
+expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness
+into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with
+the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much
+pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.
+
+“His name is Ferrars,” said he, in a very audible whisper; “but pray do
+not tell it, for it’s a great secret.”
+
+“Ferrars!” repeated Miss Steele; “Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?
+What! your sister-in-law’s brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable
+young man to be sure; I know him very well.”
+
+“How can you say so, Anne?” cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment
+to all her sister’s assertions. “Though we have seen him once or twice
+at my uncle’s, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.”
+
+Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. “And who was this
+uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?” She wished very
+much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in
+it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in
+her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after
+petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in
+which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it
+struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of
+that lady’s knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his
+disadvantage.—But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice
+was taken of Mr. Ferrars’s name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even
+openly mentioned by Sir John.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+
+Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like
+impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of
+taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from
+the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to
+encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her
+behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on
+their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself
+which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of
+Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of
+striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank
+communication of her sentiments.
+
+Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
+as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
+but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
+illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
+information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
+Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
+advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
+which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
+less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
+rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
+assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no
+lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity
+with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in
+conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made
+every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly
+valueless.
+
+“You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,” said Lucy to her
+one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
+cottage—“but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
+sister-in-law’s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?”
+
+Elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
+expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
+
+“Indeed!” replied Lucy; “I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
+seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what
+sort of a woman she is?”
+
+“No,” returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward’s
+mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
+curiosity; “I know nothing of her.”
+
+“I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
+way,” said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; “but perhaps
+there may be reasons—I wish I might venture; but however I hope you
+will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
+impertinent.”
+
+Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
+silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by
+saying, with some hesitation,
+
+“I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I
+would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
+whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I
+should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should
+be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable
+situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_.
+I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars.”
+
+“I am sorry I do _not_,” said Elinor, in great astonishment, “if it
+could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I
+never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and
+therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry
+into her character.”
+
+“I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if
+I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars
+is certainly nothing to me at present—but the time _may_ come—how soon
+it will come must depend upon herself—when we may be very intimately
+connected.”
+
+She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
+glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
+
+“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “what do you mean? Are you acquainted
+with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?” And she did not feel much
+delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
+
+“No,” replied Lucy, “not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars—I never saw him in my
+life; but,” fixing her eyes upon Elinor, “to his eldest brother.”
+
+What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
+painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
+assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
+unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
+her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
+danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
+
+“You may well be surprised,” continued Lucy; “for to be sure you could
+have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
+smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
+meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so
+by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne,
+and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the
+greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really
+thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars
+must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr.
+Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I
+know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and
+looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own
+sisters.”—She paused.
+
+Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she
+heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself
+to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,
+which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude—“May I ask
+if your engagement is of long standing?”
+
+“We have been engaged these four years.”
+
+“Four years!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
+
+“I did not know,” said she, “that you were even acquainted till the
+other day.”
+
+“Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my
+uncle’s care, you know, a considerable while.”
+
+“Your uncle!”
+
+“Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?”
+
+“I think I have,” replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
+increased with her increase of emotion.
+
+“He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
+Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was
+often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
+formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he
+was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter
+into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of
+his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so
+prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as
+me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he
+is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.”
+
+“Certainly,” answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after
+a moment’s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward’s
+honour and love, and her companion’s falsehood—“Engaged to Mr. Edward
+Ferrars!—I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,
+that really—I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of
+person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.”
+
+“We can mean no other,” cried Lucy, smiling. “Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
+eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
+sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow
+that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who
+all my happiness depends.”
+
+“It is strange,” replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, “that I
+should never have heard him even mention your name.”
+
+“No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has
+been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,
+and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my
+name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s
+suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning
+it.”
+
+She was silent.—Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-command did not
+sink with it.
+
+“Four years you have been engaged,” said she with a firm voice.
+
+“Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
+Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.” Then taking a small miniature
+from her pocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be
+so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be
+sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was
+drew for.—I have had it above these three years.”
+
+She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
+painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or
+her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she
+could have none of its being Edward’s face. She returned it almost
+instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
+
+“I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him my picture in
+return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
+anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first
+opportunity.”
+
+“You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor calmly. They then
+proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
+
+“I am sure,” said she, “I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully
+keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to
+us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,
+I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding
+proud woman.”
+
+“I certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor; “but you do me
+no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your
+secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so
+unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being
+acquainted with it could not add to its safety.”
+
+As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
+something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
+part of what she had been saying; but Lucy’s countenance suffered no
+change.
+
+“I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,”
+said she, “in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be
+sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by
+description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as
+if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really
+thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular
+inquiries about Edward’s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have
+not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that
+knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a
+great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
+betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must
+perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world
+t’other day, when Edward’s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she
+should out with it all. You can’t think how much I go through in my
+mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I
+have suffered for Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in
+such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly
+meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
+broke.”
+
+Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
+compassionate.
+
+“Sometimes.” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, “I think whether it
+would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.” As
+she said this, she looked directly at her companion. “But then at other
+times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts
+of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing
+would do. And on my own account too—so dear as he is to me—I don’t
+think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a
+case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?”
+
+“Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled by the question; “but I can give
+you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
+you.”
+
+“To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
+sides, “his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor
+Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful
+low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us
+at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
+quite ill.”
+
+“Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?”
+
+“Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he
+came directly from town?”
+
+“No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
+circumstance in favour of Lucy’s veracity; “I remember he told us, that
+he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.” She
+remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
+farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to
+their names.
+
+“Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?” repeated Lucy.
+
+“We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”
+
+“I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
+matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than
+a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am
+afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched
+spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;” taking a letter
+from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. “You
+know his hand, I dare say,—a charming one it is; but that is not
+written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just
+filled the sheet to me as full as possible.”
+
+Elinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This
+picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
+accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward’s gift; but a
+correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
+positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
+moments, she was almost overcome—her heart sunk within her, and she
+could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
+struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that
+her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
+
+“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the letter into her
+pocket, “is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, _I_
+have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
+_that_. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him
+a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and
+that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
+Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?”
+
+“I did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
+concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
+before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
+
+Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
+conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a
+few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then
+at liberty to think and be wretched.
+
+END OF THE FIRST VOLUME
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+
+However small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s veracity might be,
+it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the
+present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of
+inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to
+be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported
+as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and
+contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of
+acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest,
+at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward’s visit near Plymouth,
+his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects,
+his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the
+Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had
+often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed
+altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of
+condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality
+could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.—Her resentment of such
+behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time
+made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
+soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned
+a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an
+engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she
+could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own.
+She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had
+been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion
+of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart
+was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had
+been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first
+felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he
+could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he
+injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His
+imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have
+deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in
+time regain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to?
+Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his
+affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
+delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like
+her—illiterate, artful, and selfish?
+
+The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every
+thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding
+years—years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the
+understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,
+while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society
+and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity
+which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.
+
+If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties
+from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely
+to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in
+connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These
+difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not
+press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the
+person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness,
+could be felt as a relief!
+
+As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept
+for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having
+done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the
+belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought
+she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command
+herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother
+and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,
+that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first
+suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have
+supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning
+in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object
+of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the
+perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly
+possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove
+near their house.
+
+The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been
+entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
+exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor’s distress. On the contrary it
+was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give
+such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that
+condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of
+their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt
+equal to support.
+
+From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive
+no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
+while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their
+example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good
+sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her
+appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant
+and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
+
+Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the
+subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for
+more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their
+engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what
+Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her
+declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to
+convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her
+calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in
+it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary
+agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
+doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very
+probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her
+praise, not merely from Lucy’s assertion, but from her venturing to
+trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so
+confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John’s joking
+intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor
+remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
+Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it
+natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very
+confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the
+affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of
+Lucy’s superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?
+She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival’s
+intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every
+principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection
+for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny
+herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was
+unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on
+the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own
+ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
+
+But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
+commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take
+advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine
+enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most
+easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at
+least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at
+the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of
+conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
+Middleton’s head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for
+a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for
+the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,
+or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
+
+One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
+Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at
+the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they
+would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to
+attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
+except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a
+fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this
+was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil
+and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
+them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
+invitation; Margaret, with her mother’s permission, was equally
+compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their
+parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her
+seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.
+
+The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from
+the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the
+meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one
+novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting
+than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and
+drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while
+they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of
+engaging Lucy’s attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the
+removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor
+began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of
+finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in
+preparation for a round game.
+
+“I am glad,” said Lady Middleton to Lucy, “you are not going to finish
+poor little Annamaria’s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt
+your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear
+little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I
+hope she will not much mind it.”
+
+This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
+“Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
+to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have
+been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel
+for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am
+resolved to finish the basket after supper.”
+
+“You are very good, I hope it won’t hurt your eyes—will you ring the
+bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly
+disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for
+though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon
+having it done.”
+
+Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an
+alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no
+greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
+
+Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made
+any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms
+of general civility, exclaimed, “Your Ladyship will have the goodness
+to excuse _me_—you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte;
+I have not touched it since it was tuned.” And without farther
+ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
+
+Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never
+made so rude a speech.
+
+“Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma’am,”
+said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; “and I do not
+much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever
+heard.”
+
+The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
+
+“Perhaps,” continued Elinor, “if I should happen to cut out, I may be
+of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
+there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be
+impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I
+should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.”
+
+“Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,” cried Lucy,
+“for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;
+and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after
+all.”
+
+“Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,” said Miss Steele. “Dear little
+soul, how I do love her!”
+
+“You are very kind,” said Lady Middleton to Elinor; “and as you really
+like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till
+another rubber, or will you take your chance now?”
+
+Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a
+little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to
+practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same
+time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair
+rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the
+utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at
+which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had
+by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,
+was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might
+safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting
+subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+
+In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.
+
+“I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,
+if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
+subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.”
+
+“Thank you,” cried Lucy warmly, “for breaking the ice; you have set my
+heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended
+you by what I told you that Monday.”
+
+“Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,” and Elinor spoke
+it with the truest sincerity, “nothing could be farther from my
+intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for
+the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?”
+
+“And yet I do assure you,” replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of
+meaning, “there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
+manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry
+with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having
+took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very
+glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame
+me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart
+speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my
+life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am
+sure.”
+
+“Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,
+to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall
+never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;
+you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have
+need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.
+Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.”
+
+“He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
+marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect
+of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income,
+and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to
+be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother
+might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for
+many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an
+alarming prospect; but Edward’s affection and constancy nothing can
+deprive me of I know.”
+
+“That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
+supported by the same trust in your’s. If the strength of your
+reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under
+many circumstances it naturally would during a four years’ engagement,
+your situation would have been pitiable, indeed.”
+
+Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance
+from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.
+
+“Edward’s love for me,” said Lucy, “has been pretty well put to the
+test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and
+it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt
+it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment’s alarm
+on that account from the first.”
+
+Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
+
+Lucy went on. “I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from
+our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the
+world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
+suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been
+the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any
+lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked
+more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at
+Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am
+particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case
+I am sure I could not be deceived.”
+
+“All this,” thought Elinor, “is very pretty; but it can impose upon
+neither of us.”
+
+“But what,” said she after a short silence, “are your views? or have
+you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars’s death, which is a
+melancholy and shocking extremity?—Is her son determined to submit to
+this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which
+it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a
+while by owning the truth?”
+
+“If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.
+Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger
+upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and
+the idea of that, for Edward’s sake, frightens away all my inclination
+for hasty measures.”
+
+“And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
+beyond reason.”
+
+Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
+
+“Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?” asked Elinor.
+
+“Not at all—I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
+brother—silly and a great coxcomb.”
+
+“A great coxcomb!” repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
+words by a sudden pause in Marianne’s music. “Oh, they are talking of
+their favourite beaux, I dare say.”
+
+“No sister,” cried Lucy, “you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux
+are _not_ great coxcombs.”
+
+“I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood’s is not,” said Mrs. Jennings,
+laughing heartily; “for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved
+young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
+creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes.”
+
+“Oh,” cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, “I dare
+say Lucy’s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
+Dashwood’s.”
+
+Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked
+angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy
+first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was
+then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent
+concerto,—
+
+“I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my
+head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into
+the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen
+enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other
+profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he
+can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind
+enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard
+to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;
+which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not
+likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry
+upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.”
+
+“I should always be happy,” replied Elinor, “to show any mark of my
+esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
+interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is
+brother to Mrs. John Dashwood—_that_ must be recommendation enough to
+her husband.”
+
+“But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward’s going into
+orders.”
+
+“Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.”
+
+They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with
+a deep sigh,
+
+“I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at
+once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties
+on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we
+should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your
+advice, Miss Dashwood?”
+
+“No,” answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
+feelings, “on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well
+that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the
+side of your wishes.”
+
+“Indeed you wrong me,” replied Lucy, with great solemnity; “I know
+nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do
+really believe, that if you was to say to me, ‘I advise you by all
+means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
+more for the happiness of both of you,’ I should resolve upon doing it
+immediately.”
+
+Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward’s future wife, and
+replied, “This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any
+opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much
+too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too
+much for an indifferent person.”
+
+“’Tis because you are an indifferent person,” said Lucy, with some
+pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, “that your
+judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be
+supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion
+would not be worth having.”
+
+Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
+provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and
+was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another
+pause therefore of many minutes’ duration, succeeded this speech, and
+Lucy was still the first to end it.
+
+“Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?” said she with all
+her accustomary complacency.
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“I am sorry for that,” returned the other, while her eyes brightened at
+the information, “it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
+there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your
+brother and sister will ask you to come to them.”
+
+“It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.”
+
+“How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne
+and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have
+been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for
+the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise
+London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.”
+
+Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first
+rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore
+at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for
+nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other
+less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table
+with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without
+affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
+even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
+affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest alone could
+induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so
+thoroughly aware that he was weary.
+
+From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when
+entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,
+and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness
+whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the
+former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
+would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which
+Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.
+
+The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
+what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could
+not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of
+their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the
+absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was
+in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay
+nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of
+that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private
+balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+
+Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
+the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without
+a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who
+had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
+resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
+Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn
+her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly
+by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor,
+without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
+animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
+a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself
+to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their
+determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
+year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and
+repeated her invitation immediately.
+
+“Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_
+beg you will favour me with your company, for I’ve quite set my heart
+upon it. Don’t fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I
+shan’t put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending
+Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that_. We three shall be
+able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do
+not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one
+of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I
+have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that
+she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I
+don’t get one of you at least well married before I have done with you,
+it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the
+young men, you may depend upon it.”
+
+“I have a notion,” said Sir John, “that Miss Marianne would not object
+to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very
+hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
+Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for
+town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
+Dashwood about it.”
+
+“Nay,” cried Mrs. Jennings, “I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
+Miss Marianne’s company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the
+more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for
+them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk
+to one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my back. But one or the
+other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you
+think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till
+this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us
+strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
+mind by and bye, why so much the better.”
+
+“I thank you, ma’am, sincerely thank you,” said Marianne, with warmth:
+“your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
+me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
+to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,—I
+feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
+less happy, less comfortable by our absence—Oh! no, nothing should
+tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
+them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw
+to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her
+eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
+opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother’s
+decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
+support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
+approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
+particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
+mother would be eager to promote—she could not expect to influence the
+latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had
+never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain
+the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That
+Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
+Jennings’ manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
+every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
+most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
+was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
+to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
+witness.
+
+On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such
+an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
+daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
+herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
+their declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both
+accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
+cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
+from this separation.
+
+“I am delighted with the plan,” she cried, “it is exactly what I could
+wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
+When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
+happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
+so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of
+alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
+any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to
+town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
+acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under
+the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I
+can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother,
+and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I
+consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged
+from each other.”
+
+“Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,” said Elinor, “you
+have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
+occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
+cannot be so easily removed.”
+
+Marianne’s countenance sunk.
+
+“And what,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “is my dear prudent Elinor going to
+suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not
+let me hear a word about the expense of it.”
+
+“My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings’s
+heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
+whose protection will give us consequence.”
+
+“That is very true,” replied her mother, “but of her society,
+separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
+at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
+Middleton.”
+
+“If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,” said
+Marianne, “at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I
+have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
+unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.”
+
+Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
+the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
+persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
+within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
+likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
+to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
+be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
+domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily
+reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy’s account, was
+not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
+unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
+
+“I will have you _both_ go,” said Mrs. Dashwood; “these objections are
+nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
+especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
+anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
+sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
+acquaintance with her sister-in-law’s family.”
+
+Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
+mother’s dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
+shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this
+attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin
+her design by saying, as calmly as she could, “I like Edward Ferrars
+very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of
+the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am
+ever known to them or not.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in
+astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
+her tongue.
+
+After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
+invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the
+information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
+and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was
+delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
+being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
+London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
+delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
+the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
+their lives as this intelligence made them.
+
+Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
+less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,
+it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
+when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
+sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
+her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
+could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
+herself to distrust the consequence.
+
+Marianne’s joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
+perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her
+unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
+and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her
+mother’s affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the
+three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of
+eternal.
+
+Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons
+were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at
+the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+
+Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
+beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
+without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance
+with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
+disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure
+only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
+ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been
+overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt
+of Willoughby’s constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
+expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
+Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless
+her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would
+engage in the solicitude of Marianne’s situation to have the same
+animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very
+short time however must now decide what Willoughby’s intentions were;
+in all probability he was already in town. Marianne’s eagerness to be
+gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was
+resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character
+which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,
+but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such
+zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,
+before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her
+observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
+the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be
+of a different nature—she must then learn to avoid every selfish
+comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction
+in the happiness of Marianne.
+
+They were three days on their journey, and Marianne’s behaviour as they
+travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
+companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in
+silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
+ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty
+within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
+addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
+took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had
+assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
+talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she
+could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all
+possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and
+enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their
+own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring
+salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by
+three o’clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,
+from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury
+of a good fire.
+
+The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
+were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
+had formerly been Charlotte’s, and over the mantelpiece still hung a
+landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
+spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
+
+As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
+arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
+mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did
+the same. “_I_ am writing home, Marianne,” said Elinor; “had not you
+better defer your letter for a day or two?”
+
+“I am _not_ going to write to my mother,” replied Marianne, hastily,
+and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it
+immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and
+the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
+mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
+engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
+pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
+Marianne’s was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no
+more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
+eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
+direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
+bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed
+for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.
+
+Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
+which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
+agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any
+dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
+anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
+
+It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much
+engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea
+things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more
+than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly
+heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor
+felt secure of its announcing Willoughby’s approach, and Marianne,
+starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this could
+not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps
+towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into
+the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him
+would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant
+she could not help exclaiming, “Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it
+is!” and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when
+Colonel Brandon appeared.
+
+It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
+left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
+regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
+particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
+that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
+him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
+observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and
+concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded
+towards herself.
+
+“Is your sister ill?” said he.
+
+Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
+head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which
+she could decently attribute her sister’s behaviour.
+
+He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
+himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
+his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about
+their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
+
+In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
+they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
+of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether
+Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
+any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
+she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
+“Yes,” he replied, with some embarrassment, “almost ever since; I have
+been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in
+my power to return to Barton.”
+
+This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
+her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
+the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she
+was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the
+subject than she had ever felt.
+
+Mrs. Jennings soon came in. “Oh! Colonel,” said she, with her usual
+noisy cheerfulness, “I am monstrous glad to see you—sorry I could not
+come before—beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a
+little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been
+at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do
+after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to
+settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But
+pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town
+today?”
+
+“I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer’s, where I have been
+dining.”
+
+“Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
+Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.”
+
+“Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
+that you will certainly see her to-morrow.”
+
+“Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two
+young ladies with me, you see—that is, you see but one of them now, but
+there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too—which you
+will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby
+will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and
+handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome—worse
+luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don’t know what
+the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these
+eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we
+parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let’s have no
+secrets among friends.”
+
+He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
+without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and
+Marianne was obliged to appear again.
+
+After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
+than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
+stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
+unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
+
+Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
+The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
+expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished
+their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer’s barouche stopped at the door, and
+in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
+them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
+from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at
+their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
+along; so angry at their accepting her mother’s invitation after having
+declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven
+them if they had not come!
+
+“Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,” said she; “What do you think
+he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was
+now, but it was something so droll!”
+
+After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
+or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
+acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings’s side, and in laughter without cause on
+Mrs. Palmer’s, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
+accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
+which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
+some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at
+first was induced to go likewise.
+
+Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
+Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
+constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
+was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all
+that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied
+every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
+of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
+no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and
+could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.
+Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;
+who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
+time in rapture and indecision.
+
+It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had
+they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when
+Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful
+countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
+
+“Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?” said she to
+the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
+negative. “Are you quite sure of it?” she replied. “Are you certain
+that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?”
+
+The man replied that none had.
+
+“How very odd!” said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
+turned away to the window.
+
+“How odd, indeed!” repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister
+with uneasiness. “If she had not known him to be in town she would not
+have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;
+and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
+Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement
+between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in
+so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! _I_ long to inquire; and how will
+_my_ interference be borne.”
+
+She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued
+many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in
+the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious
+enquiry into the affair.
+
+Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings’s intimate
+acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
+them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
+engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
+for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would
+never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own
+disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to
+her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation
+and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few
+minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned
+to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards
+across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window,
+in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+
+“If this open weather holds much longer,” said Mrs. Jennings, when they
+met at breakfast the following morning, “Sir John will not like leaving
+Barton next week; ’tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day’s
+pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to
+take it so much to heart.”
+
+“That is true,” cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the
+window as she spoke, to examine the day. “I had not thought of _that_.
+This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.”
+
+It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
+“It is charming weather for _them_ indeed,” she continued, as she sat
+down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. “How much they
+must enjoy it! But” (with a little return of anxiety) “it cannot be
+expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a
+series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts
+will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day
+or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer—nay,
+perhaps it may freeze tonight!”
+
+“At any rate,” said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
+seeing her sister’s thoughts as clearly as she did, “I dare say we
+shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next
+week.”
+
+“Ay, my dear, I’ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.”
+
+“And now,” silently conjectured Elinor, “she will write to Combe by
+this day’s post.”
+
+But if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy
+which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the
+truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough
+contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could
+not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy
+in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of
+a frost.
+
+The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
+Jennings’s acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and
+Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,
+watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the
+air.
+
+“Don’t you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
+seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm
+even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem
+parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear
+afternoon.”
+
+Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,
+and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in
+the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching
+frost.
+
+The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
+Jennings’s style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her
+behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her
+household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and
+excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton’s regret, she
+had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at
+all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find
+herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had
+expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real
+enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or
+abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.
+
+Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
+them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,
+who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from
+any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much
+concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a
+strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which
+he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than
+when at Barton.
+
+About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was
+also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the
+morning’s drive.
+
+“Good God!” cried Marianne, “he has been here while we were out.”
+Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to
+say, “Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.” But Marianne seemed
+hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings’s entrance, escaped with the
+precious card.
+
+This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of
+her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this
+moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every
+hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being
+left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.
+
+Elinor’s thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
+during their absence; but a moment’s glance at her sister when they
+returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second
+visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.
+
+“For me!” cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
+
+“No, ma’am, for my mistress.”
+
+But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
+
+“It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!”
+
+“You are expecting a letter, then?” said Elinor, unable to be longer
+silent.
+
+“Yes, a little—not much.”
+
+After a short pause. “You have no confidence in me, Marianne.”
+
+“Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_—you who have confidence in no
+one!”
+
+“Me!” returned Elinor in some confusion; “indeed, Marianne, I have
+nothing to tell.”
+
+“Nor I,” answered Marianne with energy, “our situations then are alike.
+We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not
+communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.”
+
+Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was
+not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to
+press for greater openness in Marianne.
+
+Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it
+aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit
+Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
+cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John’s part, and a
+violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.
+The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew
+near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that
+they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty
+in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of
+Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad,
+than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.
+
+Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
+materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled
+in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty
+young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,
+however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an
+unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the
+reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it
+was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it
+known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine
+couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had
+not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid
+the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore
+never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their
+entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they
+were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the
+room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it
+was enough—_he_ was not there—and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to
+receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an
+hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his
+surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first
+informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said
+something very droll on hearing that they were to come.
+
+“I thought you were both in Devonshire,” said he.
+
+“Did you?” replied Elinor.
+
+“When do you go back again?”
+
+“I do not know.” And thus ended their discourse.
+
+Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was
+that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She
+complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.
+
+“Aye, aye,” said Mrs. Jennings, “we know the reason of all that very
+well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you
+would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very
+pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited.”
+
+“Invited!” cried Marianne.
+
+“So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
+somewhere in the street this morning.” Marianne said no more, but
+looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing
+something that might lead to her sister’s relief, Elinor resolved to
+write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears
+for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been
+so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by
+perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again
+writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other
+person.
+
+About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
+business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too
+restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one
+window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
+Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all
+that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby’s inconstancy, urging her
+by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account
+of her real situation with respect to him.
+
+Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
+Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the
+window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
+entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
+satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in
+particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
+Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
+sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the
+first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than
+once before, beginning with the observation of “your sister looks
+unwell to-day,” or “your sister seems out of spirits,” he had appeared
+on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something
+particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence
+was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was
+to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not
+prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged
+to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He
+tried to smile as he replied, “your sister’s engagement to Mr.
+Willoughby is very generally known.”
+
+“It cannot be generally known,” returned Elinor, “for her own family do
+not know it.”
+
+He looked surprised and said, “I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
+inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
+intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
+talked of.”
+
+“How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?”
+
+“By many—by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are
+most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But
+still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps
+rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to
+support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,
+accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in
+your sister’s writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I
+could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it
+impossible to—? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of
+succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in
+saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I
+have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely
+resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if
+concealment be possible, is all that remains.”
+
+These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for
+her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say
+anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a
+short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real
+state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known
+to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable
+to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne’s
+affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon’s
+success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same
+time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most
+prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really
+knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had
+never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with
+each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their
+correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
+
+He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
+rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,
+“to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he
+may endeavour to deserve her,”—took leave, and went away.
+
+Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to
+lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the
+contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon’s
+unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her
+anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+
+Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
+regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
+neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to
+attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
+away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,
+Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
+equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one
+look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room
+fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton’s arrival, without
+once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own
+thoughts, and insensible of her sister’s presence; and when at last
+they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she
+started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.
+
+They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
+the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
+stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another
+in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full
+of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of
+politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted
+to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
+inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some
+time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
+Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
+Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
+distance from the table.
+
+They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
+Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
+conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon
+caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
+speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;
+and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned
+involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by
+her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance
+glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
+instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
+
+“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “he is there—he is there—Oh! why does he
+not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?”
+
+“Pray, pray be composed,” cried Elinor, “and do not betray what you
+feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet.”
+
+This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
+composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it
+was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected
+every feature.
+
+At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
+and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
+him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
+Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe
+her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and
+asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence
+of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the
+feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned
+over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, “Good God!
+Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my
+letters? Will you not shake hands with me?”
+
+He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he
+held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently
+struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its
+expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment’s pause, he spoke
+with calmness.
+
+“I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
+and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
+yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope.”
+
+“But have you not received my notes?” cried Marianne in the wildest
+anxiety. “Here is some mistake I am sure—some dreadful mistake. What
+can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven’s sake tell
+me, what is the matter?”
+
+He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
+returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he
+had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
+he recovered himself again, and after saying, “Yes, I had the pleasure
+of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so
+good as to send me,” turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined
+his friend.
+
+Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
+her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
+to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
+lavender water.
+
+“Go to him, Elinor,” she cried, as soon as she could speak, “and force
+him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again—must speak to him
+instantly.—I cannot rest—I shall not have a moment’s peace till this is
+explained—some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this
+moment.”
+
+“How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is
+not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.”
+
+With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
+herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,
+with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
+privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued
+incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,
+by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby
+quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne
+that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
+evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged
+her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
+too miserable to stay a minute longer.
+
+Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
+that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
+wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
+departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was
+spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent
+agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was
+luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where
+hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and
+in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left
+her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure
+enough for thinking over the past.
+
+That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
+Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
+seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
+wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
+misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment
+could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger
+than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to
+speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from
+believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the
+affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would
+bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and
+convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
+regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
+
+As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
+have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
+its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
+concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
+could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
+future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that
+could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of
+Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby—in an immediate and
+irreconcilable rupture with him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+
+Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained
+any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half
+dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of
+all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as
+a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor,
+roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and
+after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a
+tone of the most considerate gentleness,
+
+“Marianne, may I ask—?”
+
+“No, Elinor,” she replied, “ask nothing; you will soon know all.”
+
+The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
+longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
+of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could
+go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still
+obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of
+her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the
+last time to Willoughby.
+
+Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
+she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
+Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
+irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances,
+it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the
+restless state of Marianne’s mind not only prevented her from remaining
+in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once
+solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house
+till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.
+
+At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
+Elinor’s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
+pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
+engage Mrs. Jennings’s notice entirely to herself.
+
+As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
+considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,
+round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to
+Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a
+death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as
+plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
+from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
+hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
+made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings’s notice. That good
+lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from
+Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
+treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to
+her liking. Of Elinor’s distress, she was too busily employed in
+measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and
+calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,
+
+“Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
+life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
+enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I
+hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won’t keep her waiting much
+longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
+Pray, when are they to be married?”
+
+Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
+obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,
+trying to smile, replied, “And have you really, Ma’am, talked yourself
+into a persuasion of my sister’s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I
+thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to
+imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
+yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me
+more than to hear of their being going to be married.”
+
+“For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don’t we all
+know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love
+with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them
+together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know
+that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
+clothes? Come, come, this won’t do. Because you are so sly about it
+yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such
+thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so
+long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.”
+
+“Indeed, Ma’am,” said Elinor, very seriously, “you are mistaken.
+Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
+you will find that you have though you will not believe me now.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
+and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
+away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
+stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,
+and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without
+saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed
+her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
+tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne’s. The
+latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of
+this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she
+put all the letters into Elinor’s hands; and then covering her face
+with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew
+that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its
+course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent
+itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby’s letter, read as
+follows:
+
+                                    “Bond Street, January.
+
+
+        MY DEAR MADAM,
+    “I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I
+    beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to
+    find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not
+    meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover
+    in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat
+    your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly
+    unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with
+    your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and
+    flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or
+    misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is
+    very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to
+    a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach
+    myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that
+    esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be
+    impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long
+    engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
+    this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey
+    your commands in returning the letters with which I have been
+    honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly
+    bestowed on me.
+
+
+“I am, dear Madam,
+“Your most obedient
+“humble servant,
+“JOHN WILLOUGHBY.”
+
+
+With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
+Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it
+must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their
+separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be
+suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable
+of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and
+delicate feeling—so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to
+send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing
+with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no
+breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever—a letter of
+which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be
+deep in hardened villainy.
+
+She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read
+it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her
+abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,
+that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound
+Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to
+her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most
+irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled
+man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.
+
+In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
+depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the
+very different mind of a very different person, who had no other
+connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
+every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her
+sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so
+entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing
+a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who
+could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
+perceive Mrs. Jennings’s chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
+till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
+contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
+herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
+indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for
+its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing
+her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
+from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
+falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest
+and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
+nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer
+supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was
+felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
+faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
+made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
+sense of her kindness, by saying,
+
+“Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!”
+
+“I only wish,” replied her sister, “there were any thing I _could_ do,
+which might be of comfort to you.”
+
+This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
+who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, “Oh! Elinor, I am
+miserable, indeed,” before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
+
+Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
+silence.
+
+“Exert yourself, dear Marianne,” she cried, “if you would not kill
+yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her
+misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.”
+
+“I cannot, I cannot,” cried Marianne; “leave me, leave me, if I
+distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.
+Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
+exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I
+suffer.”
+
+“Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!—And can you believe
+me to be so, while I see you so wretched!”
+
+“Forgive me, forgive me,” throwing her arms round her sister’s neck; “I
+know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are—you
+must be happy; Edward loves you—what, oh what, can do away such
+happiness as that?”
+
+“Many, many circumstances,” said Elinor, solemnly.
+
+“No, no, no,” cried Marianne wildly, “he loves you, and only you. You
+_can_ have no grief.”
+
+“I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.”
+
+“And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing
+can do away.”
+
+“You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is
+your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer
+now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his
+character had been delayed to a later period—if your engagement had
+been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he
+chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence,
+on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.”
+
+“Engagement!” cried Marianne, “there has been no engagement.”
+
+“No engagement!”
+
+“No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith
+with me.”
+
+“But he told you that he loved you.”
+
+“Yes—no—never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never
+professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never
+was.”
+
+“Yet you wrote to him?”
+
+“Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot
+talk.”
+
+Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now
+raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the
+contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on
+their arrival in town, was to this effect.
+
+Berkeley Street, January.
+
+
+“How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think
+you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in
+town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a
+temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to
+come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall
+expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.
+
+
+“M.D.”
+
+
+Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
+at the Middletons’, was in these words:—
+
+“I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before
+yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a
+note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear
+from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call
+again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected
+this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are
+generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton’s, where
+there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the
+party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since
+we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not
+suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal
+assurance of its being otherwise.
+
+
+“M.D.”
+
+
+The contents of her last note to him were these:—
+
+“What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again
+I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the
+pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity
+which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed
+indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a
+conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I
+have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your
+behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You
+have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something
+concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what
+it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be
+satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to
+be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn
+that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard
+for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only
+to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at
+present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but
+certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your
+sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and
+the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
+
+
+“M.D.”
+
+
+That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been
+so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby’s sake, would have been unwilling
+to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the
+impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently
+grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs
+of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely
+condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished
+the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any
+one would have written in the same situation.
+
+“I felt myself,” she added, “to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if
+the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.”
+
+“I can believe it,” said Elinor; “but unfortunately he did not feel the
+same.”
+
+“He _did_ feel the same, Elinor—for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know
+he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the
+blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear
+to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can
+so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest
+supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his
+voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being
+together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me
+that it might be many weeks before we met again—his distress—can I ever
+forget his distress?”
+
+For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
+passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
+
+“Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.”
+
+“Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
+instigated?”
+
+“By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe
+every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his
+opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of
+whom he writes—whoever she be—or any one, in short, but your own dear
+self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond
+you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather
+suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?”
+
+Elinor would not contend, and only replied, “Whoever may have been so
+detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,
+my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own
+innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable
+and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.”
+
+“No, no,” cried Marianne, “misery such as mine has no pride. I care not
+who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open
+to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud
+and independent as they like—may resist insult, or return
+mortification—but I cannot. I must feel—I must be wretched—and they are
+welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.”
+
+“But for my mother’s sake and mine—”
+
+“I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
+miserable—Oh! who can require it?”
+
+Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking
+thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,
+without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning
+objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,
+with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up
+Willoughby’s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,
+exclaimed,—
+
+“It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
+Cruel, cruel—nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he
+might have heard against me—ought he not to have suspended his belief?
+ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of
+clearing myself? ‘The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)
+which you so obligingly bestowed on me’—That is unpardonable.
+Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,
+barbarously insolent!—Elinor, can he be justified?”
+
+“No, Marianne, in no possible way.”
+
+“And yet this woman—who knows what her art may have been?—how long it
+may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!—Who is
+she?—Who can she be?—Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and
+attractive among his female acquaintance?—Oh! no one, no one—he talked
+to me only of myself.”
+
+Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
+
+“Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone
+to-morrow?”
+
+“To-morrow, Marianne!”
+
+“Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby’s sake—and now
+who cares for me? Who regards me?”
+
+“It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more
+than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a
+hasty removal as that.”
+
+“Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I
+cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.
+The Middletons and Palmers—how am I to bear their pity? The pity of
+such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!”
+
+Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but
+no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body
+she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more
+hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at
+all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for
+assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length
+persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings
+returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+
+Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without
+waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and
+walked in with a look of real concern.
+
+“How do you do my dear?”—said she in a voice of great compassion to
+Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
+
+“How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder.
+Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon—a
+good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told
+me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend
+of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and
+I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is,
+that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance
+abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his
+heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I
+have no notion of men’s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him
+again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a
+day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the
+only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you
+will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won’t disturb her any
+longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with.
+The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that
+will amuse her.”
+
+She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
+supposed her young friend’s affliction could be increased by noise.
+
+Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
+them. Elinor even advised her against it. But “no, she would go down;
+she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.”
+Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,
+though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,
+said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
+while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
+the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.
+
+When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer
+than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been
+conscious of half Mrs. Jennings’s well-meant but ill-judged attentions
+to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a
+syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
+preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.
+
+Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings’s kindness, though its
+effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made
+her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her
+sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that
+Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which
+might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the
+indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last
+day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire,
+was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be
+amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in
+the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could
+have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings’s endeavours to cure a
+disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a
+good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
+forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
+With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to
+follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
+
+“Poor soul!” cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, “how it
+grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without
+finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to
+do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
+would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to
+me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is
+plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless
+you! they care no more about such things!—”
+
+“The lady then—Miss Grey I think you called her—is very rich?”
+
+“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish
+girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy
+Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich
+together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won’t come
+before it’s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder!
+dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don’t signify
+talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to
+a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off
+from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to
+have him. Why don’t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house,
+turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant
+you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came
+round. But that won’t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can
+ever be given up by the young men of this age.”
+
+“Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
+amiable?”
+
+“I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
+mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
+Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would
+not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
+never agree.”
+
+“And who are the Ellisons?”
+
+“Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for
+herself; and a pretty choice she has made!—What now,” after pausing a
+moment—“your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by
+herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it
+seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a
+few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?
+She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?”
+
+“Dear ma’am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,
+will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I
+can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.”
+
+“Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper,
+and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast
+down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging
+over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today
+finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would
+not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how
+should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a
+common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at
+about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when
+they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in
+Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see
+them tomorrow.”
+
+“It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and
+Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
+allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature
+must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
+about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
+myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my
+dear madam will easily believe.”
+
+“Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear
+it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a
+word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.
+No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very
+thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
+certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such
+things, the better, the sooner ’tis blown over and forgot. And what
+good does talking ever do you know?”
+
+“In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases
+of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for
+the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the
+public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby—he has
+broken no positive engagement with my sister.”
+
+“Law, my dear! Don’t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement
+indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
+very rooms they were to live in hereafter!”
+
+Elinor, for her sister’s sake, could not press the subject farther, and
+she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby’s; since, though
+Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement
+of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
+with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
+
+“Well, my dear, ’tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be
+all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that
+he will. Mind me, now, if they an’t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how
+he’ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be
+all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without
+debt or drawback—except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had
+forgot her; but she may be ’prenticed out at a small cost, and then
+what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly
+what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
+conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
+with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
+one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
+there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
+very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
+and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
+from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
+up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages
+that pass along. Oh! ’tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the
+village, and the parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a
+thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send
+three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your
+mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One
+shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put
+Willoughby out of her head!”
+
+“Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma’am,” said Elinor, “we shall do very well
+with or without Colonel Brandon.” And then rising, she went away to
+join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
+leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
+till Elinor’s entrance, had been her only light.
+
+“You had better leave me,” was all the notice that her sister received
+from her.
+
+“I will leave you,” said Elinor, “if you will go to bed.” But this,
+from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
+refused to do. Her sister’s earnest, though gentle persuasion, however,
+soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head
+on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before
+she left her.
+
+In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
+Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
+
+“My dear,” said she, entering, “I have just recollected that I have
+some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
+tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor
+husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old
+colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
+world. Do take it to your sister.”
+
+“Dear Ma’am,” replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
+complaints for which it was recommended, “how good you are! But I have
+just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
+nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
+leave, I will drink the wine myself.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
+earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
+swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
+colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
+powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself
+as on her sister.
+
+Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
+of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
+he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
+was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not
+struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked
+across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered,
+“The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do
+tell him, my dear.”
+
+He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
+which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her
+sister.
+
+“Marianne is not well,” said she. “She has been indisposed all day, and
+we have persuaded her to go to bed.”
+
+“Perhaps, then,” he hesitatingly replied, “what I heard this morning
+may be—there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
+first.”
+
+“What did you hear?”
+
+“That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think—in short, that a man,
+whom I _knew_ to be engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know it
+already, as surely you must, I may be spared.”
+
+“You mean,” answered Elinor, with forced calmness, “Mr. Willoughby’s
+marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have
+been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
+it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?”
+
+“In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies
+were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
+an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
+concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of
+Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
+attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
+was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey—it was
+no longer to be a secret—it would take place even within a few weeks,
+with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,
+especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
+more:—as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna,
+his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!—but it would be impossible
+to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry,
+for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and
+that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey’s
+guardian.”
+
+“It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
+pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.”
+
+“It may be so; but Willoughby is capable—at least I think”—he stopped a
+moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, “And
+your sister—how did she—”
+
+“Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they
+may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel
+affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
+and even now, perhaps—but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was
+really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some
+points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.”
+
+“Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “there is, indeed! But your sister does
+not—I think you said so—she does not consider quite as you do?”
+
+“You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
+justify him if she could.”
+
+He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
+tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
+necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
+while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
+Dashwood’s communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
+Brandon’s side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
+hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
+more serious and thoughtful than usual.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+
+From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
+next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
+closed her eyes.
+
+Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
+before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
+again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
+Elinor’s side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
+Marianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
+unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
+consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she
+was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
+another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
+could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,
+when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
+presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
+endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings’s
+entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
+
+“No, no, no, it cannot be,” she cried; “she cannot feel. Her kindness
+is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
+is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.”
+
+Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
+sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
+refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
+on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
+manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
+that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
+excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected
+from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
+judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
+herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
+in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
+Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
+weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
+Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
+
+With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
+from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
+saying,
+
+“Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.”
+
+Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her
+a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
+explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
+instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
+to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
+of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The
+hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
+and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
+ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
+never suffered.
+
+The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
+moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
+reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
+passionate violence—a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
+object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
+referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was
+calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every
+page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as
+warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor’s
+application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them
+both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for
+Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
+other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
+
+All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
+dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
+confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,
+unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be
+in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
+patience till their mother’s wishes could be known; and at length she
+obtained her sister’s consent to wait for that knowledge.
+
+Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
+till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
+and positively refusing Elinor’s offered attendance, went out alone for
+the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
+pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s
+letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
+sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
+her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
+drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings’s going away, remained fixed at the table
+where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
+her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
+over its effect on her mother.
+
+In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
+Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
+startled by a rap at the door.
+
+“Who can this be?” cried Elinor. “So early too! I thought we _had_ been
+safe.”
+
+Marianne moved to the window.
+
+“It is Colonel Brandon!” said she, with vexation. “We are never safe
+from _him_.”
+
+“He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.”
+
+“I will not trust to _that_,” retreating to her own room. “A man who
+has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion
+on that of others.”
+
+The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
+injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor, who
+was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
+saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
+anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
+for esteeming him so lightly.
+
+“I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after the first
+salutation, “and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
+easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
+alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object—my wish—my sole
+wish in desiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of giving
+comfort;—no, I must not say comfort—not present comfort—but conviction,
+lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her, for
+yourself, for your mother—will you allow me to prove it, by relating
+some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard—nothing
+but an earnest desire of being useful—I think I am justified—though
+where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am
+right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.
+
+“I understand you,” said Elinor. “You have something to tell me of Mr.
+Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will
+be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_
+gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
+that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me
+hear it.”
+
+“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,—but
+this will give you no idea—I must go farther back. You will find me a
+very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A
+short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_
+be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heavily, “can I have little
+temptation to be diffuse.”
+
+He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
+on.
+
+“You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation—(it is not to be
+supposed that it could make any impression on you)—a conversation
+between us one evening at Barton Park—it was the evening of a dance—in
+which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some
+measure, your sister Marianne.”
+
+“Indeed,” answered Elinor, “I have _not_ forgotten it.” He looked
+pleased by this remembrance, and added,
+
+“If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
+recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
+in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
+fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan
+from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages
+were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows
+and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and
+my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from
+my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable
+of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the
+attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a
+different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me
+for ever. She was married—married against her inclination to my
+brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered.
+And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who
+was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he
+did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support
+her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the
+misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame
+all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing—but how
+blindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We
+were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The
+treachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was
+banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no
+liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father’s point was gained. I
+had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe
+one—but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few
+months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now
+to lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had no regard
+for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from
+the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind
+so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon’s, was but too
+natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her
+situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those
+regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that,
+with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to
+advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after
+their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she
+should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps—but I meant to promote
+the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that
+purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had
+given me,” he continued, in a voice of great agitation, “was of
+trifling weight—was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two
+years afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this
+gloom,—even now the recollection of what I suffered—”
+
+He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
+the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
+distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
+her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few
+minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
+
+“It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
+to England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek
+for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could
+not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
+fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
+sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
+sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
+brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
+before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
+that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
+dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I
+had been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former
+servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
+visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
+there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my
+unfortunate sister. So altered—so faded—worn down by acute suffering of
+every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure
+before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,
+on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her—but I have
+no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it—I have
+pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the
+last stage of a consumption, was—yes, in such a situation it was my
+greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for
+a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in
+comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every
+day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last
+moments.”
+
+Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
+an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate
+friend.
+
+“Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he, “by the resemblance
+I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates,
+their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
+disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
+marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
+be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you
+for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood—a subject such as this—untouched for
+fourteen years—it is dangerous to handle it at all! I _will_ be more
+collected—more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little
+girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about
+three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her.
+It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have
+discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education
+myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no
+family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I
+saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother,
+(which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
+possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I
+called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
+general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now
+three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
+removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
+respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
+or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
+had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
+almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her,
+(imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go
+to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father
+there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I
+thought well of his daughter—better than she deserved, for, with a most
+obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no
+clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning,
+but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no
+information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the
+girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they
+chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced
+himself, of his daughter’s being entirely unconcerned in the business.
+In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest,
+for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I
+feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.”
+
+“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “could it be—could Willoughby!”—
+
+“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “came in a
+letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from
+Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
+to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
+which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
+and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby
+imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
+breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
+he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it
+have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles
+of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who _can_
+feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and
+innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with
+no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He
+had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
+relieved her.”
+
+“This is beyond every thing!” exclaimed Elinor.
+
+“His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
+both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I
+must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
+being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
+for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I
+came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it
+_was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now
+you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see
+your sister—but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with
+success; and sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might yet
+reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
+were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may
+now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own
+condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
+considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
+pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
+strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
+must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use
+with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed
+from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every
+friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her
+unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen
+every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to
+her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect;
+but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of
+service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to
+trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital
+which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of
+others.”
+
+Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
+attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
+Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.
+
+“I have been more pained,” said she, “by her endeavors to acquit him
+than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
+perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she
+will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,” she
+continued, after a short silence, “ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you
+left him at Barton?”
+
+“Yes,” he replied gravely, “once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.”
+
+Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
+
+“What? have you met him to—”
+
+“I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most
+reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
+was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
+defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the
+meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”
+
+Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
+soldier she presumed not to censure it.
+
+“Such,” said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, “has been the unhappy
+resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
+have I discharged my trust!”
+
+“Is she still in town?”
+
+“No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
+her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
+she remains.”
+
+Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
+from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
+the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
+and esteem for him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+
+When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
+Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was
+not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne
+appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to
+it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither
+objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
+seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But
+though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt
+_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
+effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
+in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
+compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently
+irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did
+become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the
+loss of Willoughby’s character yet more heavily than she had felt the
+loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
+misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might
+_once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits,
+that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to
+Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to
+her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most
+frequent confession of them.
+
+To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
+answering Elinor’s letter would be only to give a repetition of what
+her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
+less painful than Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than
+Elinor’s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived
+to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious
+solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude
+under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne’s
+affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and
+humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish
+her not to indulge!
+
+Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
+determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
+that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
+bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
+constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
+him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means
+not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,
+though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at
+least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of
+company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable
+there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
+interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the
+ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
+
+From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
+to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
+acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
+friends. Design could never bring them in each other’s way: negligence
+could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
+its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
+Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
+Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first
+as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
+
+She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
+they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
+wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
+it right that they should sometimes see their brother.
+
+Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s opinion, and she
+submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
+perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
+it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
+requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
+possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
+mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
+her ever knowing a moment’s rest.
+
+But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil
+to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other
+hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward
+entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay
+would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
+for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.
+
+Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby’s
+name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing
+it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
+Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
+Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
+herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
+after day to the indignation of them all.
+
+Sir John, could not have thought it possible. “A man of whom he had
+always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He
+did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an
+unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
+He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
+all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
+and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of
+a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that
+he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was the end of it!”
+
+Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. “She was determined to drop
+his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had
+never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart
+Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it
+was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she
+was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell
+everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.”
+
+The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in procuring all the
+particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
+them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new
+carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was
+drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.
+
+The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
+happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
+clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be
+sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their
+circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who
+would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any
+anxiety for her sister’s health.
+
+Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
+moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
+by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
+comfort than good-nature.
+
+Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
+or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very
+shocking, indeed!” and by the means of this continual though gentle
+vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
+without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
+recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
+dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
+wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
+interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
+against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
+be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon
+as she married.
+
+Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
+to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
+discussion of her sister’s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
+which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
+confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
+past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
+with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
+voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
+could oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his
+exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
+_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but
+Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the
+Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail
+on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
+him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
+Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of
+a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding
+between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
+honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all
+be made over to _her;_ and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to
+think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
+
+Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby’s
+letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
+was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
+herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was
+desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from
+the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
+
+She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
+it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst
+out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
+pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.
+
+The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
+hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
+prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
+first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.
+
+About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin’s
+house in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
+before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
+were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
+
+Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain,
+and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
+overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.
+
+“I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
+_still_,” said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. “But
+I always thought I _should_. I was almost sure you would not leave
+London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you
+should not stay above a _month_. But I thought, at the time, that you
+would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would
+have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
+sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone. I
+am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word_.”
+
+Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
+self-command to make it appear that she did _not_.
+
+“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did you travel?”
+
+“Not in the stage, I assure you,” replied Miss Steele, with quick
+exultation; “we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
+attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we’d join
+him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
+twelve shillings more than we did.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
+a single man, I warrant you.”
+
+“There now,” said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, “everybody laughs
+at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they
+are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
+think about him from one hour’s end to another. ‘Lord! here comes your
+beau, Nancy,’ my cousin said t’other day, when she saw him crossing the
+street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannot think who you
+mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.”
+
+“Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking—but it won’t do—the Doctor is
+the man, I see.”
+
+“No, indeed!” replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, “and I beg
+you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
+certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
+
+“I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
+Dashwood, when they come to town,” said Lucy, returning, after a
+cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
+
+“No, I do not think we shall.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I dare say you will.”
+
+Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
+
+“What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
+so long a time together!”
+
+“Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Jennings. “Why, their visit is
+but just begun!”
+
+Lucy was silenced.
+
+“I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,” said Miss
+Steele. “I am sorry she is not well—” for Marianne had left the room on
+their arrival.
+
+“You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
+pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with
+nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.”
+
+“Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!—I
+think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word.”
+
+Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was
+perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore
+not able to come to them.
+
+“Oh, if that’s all,” cried Miss Steele, “we can just as well go and see
+_her_.”
+
+Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
+was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy’s sharp reprimand, which
+now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
+manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the
+other.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+
+After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister’s entreaties, and
+consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
+hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and
+would do no more than accompany them to Gray’s in Sackville Street,
+where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
+old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
+
+When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was
+a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as
+she had no business at Gray’s, it was resolved, that while her young
+friends transacted their’s, she should pay her visit and return for
+them.
+
+On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
+them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
+their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done
+was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
+quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
+probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to
+a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of
+his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for
+a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments
+were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a
+quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally
+arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any
+other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or
+four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on
+Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural,
+sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.
+
+Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
+resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
+the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
+the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
+unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
+within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in
+Mr. Gray’s shop, as in her own bedroom.
+
+At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
+all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last
+day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of
+the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
+bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
+seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
+happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
+
+Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
+of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
+She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise
+to be her brother.
+
+Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
+creditable appearance in Mr. Gray’s shop. John Dashwood was really far
+from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
+satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
+attentive.
+
+Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
+
+“I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,” said he, “but it was
+impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
+Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.
+Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call
+on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always
+so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny
+a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
+Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I
+understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too,
+you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law’s relations, I
+shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent
+neighbours to you in the country, I understand.”
+
+“Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
+in every particular, is more than I can express.”
+
+“I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
+But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
+related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
+make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you
+are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
+nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
+most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
+seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us
+to hear it, I assure you.”
+
+Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
+be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
+Jennings’s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
+them at the door.
+
+Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings
+at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
+call on them the next day, took leave.
+
+His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
+their sister-in-law, for not coming too; “but she was so much engaged
+with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.”
+Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
+upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
+should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
+sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly
+kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel
+Brandon’s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
+which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
+equally civil to _him_.
+
+After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
+to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
+The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as
+they were out of the house, his enquiries began.
+
+“Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?”
+
+“Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.”
+
+“I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
+Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
+establishment in life.”
+
+“Me, brother! what do you mean?”
+
+“He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is
+the amount of his fortune?”
+
+“I believe about two thousand a year.”
+
+“Two thousand a-year;” and then working himself up to a pitch of
+enthusiastic generosity, he added, “Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
+were _twice_ as much, for your sake.”
+
+“Indeed I believe you,” replied Elinor; “but I am very sure that
+Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_.”
+
+“You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little
+trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
+undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
+friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little
+attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
+him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not
+try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your
+side—in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite
+out of the question, the objections are insurmountable—you have too
+much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no
+civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and
+your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In
+short, it is a kind of thing that”—lowering his voice to an important
+whisper—“will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_.” Recollecting
+himself, however, he added, “That is, I mean to say—your friends are
+all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she
+has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too,
+Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her
+great pleasure; she said as much the other day.”
+
+Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
+
+“It would be something remarkable, now,” he continued, “something
+droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
+same time. And yet it is not very unlikely.”
+
+“Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,” said Elinor, with resolution, “going to be
+married?”
+
+“It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He
+has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality,
+will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match
+takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the
+late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable
+connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in
+time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
+make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you
+another instance of her liberality:—The other day, as soon as we came
+to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
+she put bank-notes into Fanny’s hands to the amount of two hundred
+pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great
+expense while we are here.”
+
+He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,
+
+“Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
+but your income is a large one.”
+
+“Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to
+complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will
+in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is
+a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within
+this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where
+old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every
+respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my
+duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it
+fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it
+_has_ cost me a vast deal of money.”
+
+“More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.”
+
+“Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for
+more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
+been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
+that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker’s
+hands, I must have sold out to very great loss.”
+
+Elinor could only smile.
+
+“Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to
+Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
+Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)
+to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an
+undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in
+consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of
+linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may
+guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being
+rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars’s kindness is.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Elinor; “and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
+may yet live to be in easy circumstances.”
+
+“Another year or two may do much towards it,” he gravely replied; “but
+however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
+laid of Fanny’s green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
+flower-garden marked out.”
+
+“Where is the green-house to be?”
+
+“Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come
+down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts
+of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and
+be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that
+grew in patches over the brow.”
+
+Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
+thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
+
+Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
+necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his
+next visit at Gray’s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he
+began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
+
+“She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of
+living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
+that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may
+prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a
+vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a
+regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be
+forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave.”
+
+“Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
+jointure, which will descend to her children.”
+
+“But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
+people of common prudence will do _that_ and whatever she saves, she
+will be able to dispose of.”
+
+“And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
+daughters, than to us?”
+
+“Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
+cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas,
+in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in
+this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future
+consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing
+can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this,
+without being aware of the expectation it raises.”
+
+“But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
+anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.”
+
+“Why, to be sure,” said he, seeming to recollect himself, “people have
+little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is
+the matter with Marianne?—she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
+and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?”
+
+“She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
+weeks.”
+
+“I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness
+destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was as
+handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract
+the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them
+particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner
+and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of _you_,
+but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I
+question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth more than five
+or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
+_you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire;
+but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;
+and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the
+earliest and best pleased of your visitors.”
+
+Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
+likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
+of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
+resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
+marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough
+for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
+anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
+Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
+of atoning for his own neglect.
+
+They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
+came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all
+sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did
+not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
+good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
+appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
+went away delighted with both.
+
+“I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,” said he, as he
+walked back with his sister. “Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
+woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.
+Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
+as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting
+_her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very
+naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man
+who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were
+both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were
+such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can
+carry her a most satisfactory account of both.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+
+Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband’s judgment,
+that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
+daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
+even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
+her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
+charming women in the world!
+
+Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind
+of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted
+them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of
+demeanor, and a general want of understanding.
+
+The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
+good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
+and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking
+woman of uncordial address, who met her husband’s sisters without any
+affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of
+the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least
+seven minutes and a half in silence.
+
+Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
+whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
+voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that
+his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband’s
+expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
+them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be
+too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
+intelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from
+another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor’s compassion on
+being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and
+Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett’s Buildings for fear of
+detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be
+told, they could do nothing at present but write.
+
+Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
+time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on
+the table, when they returned from their morning’s engagements. Elinor
+was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had
+missed him.
+
+The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,
+though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to
+give them—a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited
+them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house
+for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited
+likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,
+always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
+civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to
+meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
+be of the party. The expectation of seeing _her_, however, was enough
+to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
+Edward’s mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
+attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
+indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in
+company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was
+as lively as ever.
+
+The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
+afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
+that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.
+
+So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
+had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
+not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as
+Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it
+happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as
+the Dashwoods’ invitation was known, that their visit should begin a
+few days before the party took place.
+
+Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the
+gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
+have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but
+as Lady Middleton’s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
+wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of
+their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity
+of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,
+than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood’s card.
+
+On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
+determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
+mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
+first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!—she hardly
+knew how she could bear it!
+
+These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
+certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her
+own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to
+be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
+certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
+be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
+away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
+when they were together.
+
+The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
+to this formidable mother-in-law.
+
+“Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!” said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
+together—for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
+that they all followed the servant at the same time:—“there is nobody
+here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good
+gracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness
+depends on—that is to be my mother!”
+
+Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
+possibility of its being Miss Morton’s mother, rather than her own,
+whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
+her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her—to the utter
+amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
+least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.
+
+Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
+her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her
+complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
+naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
+rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
+the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of
+many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
+number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
+one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
+determination of disliking her at all events.
+
+Elinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months
+ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars’
+power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to
+the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble
+her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the
+graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person—for
+Lucy was particularly distinguished—whom of all others, had they known
+as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while
+she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
+pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so
+misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which
+it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss
+Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all
+four.
+
+Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
+Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
+
+The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing
+bespoke the Mistress’s inclination for show, and the Master’s ability
+to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were
+making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
+been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a
+loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to
+infer from it;—no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
+appeared—but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had
+not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had
+still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very
+much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured
+under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable—Want
+of sense, either natural or improved—want of elegance—want of
+spirits—or want of temper.
+
+When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
+was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the
+discourse with some variety—the variety of politics, inclosing land,
+and breaking horses—but then it was all over; and one subject only
+engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative
+heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton’s second son William, who
+were nearly of the same age.
+
+Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
+too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it
+was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right
+to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over
+again as often as they liked.
+
+The parties stood thus:
+
+The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
+tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
+
+The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
+were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
+
+Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
+thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
+conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
+between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
+fast as she could, in favour of each.
+
+Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William’s side, by which
+she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
+necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
+called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
+opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.
+
+Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair
+of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and
+brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
+catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen
+into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for
+his admiration.
+
+“These are done by my eldest sister,” said he; “and you, as a man of
+taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether
+you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
+is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.”
+
+The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
+warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
+Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
+excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,
+not aware of their being Elinor’s work, particularly requested to look
+at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
+Middletons’s approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
+considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
+Miss Dashwood.
+
+“Hum”—said Mrs. Ferrars—“very pretty,”—and without regarding them at
+all, returned them to her daughter.
+
+Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
+enough,—for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
+
+“They are very pretty, ma’am—an’t they?” But then again, the dread of
+having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
+for she presently added,
+
+“Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s style of
+painting, Ma’am?—_She does_ paint most delightfully!—How beautifully
+her last landscape is done!”
+
+“Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well.”
+
+Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly displeased with
+Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor’s
+expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
+it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,
+
+“This is admiration of a very particular kind!—what is Miss Morton to
+us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whom _we_ think
+and speak.”
+
+And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law’s hands,
+to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
+
+Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
+stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, “Miss
+Morton is Lord Morton’s daughter.”
+
+Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
+sister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne’s warmth than
+she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, as they
+were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
+in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
+slighted in the smallest point.
+
+Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
+Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
+such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
+taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
+affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister’s
+chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
+said in a low, but eager, voice,
+
+“Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make _you_
+unhappy.”
+
+She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
+face on Elinor’s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body’s attention
+was called, and almost every body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose
+up and went to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jennings, with a
+very intelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her her salts; and
+Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous
+distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy
+Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole
+shocking affair.
+
+In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end
+to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained
+the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
+
+“Poor Marianne!” said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,
+as soon as he could secure his attention: “She has not such good health
+as her sister,—she is very nervous,—she has not Elinor’s
+constitution;—and one must allow that there is something very trying to
+a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal
+attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_
+remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now
+you see it is all gone.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+
+Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in
+her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
+the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her
+meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
+all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
+retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
+free; and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_ sake,
+that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other
+of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her
+caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she
+did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being fettered to
+Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she _ought_ to
+have rejoiced.
+
+She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by the
+civility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest and her vanity should so
+very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her
+because she was _not Elinor_, appear a compliment to herself—or to
+allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,
+because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not
+only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over
+again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady
+Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing
+Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
+
+The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
+after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
+
+“My dear friend,” cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, “I
+come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as
+Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as
+she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the
+very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
+behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
+me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
+with it?”
+
+“She was certainly very civil to you.”
+
+“Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?—I saw a vast deal more.
+Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride, no
+hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness and affability!”
+
+Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
+own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go
+on.
+
+“Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,” said she, “nothing
+could be more flattering than their treatment of you;—but as that was
+not the case—”
+
+“I guessed you would say so,”—replied Lucy quickly—“but there was no
+reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
+not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my
+satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
+difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a
+charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,
+indeed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
+Dashwood was!”
+
+To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
+
+“Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’t speak;—sure you
+an’t well.”
+
+“I never was in better health.”
+
+“I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I
+should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest
+comfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done
+without your friendship.”
+
+Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
+But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,
+
+“Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
+Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now
+there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
+often, for Lady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
+be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his
+time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will
+visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say
+more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such
+charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of
+her, you cannot speak too high.”
+
+But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she
+_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.
+
+“I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
+a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
+instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of
+me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I
+had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it
+all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_
+dislike, I know it is most violent.”
+
+Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
+the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
+Edward’s immediately walking in.
+
+It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that
+it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
+have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to
+advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
+form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
+on them.—They were not only all three together, but were together
+without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves
+first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herself forward, and the
+appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
+_look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
+
+But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her
+own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s
+recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
+easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
+improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the
+consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
+saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
+regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
+She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as
+a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
+Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
+
+Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
+to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in
+a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might
+make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor
+could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.
+
+Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
+contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
+and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was
+obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother’s health,
+their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
+but never did.
+
+Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
+so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
+Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and
+_that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes
+on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she
+went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for
+the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s joy hurried her into
+the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every
+other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met
+him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the
+affection of a sister.
+
+“Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness!—This
+would almost make amends for every thing!”
+
+Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
+witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat
+down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
+looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and
+sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
+should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to
+speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and express his
+fear of her not finding London agree with her.
+
+“Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spirited earnestness, though
+her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of _my_
+health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.”
+
+This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor
+to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no
+very benignant expression.
+
+“Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
+introduce another subject.
+
+“Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The
+sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank
+Heaven! you are what you always were!”
+
+She paused—no one spoke.
+
+“I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take
+care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we
+shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
+accept the charge.”
+
+Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
+himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it
+to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and
+soon talked of something else.
+
+“We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so
+wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which
+cannot be said now.”
+
+And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
+finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
+being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
+private.
+
+“But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not come?”
+
+“I was engaged elsewhere.”
+
+“Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”
+
+“Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
+her, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
+mind to keep them, little as well as great.”
+
+Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
+sting; for she calmly replied,
+
+“Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
+conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he
+_has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in
+performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make
+against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving
+pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,
+of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are
+you never to hear yourself praised!—Then you must be no friend of mine;
+for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open
+commendation.”
+
+The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
+to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
+auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
+got up to go away.
+
+“Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this must not be.”
+
+And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy
+could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he
+would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
+two hours, soon afterwards went away.
+
+“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne, on her leaving them.
+“Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing to Edward!”
+
+“Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known
+to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well
+as ourselves.”
+
+Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “You know, Elinor, that this
+is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your
+assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to
+recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot
+descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.”
+
+She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
+for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give
+no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
+consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
+obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would
+not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne’s
+mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain
+that had attended their recent meeting—and this she had every reason to
+expect.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+
+Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the
+world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a
+son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least
+to all those intimate connections who knew it before.
+
+This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings’s happiness, produced a
+temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a
+like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to
+be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning
+as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the
+evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the
+Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their
+own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the
+morning, in Mrs. Jennings’s house; but it was not a thing to be urged
+against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over
+to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in
+fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
+
+They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
+by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
+_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to
+monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s
+behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
+Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not
+believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she
+fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to
+be satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common use,
+and easily given.
+
+Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the
+idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was
+ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
+proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
+despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
+three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to
+it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute
+account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she
+would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best
+place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But
+this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
+expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt
+a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was
+produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
+the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their
+friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so
+little were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her,
+that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without
+hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind
+enough to bestow on herself.
+
+All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
+unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
+for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
+friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
+woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John’s, sometimes at
+her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
+spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte’s well
+doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
+of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
+One thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
+Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
+of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
+different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
+every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
+father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
+every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
+acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
+world.
+
+I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
+befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
+with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
+of her acquaintance had dropt in—a circumstance in itself not
+apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of
+other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
+conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s happiness
+must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
+instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
+truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
+Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she
+immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
+misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
+invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
+musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
+John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
+inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
+was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
+to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
+expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing
+them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for
+when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be
+wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from
+them.
+
+Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
+going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
+her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
+for every evening’s engagement, though without expecting the smallest
+amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
+moment, where it was to take her.
+
+To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
+not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
+toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
+their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_
+minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and
+asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part
+of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns
+altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
+without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing
+cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
+The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
+concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
+considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
+undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
+colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
+sure of being told that upon “her word she looked vastly smart, and she
+dared to say she would make a great many conquests.”
+
+With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
+occasion, to her brother’s carriage; which they were ready to enter
+five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
+agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
+her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
+that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
+
+The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
+other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
+taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
+and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
+and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
+England.
+
+As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
+scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
+suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
+violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
+room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
+young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
+at Gray’s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
+speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
+his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
+Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
+
+He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
+which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
+exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
+had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
+own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his
+brother’s bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
+ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she
+wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
+the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
+the modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert
+explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour’s
+conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
+_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
+society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
+natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
+while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
+superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
+was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
+
+“Upon my soul,” he added, “I believe it is nothing more; and so I often
+tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. ‘My dear Madam,’ I
+always say to her, ‘you must make yourself easy. The evil is now
+irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be
+persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place
+Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If
+you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of
+sending him to Mr. Pratt’s, all this would have been prevented.’ This
+is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is
+perfectly convinced of her error.”
+
+Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
+general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not
+think of Edward’s abode in Mr. Pratt’s family, with any satisfaction.
+
+“You reside in Devonshire, I think,”—was his next observation, “in a
+cottage near Dawlish.”
+
+Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
+surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living
+near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their
+species of house.
+
+“For my own part,” said he, “I am excessively fond of a cottage; there
+is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,
+if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
+myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself
+down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I
+advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend
+Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
+and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi’s. I was to decide
+on the best of them. ‘My dear Courtland,’ said I, immediately throwing
+them all into the fire, ‘do not adopt either of them, but by all means
+build a cottage.’ And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
+
+“Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
+cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend
+Elliott’s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. ‘But how
+can it be done?’ said she; ‘my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be
+managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple,
+and where can the supper be?’ _I_ immediately saw that there could be
+no difficulty in it, so I said, ‘My dear Lady Elliott, do not be
+uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
+card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open
+for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
+saloon.’ Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the
+dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the
+affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see,
+if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well
+enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.”
+
+Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the
+compliment of rational opposition.
+
+As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
+his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
+struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for
+her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs.
+Dennison’s mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had
+suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,
+while Mrs. Jennings’s engagements kept her from home. The expense would
+be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
+attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
+requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his
+father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.
+
+“I do not see how it can be done,” said she, “without affronting Lady
+Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
+exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any
+attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But
+they are Lady Middleton’s visitors. How can I ask them away from her?”
+
+Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
+objection. “They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
+Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the
+same number of days to such near relations.”
+
+Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
+
+“My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
+But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
+few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I
+think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by
+Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss
+Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them;
+indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so does my
+mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!”
+
+Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
+Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
+of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
+suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
+bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon’s wife, and Marianne as
+_their_ visitor.
+
+Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
+procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and
+her sister’s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
+Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and
+reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
+herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an
+opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things,
+the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most
+gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too
+gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to
+Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was
+instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days’
+time.
+
+When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
+its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
+expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
+on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
+towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
+herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
+that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
+Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
+Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
+greater.
+
+The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
+of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
+Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
+of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.
+Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her
+life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made
+by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
+whether she should ever be able to part with them.
+
+END OF THE SECOND VOLUME
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII.
+
+
+Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt
+it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
+contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from
+that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the
+Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.
+
+About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in
+Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to
+Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by
+herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to
+hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,
+began directly to justify it, by saying,
+
+“Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?”
+
+“No, ma’am. What is it?”
+
+“Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
+Palmer’s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was
+sure it was very ill—it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
+So I looked at it directly, and, ‘Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘it is
+nothing in the world, but the red gum;’ and nurse said just the same.
+But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;
+and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he
+stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said
+just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and
+then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it
+came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of
+it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon
+that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know
+something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, ‘For fear any
+unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to
+their sister’s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I
+believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will
+do very well.’”
+
+“What! is Fanny ill?”
+
+“That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘Lord!’ says I, ‘is Mrs.
+Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came out; and the long and the short of
+the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,
+the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
+turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.
+Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my
+cousin Lucy!—There’s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a
+syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a
+thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
+but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
+suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,
+or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was
+kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your
+brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very
+morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no
+conjurer, popt it all out. ‘Lord!’ thinks she to herself, ‘they are all
+so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;’ and
+so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her
+carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come—for she had just been
+saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to
+make a match between Edward and some Lord’s daughter or other, I forget
+who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
+She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as
+reached your brother’s ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room
+down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
+country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for
+Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
+Poor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very
+hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into
+a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and
+your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what
+to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in
+the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too,
+to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.
+_Then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he
+would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this
+uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins
+away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such
+a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost
+as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope,
+with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a
+taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love
+used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well
+he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest
+passion!—and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great
+deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back
+again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is
+told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the
+house, for your sister was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so
+she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no
+notion of people’s making such a to-do about money and greatness. There
+is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I
+am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though
+Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to
+make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only
+allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance
+with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might
+live in such another cottage as yours—or a little bigger—with two
+maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for
+my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.”
+
+Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect
+her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
+observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
+Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest
+in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the
+case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy
+above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able
+to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,
+as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one
+concerned in it.
+
+She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really
+was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
+possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and
+Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a
+doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to
+know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she felt much
+compassion;—for Lucy very little—and it cost her some pains to procure
+that little;—for the rest of the party none at all.
+
+As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the
+necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be
+lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,
+and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,
+without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any
+resentment against Edward.
+
+Elinor’s office was a painful one.—She was going to remove what she
+really believed to be her sister’s chief consolation,—to give such
+particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good
+opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,
+which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
+over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to
+be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.
+
+She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to
+represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the
+self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward’s
+engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.
+Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given
+without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor
+impetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne
+listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the
+comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and
+all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure
+of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but
+of imprudence, was readily offered.
+
+But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed
+a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_
+loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy
+Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely
+incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
+at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of
+Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and
+Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only
+could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
+
+Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact
+of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.—Marianne’s
+feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of
+detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her
+distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first
+question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,—
+
+“How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?”
+
+“I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park
+last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.”
+
+At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonishment which her
+lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed—
+
+“Four months!—Have you known of this four months?”
+
+Elinor confirmed it.
+
+“What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
+heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!”
+
+“It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!”
+
+“Four months!” cried Marianne again. “So calm! so cheerful! How have
+you been supported?”
+
+“By feeling that I was doing my duty.—My promise to Lucy, obliged me to
+be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the
+truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a
+solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.”
+
+Marianne seemed much struck.
+
+“I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,” added
+Elinor; “and once or twice I have attempted it;—but without betraying
+my trust, I never could have convinced you.”
+
+“Four months! and yet you loved him!”
+
+“Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was
+dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now,
+I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you
+suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially
+myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having
+provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne
+it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of
+essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his
+always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in
+the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the
+foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all,
+Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and
+constant attachment, and all that can be said of one’s happiness
+depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is not
+fit—it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he
+will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her
+sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought
+another superior to _her_.”
+
+“If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “if the loss of what
+is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
+resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
+wondered at.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”
+
+“I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For
+four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without
+being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it
+would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to
+you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me,—it
+was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior
+engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with
+triumph. This person’s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by
+endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply
+interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and
+exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be
+divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that
+could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him
+unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.  I have had
+to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of
+his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without
+enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,
+when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you
+can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I
+have suffered _now_. The composure of mind with which I have brought
+myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have
+been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful
+exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to
+relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been
+bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even
+what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly showing that I was _very_
+unhappy.”
+
+Marianne was quite subdued.
+
+“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “you have made me hate myself for ever.—How
+barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my only comfort, who
+have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only
+suffering for me!—Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return I can
+make you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying
+to do it away.”
+
+The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of
+mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her
+whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged
+never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of
+bitterness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of
+dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring
+them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These
+were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
+no reparation could be too much for her to make.
+
+She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.—She
+attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
+unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard
+three times to say, “Yes, ma’am.”—She listened to her praise of Lucy
+with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings
+talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her
+throat.—Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel
+equal to any thing herself.
+
+The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
+brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
+affair, and bring them news of his wife.
+
+“You have heard, I suppose,” said he with great solemnity, as soon as
+he was seated, “of the very shocking discovery that took place under
+our roof yesterday.”
+
+They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
+
+“Your sister,” he continued, “has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars
+too—in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress—but I
+will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us
+quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I
+would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially
+to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution
+equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an
+angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one
+cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!—meeting with such
+ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence
+had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that
+she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she
+thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved
+girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished
+very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your
+kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so
+rewarded! ‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny in her
+affectionate way, ‘that we had asked your sisters instead of them.’”
+
+Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
+
+“What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is
+not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been
+planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that
+he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!—such a
+suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_
+prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter. ‘_There_,
+to be sure,’ said she, ‘I might have thought myself safe.’ She was
+quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be
+done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am
+sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make
+him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose
+by my arguments, and Fanny’s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty,
+affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so
+stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal
+designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle
+on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good
+thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it
+twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in
+this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must
+attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be
+his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from
+affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into
+any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her
+power to prevent him advancing in it.”
+
+Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
+together, and cried, “Gracious God! can this be possible!”
+
+“Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her brother, “at the obstinacy
+which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very
+natural.”
+
+Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
+forbore.
+
+“All this, however,” he continued, “was urged in vain. Edward said very
+little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing
+should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it,
+cost him what it might.”
+
+“Then,” cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
+silent, “he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.
+Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a
+rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as
+yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a
+better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
+husband.”
+
+John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open
+to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
+anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,
+
+“I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
+madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,
+but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
+And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her
+uncle’s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune
+as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In
+short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom
+you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy;
+and Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every
+conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has
+been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it
+will be a bad one.”
+
+Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor’s heart wrung
+for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother’s threats, for a
+woman who could not reward him.
+
+“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did it end?”
+
+“I am sorry to say, ma’am, in a most unhappy rupture:—Edward is
+dismissed for ever from his mother’s notice. He left her house
+yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do
+not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry.”
+
+“Poor young man!—and what is to become of him?”
+
+“What, indeed, ma’am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the
+prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more
+deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds—how can a man live on
+it?—and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for
+his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two
+thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand
+pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must
+all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
+power to assist him.”
+
+“Poor young man!” cried Mrs. Jennings, “I am sure he should be very
+welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I
+could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own
+charge now, at lodgings and taverns.”
+
+Elinor’s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
+could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
+
+“If he would only have done as well by himself,” said John Dashwood,
+“as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been
+in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it
+is, it must be out of anybody’s power to assist him. And there is one
+thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all—his
+mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle
+_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward’s,
+on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking
+over the business.”
+
+“Well!” said Mrs. Jennings, “that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way
+of their own. But I don’t think mine would be, to make one son
+independent, because another had plagued me.”
+
+Marianne got up and walked about the room.
+
+“Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,” continued John,
+“than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might
+have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.”
+
+A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
+visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
+believed there was no material danger in Fanny’s indisposition, and
+that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
+leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
+occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct, the
+Dashwoods’, and Edward’s.
+
+Marianne’s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and
+as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
+Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the
+party.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+
+
+Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward’s conduct, but only
+Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew how
+little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
+consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
+to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his
+integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
+punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public
+discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
+either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon
+principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
+warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward’s
+continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
+Marianne’s courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
+which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
+comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct and her
+own.
+
+She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
+hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
+continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
+exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
+without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she
+still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
+dispirited her more.
+
+Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
+in Harley Street, or Bartlett’s Buildings. But though so much of the
+matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
+enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
+more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
+inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
+hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
+within that time.
+
+The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
+fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
+though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
+were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
+again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
+to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
+
+An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
+entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
+with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings’s conversation, she was
+herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
+nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
+any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she
+found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though
+looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and
+on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.
+Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their’s. Mrs.
+Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
+
+“Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you
+ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.”
+
+It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings’s curiosity and Elinor’s too,
+that she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would
+otherwise have been learnt.
+
+“I am so glad to meet you;” said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
+the arm—“for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.” And then
+lowering her voice, “I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is
+she angry?”
+
+“Not at all, I believe, with you.”
+
+“That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry?”
+
+“I cannot suppose it possible that she should be.”
+
+“I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of
+it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she
+would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
+again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
+as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
+in the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me
+too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_
+the Doctor’s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never
+have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not
+happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare
+sometimes I do not know which way to look before them.”
+
+She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
+and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
+the first.
+
+“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people may say what
+they chuse about Mr. Ferrars’s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
+is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
+ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
+about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
+it down for certain.”
+
+“I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,”
+said Elinor.
+
+“Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more
+than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses
+could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with
+thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing
+at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my
+cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was
+afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us
+for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in
+my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your
+brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday,
+Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once
+Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.
+However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then
+it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street,
+and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had
+declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but
+Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that
+as soon as he had went away from his mother’s house, he had got upon
+his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he
+had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get
+the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he
+said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at
+all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because
+it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds,
+and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he
+had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they
+to live upon that?—He could not bear to think of her doing no better,
+and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to
+the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say
+all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_
+sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and
+not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of
+being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing
+like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of
+talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and
+love, you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such kind of
+things you know)—she told him directly, she had not the least mind in
+the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how
+little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all,
+you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and
+talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he
+should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he
+got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin
+called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and
+would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into
+the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but
+she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a
+pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.”
+
+“I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,” said Elinor;
+“you were all in the same room together, were not you?”
+
+“No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
+when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!—To be sure you must know
+better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)—No, no; they were shut up in
+the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
+door.”
+
+“How!” cried Elinor; “have you been repeating to me what you only
+learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
+before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
+particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
+yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?”
+
+“Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and
+heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by
+me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many
+secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or
+behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.”
+
+Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
+kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
+
+“Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,” said she; “but now he is
+lodging at No.—, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
+an’t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
+shan’t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send
+us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for
+my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for
+the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing
+was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward
+have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a
+time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will
+be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious! (giggling
+as she spoke) I’d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when
+they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get
+Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I
+would not do such a thing for all the world. ‘La!’ I shall say
+directly, ‘I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to
+the Doctor, indeed!’”
+
+“Well,” said Elinor, “it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
+You have got your answer ready.”
+
+Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
+her own party made another more necessary.
+
+“Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to
+you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you
+they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
+they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
+about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
+in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
+should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
+should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
+with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
+won’t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
+not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your
+spotted muslin on!—I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.”
+
+Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
+her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
+claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
+knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
+she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
+foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’s marriage with Lucy was as firmly
+determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
+uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;—every thing depended,
+exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
+which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
+
+As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
+information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
+intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
+confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
+she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
+choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the
+means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
+communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
+natural remark.
+
+“Wait for his having a living!—ay, we all know how _that_ will
+end:—they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
+will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
+of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
+Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
+help ’em! how poor they will be! I must see what I can give them
+towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! as I
+talked of t’ other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
+works. Betty’s sister would never do for them _now_.”
+
+The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
+Lucy herself. It was as follows:
+
+“Bartlett’s Building, March.
+
+
+“I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing
+to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear
+such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the
+troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more
+apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
+dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always
+be in one another’s love. We have had great trials, and great
+persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
+many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I
+shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told
+of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.
+Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he
+would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
+duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted
+for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should
+never be, he did not regard his mother’s anger, while he could have my
+affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must
+wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it
+ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to
+bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings
+too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr.
+Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much
+to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
+nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won’t think it too much trouble to give us
+a call, should she come this way any morning, ’twould be a great
+kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.—My paper reminds
+me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully
+remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear
+children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
+
+
+“I am, &c.”
+
+
+As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
+be its writer’s real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
+Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
+praise.
+
+“Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!—aye, that was quite proper
+to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul! I
+wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear
+Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very
+well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I
+will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of
+every body!—Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a
+letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy’s head and heart great credit.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX.
+
+
+The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
+and Marianne’s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed
+for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if
+any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly
+less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent
+on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the
+difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought
+to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts
+towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
+their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her
+good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from
+home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
+eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about
+the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
+her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with
+them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy
+of Miss Dashwood;—but it was inforced with so much real politeness by
+Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his
+manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,
+induced her to accept it with pleasure.
+
+When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was
+not very auspicious.
+
+“Cleveland!”—she cried, with great agitation. “No, I cannot go to
+Cleveland.”
+
+“You forget,” said Elinor gently, “that its situation is not—that it is
+not in the neighbourhood of—”
+
+“But it is in Somersetshire.—I cannot go into Somersetshire.—There,
+where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
+go there.”
+
+Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
+feelings;—she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
+others;—represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the
+time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to
+see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan
+could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which
+was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
+beyond one day, though a long day’s journey; and their mother’s servant
+might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no
+occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be
+at home in little more than three weeks’ time. As Marianne’s affection
+for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
+over the imaginary evils she had started.
+
+Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she
+pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
+Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
+design; and their mother’s concurrence being readily gained, every
+thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;—and
+Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that
+were yet to divide her from Barton.
+
+“Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
+Dashwoods;”—was Mrs. Jennings’s address to him when he first called on
+her, after their leaving her was settled—“for they are quite resolved
+upon going home from the Palmers;—and how forlorn we shall be, when I
+come back!—Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two
+cats.”
+
+Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
+future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
+himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good
+reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor’s moving to the
+window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she
+was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
+particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
+The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
+observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
+changed her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close by
+the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep
+herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with
+agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.
+Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of
+Marianne’s turning from one lesson to another, some words of the
+Colonel’s inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
+apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a
+doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but
+supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she
+could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she
+did not think _that_ any material objection; and Mrs. Jennings
+commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for
+a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another
+lucky stop in Marianne’s performance brought her these words in the
+Colonel’s calm voice,—
+
+“I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.”
+
+Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
+ready to cry out, “Lord! what should hinder it?”—but checking her
+desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
+
+“This is very strange!—sure he need not wait to be older.”
+
+This delay on the Colonel’s side, however, did not seem to offend or
+mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the
+conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings
+very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to
+feel what she said,
+
+“I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that
+after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave
+of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost _sang-froid_, and go
+away without making her any reply! She had not thought her old friend
+could have made so indifferent a suitor.
+
+What had really passed between them was to this effect.
+
+“I have heard,” said he, with great compassion, “of the injustice your
+friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand
+the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering
+in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been
+rightly informed? Is it so?;”
+
+Elinor told him that it was.
+
+“The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,” he replied, with great feeling,
+“of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached
+to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be
+doing—what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or
+three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a
+young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time,
+but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as
+a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends
+to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of
+Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day’s post, is his,
+if he think it worth his acceptance; but _that_, perhaps, so
+unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear
+to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a
+small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200£
+per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear,
+not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such
+as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very
+great. Pray assure him of it.”
+
+Elinor’s astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
+greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
+The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as
+hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and
+_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her
+emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different
+cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have
+a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and
+her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted
+Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed.
+She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward’s principles
+and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and
+promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really
+his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same
+time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it
+as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give
+Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have
+been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of
+equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its
+being given through her means, that she would not on any account make
+farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and
+fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could
+undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
+After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own
+advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and
+_then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small
+and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed
+her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
+
+“The smallness of the house,” said she, “I cannot imagine any
+inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
+income.”
+
+By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering
+Mr. Ferrars’s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;
+for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply
+such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
+on, and he said so.
+
+“This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable
+as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my
+patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If,
+however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him
+farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I
+am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be
+at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it
+can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only
+object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at
+least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.”
+
+Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
+delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
+really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at
+the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may
+perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less
+properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL.
+
+
+“Well, Miss Dashwood,” said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon
+as the gentleman had withdrawn, “I do not ask you what the Colonel has
+been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out
+of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his
+business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I
+wish you joy of it with all my heart.”
+
+“Thank you, ma’am,” said Elinor. “It _is_ a matter of great joy to me;
+and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not
+many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so
+compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.”
+
+“Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an’t the least astonished at it
+in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more
+likely to happen.”
+
+“You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel’s general benevolence;
+but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very
+soon occur.”
+
+“Opportunity!” repeated Mrs. Jennings—“Oh! as to that, when a man has
+once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon
+find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and
+again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I
+shall soon know where to look for them.”
+
+“You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,” said Elinor, with a
+faint smile.
+
+“Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,
+I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as
+ever I saw.”
+
+“He spoke of its being out of repair.”
+
+“Well, and whose fault is that? why don’t he repair it?—who should do
+it but himself?”
+
+They were interrupted by the servant’s coming in to announce the
+carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to
+go, said,—
+
+“Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But,
+however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite
+alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too
+full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to
+tell your sister all about it.”
+
+Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
+
+“Certainly, ma’am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention
+it at present to any body else.”
+
+“Oh! very well,” said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. “Then you
+would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as
+Holborn to-day.”
+
+“No, ma’am, not even Lucy if you please. One day’s delay will not be
+very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought
+not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is
+of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of
+course have much to do relative to his ordination.”
+
+This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars
+was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not
+immediately comprehend. A few moments’ reflection, however, produced a
+very happy idea, and she exclaimed;—
+
+“Oh, ho!—I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much
+the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;
+and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my
+dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write
+himself?—sure, he is the proper person.”
+
+Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings’s
+speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore
+only replied to its conclusion.
+
+“Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
+announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.”
+
+“And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of
+delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to
+write.) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not
+heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to
+bed.”
+
+And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
+
+“I have just been thinking of Betty’s sister, my dear. I should be very
+glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a
+lady’s maid, I am sure I can’t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and
+works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at
+your leisure.”
+
+“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,
+and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.
+
+How she should begin—how she should express herself in her note to
+Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between
+them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have
+been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too
+much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen
+in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.
+
+He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he
+came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not
+returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss
+Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular
+business.
+
+Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her
+perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself
+properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the
+information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her
+upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were
+very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before
+since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing
+her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she
+had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel
+particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much
+distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of
+embarrassment.—Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on
+first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to
+be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could
+say any thing, after taking a chair.
+
+“Mrs. Jennings told me,” said he, “that you wished to speak with me, at
+least I understood her so—or I certainly should not have intruded on
+you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been
+extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;
+especially as it will most likely be some time—it is not probable that
+I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford
+tomorrow.”
+
+“You would not have gone, however,” said Elinor, recovering herself,
+and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
+possible, “without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been
+able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she
+said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on
+the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable
+office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel
+Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that
+understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in
+offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it
+were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so
+respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the
+living—it is about two hundred a-year—were much more considerable, and
+such as might better enable you to—as might be more than a temporary
+accommodation to yourself—such, in short, as might establish all your
+views of happiness.”
+
+What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected
+that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment
+which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of
+exciting; but he said only these two words,—
+
+“Colonel Brandon!”
+
+“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
+worst was over, “Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern
+for what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which the
+unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I
+am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and
+likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and
+his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”
+
+“Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!—Can it be possible?”
+
+“The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
+friendship any where.”
+
+“No,” replied he, with sudden consciousness, “not to find it in _you;_
+for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.—I
+feel it—I would express it if I could—but, as you well know, I am no
+orator.”
+
+“You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,
+at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’s
+discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till
+I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever
+occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a
+friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he _has_,
+still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe
+nothing to my solicitation.”
+
+Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but
+she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of
+Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably
+contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently
+entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had
+ceased to speak;—at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,
+
+“Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have
+always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him
+highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly
+the gentleman.”
+
+“Indeed,” replied Elinor, “I believe that you will find him, on farther
+acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be
+such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost
+close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he
+_should_ be all this.”
+
+Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her
+a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he
+might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the
+mansion-house much greater.
+
+“Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,” said he, soon
+afterwards, rising from his chair.
+
+Elinor told him the number of the house.
+
+“I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not
+allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very—an
+exceedingly happy man.”
+
+Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very
+earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his
+happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_,
+with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of
+expressing it.
+
+“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him
+out, “I shall see him the husband of Lucy.”
+
+And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the
+past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of
+Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
+
+When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people
+whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a
+great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important
+secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to
+it again as soon as Elinor appeared.
+
+“Well, my dear,” she cried, “I sent you up the young man. Did not I do
+right?—And I suppose you had no great difficulty—You did not find him
+very unwilling to accept your proposal?”
+
+“No, ma’am; _that_ was not very likely.”
+
+“Well, and how soon will he be ready?—For it seems all to depend upon
+that.”
+
+“Really,” said Elinor, “I know so little of these kind of forms, that I
+can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation
+necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his
+ordination.”
+
+“Two or three months!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “Lord! my dear, how calmly
+you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord
+bless me!—I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!—And though
+one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think
+it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure
+somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in
+orders already.”
+
+“My dear ma’am,” said Elinor, “what can you be thinking of? Why,
+Colonel Brandon’s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”
+
+“Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the
+Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.
+Ferrars!”
+
+The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation
+immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for
+the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.
+Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still
+without forfeiting her expectation of the first.
+
+“Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,” said she, after the first
+ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, “and very likely
+_may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought,
+for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the
+ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen
+beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It
+seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to
+do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them,
+before Lucy goes to it.”
+
+“But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living’s
+being enough to allow them to marry.”
+
+“The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year
+himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for
+it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford
+Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan’t go if Lucy an’t
+there.”
+
+Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
+waiting for any thing more.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI.
+
+
+Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
+his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
+reached Bartlett’s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.
+Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her
+congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in
+her life.
+
+Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and
+she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their
+being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
+So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
+that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her
+friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to
+own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion
+for their good on Miss Dashwood’s part, either present or future, would
+ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in
+the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was
+not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly
+anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;
+anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly
+resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,
+of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
+
+It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
+Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his
+wife’s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel
+it necessary to pay her a visit.—This was an obligation, however, which
+not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance
+of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with
+absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her
+sister’s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was
+always at Elinor’s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood,
+that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late
+discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward’s
+part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The
+consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for
+which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of
+a tête-à-tête with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much
+reason to dislike.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the
+house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure
+in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
+Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see
+her, invited her to come in.
+
+They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.—Nobody was there.
+
+“Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,” said he: “I will go to her
+presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
+world to seeing _you_. Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially there
+cannot be—but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.
+Why would not Marianne come?”
+
+Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
+
+“I am not sorry to see you alone,” he replied, “for I have a good deal
+to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon’s—can it be true?—has he
+really given it to Edward?—I heard it yesterday by chance, and was
+coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.”
+
+“It is perfectly true.—Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford
+to Edward.”
+
+“Really!—Well, this is very astonishing!—no relationship!—no connection
+between them!—and now that livings fetch such a price!—what was the
+value of this?”
+
+“About two hundred a year.”
+
+“Very well—and for the next presentation to a living of that
+value—supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
+likely to vacate it soon—he might have got I dare say—fourteen hundred
+pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this
+person’s death? _Now_, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
+man of Colonel Brandon’s sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in
+a point of such common, such natural, concern! Well, I am convinced
+that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human
+character. I suppose, however—on recollection—that the case may
+probably be _this_. Edward is only to hold the living till the person
+to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to
+take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.”
+
+Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that
+she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
+Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
+it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.
+
+“It is truly astonishing!”—he cried, after hearing what she said—“what
+could be the Colonel’s motive?”
+
+“A very simple one—to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”
+
+“Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
+man.—You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I
+have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,—she will not like
+to hear it much talked of.”
+
+Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
+thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
+to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
+impoverished.
+
+“Mrs. Ferrars,” added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
+important a subject, “knows nothing about it at present, and I believe
+it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may
+be. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.”
+
+“But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be
+supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in
+knowing that her son has money enough to live upon, for _that_ must be
+quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she
+supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son,—she cast him off
+for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast
+him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable
+to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account: she cannot be
+interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be so weak as
+to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a
+parent!”
+
+“Ah! Elinor,” said John, “your reasoning is very good, but it is
+founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward’s unhappy match takes
+place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never
+discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate
+that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible.
+Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.”
+
+“You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
+by _this_ time.”
+
+“You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
+affectionate mothers in the world.”
+
+Elinor was silent.
+
+“We think _now_,”—said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, “of
+_Robert’s_ marrying Miss Morton.”
+
+Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother’s
+tone, calmly replied,—
+
+“The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.”
+
+“Choice!—how do you mean?”
+
+“I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be
+the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.”
+
+“Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
+intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;—and as to any
+thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that
+one is superior to the other.”
+
+Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.—His
+reflections ended thus.
+
+“Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,” kindly taking her hand, and speaking
+in an awful whisper, “I may assure you;—and I _will_ do it, because I
+know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think—indeed I have it
+from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it
+would be very wrong to say any thing about it,—but I have it from the
+very best authority,—not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say
+it herself—but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,—that in
+short, whatever objections there might be against a certain—a certain
+connection, you understand me,—it would have been far preferable to
+her,—it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does. I
+was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that
+light; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. ‘It would
+have been beyond comparison,’ she said, ‘the least evil of the two, and
+she would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse.’ But however,
+all that is quite out of the question,—not to be thought of or
+mentioned—as to any attachment you know, it never could be: all that is
+gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew
+how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my
+dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,—quite as
+well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon
+been with you lately?”
+
+Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
+self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;—and she was
+therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply
+herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her
+brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments’
+chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her
+sister’s being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was
+left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay
+unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so
+unfair a division of his mother’s love and liberality, to the prejudice
+of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of
+life, and that brother’s integrity, was confirming her most
+unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
+
+They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to
+speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very
+inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as
+she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very
+different, was not less striking than it had been on _him_. He laughed
+most immoderately. The idea of Edward’s being a clergyman, and living
+in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;—and when to
+that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
+white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith
+and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
+
+Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the
+conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed
+on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a
+look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,
+and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
+not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.
+
+“We may treat it as a joke,” said he, at last, recovering from the
+affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety
+of the moment; “but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor
+Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it; for I know
+him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow
+perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood,
+from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward! His manners are certainly
+not the happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know, with the
+same powers,—the same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a circle of
+strangers! To be sure it was pitiable enough; but upon my soul, I
+believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and
+protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst
+forth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told
+me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution,
+immediately said to her, ‘My dear madam, I do not know what you may
+intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if
+Edward does marry this young woman, _I_ never will see him again.’ That
+was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!
+Poor Edward! he has done for himself completely,—shut himself out for
+ever from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mother, I
+am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it
+was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic.”
+
+“Have you ever seen the lady?”
+
+“Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in
+for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward
+country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I
+remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely
+to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother
+related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from
+the match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for
+unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till
+after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to
+interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think
+it is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly
+should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. ‘My dear
+fellow,’ I should have said, ‘consider what you are doing. You are
+making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are
+unanimous in disapproving.’ I cannot help thinking, in short, that
+means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be
+starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved.”
+
+He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
+of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_ never
+spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on
+her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she
+entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She
+even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her
+sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of
+them;—an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room,
+and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing
+that was most affectionate and graceful.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII.
+
+
+One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
+brother’s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
+without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them to
+Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and
+sisters in town;—and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
+whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was
+the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,
+assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should
+come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the
+country.
+
+It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send
+her to Delaford;—a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
+chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as
+her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when
+they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.
+
+Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
+from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
+homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of
+Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
+journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
+Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.
+
+Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as
+she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid
+adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those
+hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
+for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which
+Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which
+_she_ could have no share, without shedding many tears.
+
+Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. She
+had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no
+creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment’s regret to be
+divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
+persecution of Lucy’s friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
+sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
+forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
+do towards restoring Marianne’s peace of mind, and confirming her own.
+
+Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into
+the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was
+it dwelt on by turns in Marianne’s imagination; and in the forenoon of
+the third they drove up to Cleveland.
+
+Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
+lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably
+extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,
+it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth
+gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was
+dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of
+the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
+altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
+offices.
+
+Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
+consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty
+from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its
+walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child
+to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the
+winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
+distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering
+over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
+the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
+summits Combe Magna might be seen.
+
+In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
+of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
+to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of
+wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
+resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
+with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.
+
+She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
+on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of
+the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
+garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
+gardener’s lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the
+green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
+and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
+Charlotte,—and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed
+hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen
+by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she
+found fresh sources of merriment.
+
+The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
+abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay
+at Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
+prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had
+depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over
+the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred
+her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could not fancy
+dry or pleasant weather for walking.
+
+Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer
+had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the
+friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements,
+and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
+than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined
+in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way
+in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the
+family in general, soon procured herself a book.
+
+Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that constant and friendly
+good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The
+openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
+recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms
+of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was
+engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was
+not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her
+laugh.
+
+The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
+a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
+their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had
+reduced very low.
+
+Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so
+much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew
+not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,
+however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,
+and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him
+very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from
+being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much
+superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.
+Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they
+were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all
+unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,
+uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight
+it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been
+devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
+better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
+could like him no more;—not sorry to be driven by the observation of
+his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with
+complacency on the remembrance of Edward’s generous temper, simple
+taste, and diffident feelings.
+
+Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
+intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire
+lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of
+Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great
+deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told
+her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.—His behaviour to
+her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in
+meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to
+converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well
+justify Mrs. Jennings’s persuasion of his attachment, and would have
+been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed
+Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it
+was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs.
+Jennings’s suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the
+nicest observer of the two;—she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings
+thought only of his behaviour;—and while his looks of anxious
+solicitude on Marianne’s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning
+of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the
+latter lady’s observation;—_she_ could discover in them the quick
+feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.
+
+Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her
+being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all
+over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,
+where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the
+trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
+had—assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet
+shoes and stockings—given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a
+day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
+ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
+Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all
+declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a
+cough, and a sore throat, a good night’s rest was to cure her entirely;
+and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went
+to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII.
+
+
+Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
+replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
+in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering
+over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
+in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
+her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
+indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister’s
+composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
+Marianne’s inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
+trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
+felt no real alarm.
+
+A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
+expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
+confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
+bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings’s advice, of sending
+for the Palmers’ apothecary.
+
+He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
+expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
+pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
+word “infection” to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
+on her baby’s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
+first to think Marianne’s complaint more serious than Elinor, now
+looked very grave on Mr. Harris’s report, and confirming Charlotte’s
+fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
+her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
+idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
+withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
+after Mr. Harris’s arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
+nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer’s, who lived a
+few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
+her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
+almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings,
+however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
+declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
+Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
+to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
+Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
+desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
+experience in nursing, of material use.
+
+Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
+feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
+would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
+produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
+on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
+the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
+mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was
+all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
+raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed
+herself, that it would be a very short one.
+
+The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
+patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
+amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;
+for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
+and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
+by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
+promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
+Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
+likewise.—Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
+acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
+uneasiness on her sister’s account, would be to deprive them both, she
+thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
+stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
+play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
+sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
+gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
+long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings’s entreaty was
+warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
+in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
+Dashwood in any emergence.
+
+Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
+She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
+Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It
+gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
+gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.
+
+Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s departure, and her
+situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who
+attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
+Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
+was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in
+the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon,
+who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was
+not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason
+himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary
+seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was
+left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every
+melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion
+that he should see Marianne no more.
+
+On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
+both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
+his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every
+symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed
+in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
+letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
+friend’s, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
+at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
+to travel.
+
+But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the
+evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
+uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
+willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
+having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
+cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
+slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her
+sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
+considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
+resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing
+nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her
+maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in
+the housekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
+
+The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
+sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
+posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
+which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
+a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
+the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,—
+
+“Is mama coming?”
+
+“Not yet,” cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
+Marianne to lie down again, “but she will be here, I hope, before it is
+long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.”
+
+“But she must not go round by London,” cried Marianne, in the same
+hurried manner. “I shall never see her, if she goes by London.”
+
+Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
+attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and
+quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
+alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
+for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
+To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
+latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
+performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
+her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
+was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.
+
+It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
+immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
+attempt the removal of:—he listened to them in silent despondence;—but
+her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
+seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
+he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
+Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
+with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off
+his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
+directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
+
+The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon—or such
+a companion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a companion
+whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
+friendship might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons
+_could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
+would lessen it.
+
+_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of
+a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
+despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
+look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The
+horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
+only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
+too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about
+twelve o’clock, and she returned to her sister’s apartment to wait for
+the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
+night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after
+hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne’s side, and
+in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her
+apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
+security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
+Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
+her mistress had always thought.
+
+Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
+mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
+heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
+so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
+fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
+been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
+arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.
+
+She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could
+not come, for some other advice, when the former—but not till after
+five o’clock—arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for
+his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant
+alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be
+material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must
+procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated
+to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four
+hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more
+composed than he had found them.
+
+With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
+their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
+Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
+doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
+conviction of her sister’s danger would not allow her to offer the
+comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the
+early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
+a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings’s compassion
+she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was
+still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
+and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a
+favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
+considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_ what Charlotte was
+to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere.
+
+Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;—but he came to be
+disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines
+had failed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet—not
+more herself—remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more
+than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice.
+But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some
+more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the
+last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached
+the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm,
+except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and
+in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her
+sister’s bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one
+suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by
+the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the
+severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous
+indisposition which Marianne’s disappointment had brought on. Elinor
+felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to
+her reflections.
+
+About noon, however, she began—but with a caution—a dread of
+disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
+friend—to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
+sister’s pulse;—she waited, watched, and examined it again and
+again;—and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
+exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
+communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to
+acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
+indulging a thought of its continuance;—and Elinor, conning over every
+injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was
+too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
+flutter, she bent over her sister to watch—she hardly knew for what.
+Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
+Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
+flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
+on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now
+oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
+till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o’clock;—when his assurances,
+his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
+expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
+
+Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
+entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
+partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
+late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
+with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
+probability of an entire recovery.
+
+Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led
+to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,
+friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
+sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
+gratitude;—but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no
+smiles. All within Elinor’s breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
+
+She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
+whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
+enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
+look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in
+some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was—but when she saw,
+on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery
+continued, and saw Marianne at six o’clock sink into a quiet, steady,
+and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
+
+The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
+back. At ten o’clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
+mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
+now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less
+an object of pity!—Oh!—how slow was the progress of time which yet kept
+them in ignorance!
+
+At seven o’clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
+Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been
+kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
+much;—and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
+content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings
+would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
+her mother’s arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;
+but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that
+moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
+unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
+into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
+left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
+own room to write letters and sleep.
+
+The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the
+rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
+regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the
+travellers—they had a rich reward in store, for every present
+inconvenience.
+
+The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
+convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
+house; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of the
+_almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
+the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
+satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not
+deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
+By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn
+by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother’s
+alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
+
+Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
+that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
+carriage stopt at the door—of her doubt—her dread—perhaps her
+despair!—and of what _she_ had to tell!—with such knowledge it was
+impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
+and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings’s maid
+with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
+
+The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
+assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the
+drawing-room,—she entered it,—and saw only Willoughby.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV.
+
+
+Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
+the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
+and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
+his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
+supplication,
+
+“Miss Dashwood, for half an hour—for ten minutes—I entreat you to
+stay.”
+
+“No, sir,” she replied with firmness, “I shall _not_ stay. Your
+business cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell
+you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.”
+
+“Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, “that Mr. Palmer and all
+his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
+door. My business is with you, and only you.”
+
+“With me!”—in the utmost amazement—“well, sir,—be quick—and if you
+can—less violent.”
+
+“Sit down, and I will be both.”
+
+She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
+Brandon’s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had
+promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
+engaged. After a moment’s recollection, therefore, concluding that
+prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
+promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He
+took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
+either.
+
+“Pray be quick, sir,”—said Elinor, impatiently;—“I have no time to
+spare.”
+
+He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
+hear her.
+
+“Your sister,” said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards—“is out of
+danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!—But is it true? is
+it really true?”
+
+Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
+eagerness.
+
+“For God’s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?”
+
+“We hope she is.”
+
+He rose up, and walked across the room.
+
+“Had I known as much half an hour ago;—but since I _am_ here,” speaking
+with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,—“what does it
+signify? For once, Miss Dashwood—it will be the last time, perhaps—let
+us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me
+honestly” a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, “do you think me most
+a knave or a fool?”
+
+Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to
+think that he must be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and
+of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
+impression she immediately rose, saying,
+
+“Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not
+at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be
+with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.”
+
+“I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
+perfectly calm; “yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold
+beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.”
+
+“At Marlborough!”—cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
+what he would be at.
+
+“Yes,—I left London this morning at eight o’clock, and the only ten
+minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
+nuncheon at Marlborough.”
+
+The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
+spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
+bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
+said, after a moment’s recollection,
+
+“Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after
+what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself
+upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you
+mean by it?”
+
+“I mean,” said he, with serious energy, “if I can, to make you hate me
+one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of
+explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
+to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
+blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
+forgiveness from Ma— from your sister.”
+
+“Is this the real reason of your coming?”
+
+“Upon my soul it is,”—was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
+the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
+her think him sincere.
+
+“If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she
+has _long_ forgiven you.”
+
+“Has she?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “Then she has forgiven me
+before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
+on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?”
+
+Elinor bowed her assent.
+
+“I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
+thoughtfulness on his own, “how _you_ may have accounted for my
+behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
+imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,—it is
+worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first
+became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
+in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
+to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
+Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but
+please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
+kind—it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_
+was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must
+confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,
+thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
+always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
+means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
+of returning her affection.”
+
+Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
+angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
+
+“It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
+to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
+any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
+subject.”
+
+“I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, “My fortune was
+never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
+associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since
+my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
+though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
+that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
+some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
+woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a
+thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty,
+which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood,
+can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting in this manner, trying to
+engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may
+be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not
+know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_
+know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be
+doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings
+to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?
+But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection
+and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
+raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a
+blessing.”
+
+“You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at
+one time attached to her?”
+
+“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!
+Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by
+insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my
+life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly
+honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however, when fully
+determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most
+improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an
+unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were
+so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here—nor will I stop for
+_you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of
+scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
+event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great
+circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible
+and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I
+had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the
+attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
+affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the
+interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before
+I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a
+circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my
+resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,”—here
+he hesitated and looked down. “Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been
+informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to
+deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection—but I need not
+explain myself farther,” he added, looking at her with an heightened
+colour and an enquiring eye,—“your particular intimacy—you have
+probably heard the whole story long ago.”
+
+“I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
+anew against any compassion for him, “I have heard it all. And how you
+will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
+confess is beyond my comprehension.”
+
+“Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account.
+Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her
+character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify
+myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
+nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
+and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence
+of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean,
+however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better
+treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
+which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I
+wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than
+herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?)
+was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely
+superior!”
+
+“Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say
+it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
+be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do
+not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
+understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
+You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
+Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
+reduced to the extremest indigence.”
+
+“But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,” he warmly replied; “I did not
+recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
+might have told her how to find it out.”
+
+“Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”
+
+“She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
+guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
+ignorance of the world—every thing was against me. The matter itself I
+could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was
+previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
+general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
+the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
+present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I
+might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she
+offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not
+be—and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The
+night following this affair—I was to go the next morning—was spent by
+me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle
+was great—but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough
+conviction of her attachment to me—it was all insufficient to outweigh
+that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the
+necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and
+expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure
+of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself
+to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A
+heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire;—I was
+engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore
+necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write
+this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To
+see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I
+could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however,
+I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I
+saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable—and left her
+hoping never to see her again.”
+
+“Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?” said Elinor, reproachfully; “a note
+would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call?”
+
+“It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the
+country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
+neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
+Mrs. Smith and myself—and I resolved therefore on calling at the
+cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,
+was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
+You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening
+before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A
+few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
+happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
+Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in
+this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
+of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow,
+her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged
+to leave Devonshire so immediately—I never shall forget it—united too
+with such reliance, such confidence in me!—Oh, God!—what a hard-hearted
+rascal I was!”
+
+They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
+
+“Did you tell her that you should soon return?”
+
+“I do not know what I told her,” he replied, impatiently; “less than
+was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
+than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.—It won’t
+do.—Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
+kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was
+miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
+gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself
+for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
+sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I
+went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
+only indifferent. My journey to town—travelling with my own horses, and
+therefore so tediously—no creature to speak to—my own reflections so
+cheerful—when I looked forward every thing so inviting!—when I looked
+back at Barton, the picture so soothing!—oh, it was a blessed journey!”
+
+He stopped.
+
+“Well, sir,” said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for
+his departure, “and this is all?”
+
+“All!—no:—have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?
+Did she show it you?”
+
+“Yes, I saw every note that passed.”
+
+“When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
+town the whole time,) what I felt is—in the common phrase, not to be
+expressed; in a more simple one—perhaps too simple to raise any
+emotion—my feelings were very, very painful.—Every line, every word
+was—in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
+would forbid—a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town
+was—in the same language—a thunderbolt.—Thunderbolts and daggers!—what
+a reproof would she have given me!—her taste, her opinions—I believe
+they are better known to me than my own,—and I am sure they are
+dearer.”
+
+Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
+extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;—yet she felt it her
+duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
+
+“This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.—Remember that you are married.
+Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to
+hear.”
+
+“Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
+former days,—that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
+separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
+faith in the constancy of mine as ever,—awakened all my remorse. I say
+awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
+some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
+villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that
+she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
+past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
+shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
+overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, ‘I shall be
+heartily glad to hear she is well married.’ But this note made me know
+myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any
+other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But
+every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat
+was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no
+answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
+farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
+Berkeley Street;—but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
+cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
+out of the house one morning, and left my name.”
+
+“Watched us out of the house!”
+
+“Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
+often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a
+shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in
+Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse
+of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness
+on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your
+sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as
+much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an
+acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I
+blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the
+day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He asked me to a party, a
+dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_ told me as an
+inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
+felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning
+brought another short note from Marianne—still affectionate, open,
+artless, confiding—everything that could make _my_ conduct most
+hateful. I could not answer it. I tried—but could not frame a sentence.
+But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you _can_
+pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was _then_. With my
+head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy
+lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks were worse than all.
+Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what
+a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony it was! Marianne,
+beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a
+tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
+explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
+solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
+hand, looking all that was—Well, it does not signify; it is over now.
+Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not
+before I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white as death. _That_ was
+the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she
+appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day
+as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew
+exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world.
+She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same
+look and hue.”
+
+A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first
+rousing himself, broke it thus:
+
+“Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,
+certainly out of danger?”
+
+“We are assured of it.”
+
+“Your poor mother, too!—doting on Marianne.”
+
+“But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
+say about that?”
+
+“Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you
+know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting
+at the Ellisons,—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me
+there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it
+caught mine—and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing
+altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had
+reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,
+and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had
+marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.
+Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a
+woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.
+She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.
+Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion—her malice—At all
+events it must be appeased. And, in short—what do you think of my
+wife’s style of letter-writing?—delicate—tender—truly feminine—was it
+not?”
+
+“Your wife!—The letter was in your own hand-writing.”
+
+“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
+I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own
+happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!—we were
+engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed—But I am
+talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was
+necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done
+to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my
+character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
+my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business
+was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
+bluster was of little importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in their
+opinion,’ said I to myself: ‘I am shut out for ever from their society,
+they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only
+make them think me a blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings, as, in a
+sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted
+with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,—unluckily they were
+all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and
+hoarded them for ever,—I was forced to put them up, and could not even
+kiss them. And the lock of hair—that too I had always carried about me
+in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most
+ingratiating virulence,—the dear lock,—all, every memento was torn from
+me.”
+
+“You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,” said Elinor, while
+her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
+“you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
+sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your
+wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She
+must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat
+her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
+Marianne—nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.”
+
+“Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy sigh; “she does
+not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
+married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
+happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity
+me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,—be it
+only one degree,—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My
+intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my
+guilt?”
+
+“Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little. You have proved
+yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have
+proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know—the
+misery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it
+worse.”
+
+“Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
+telling you?—Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as
+in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able
+to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
+feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
+gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my
+penitence—tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
+you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”
+
+“I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
+called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the
+particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her
+illness.”
+
+“Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
+when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to
+me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
+surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
+soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
+could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to,
+though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. As
+bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
+Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a letter that morning
+received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent—the
+Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be
+able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir
+John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his
+ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the
+hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What
+I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing
+me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest
+moments—for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been
+imputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of
+anything—What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at
+eight o’clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”
+
+Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
+irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
+habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
+character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
+and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
+feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and
+vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
+Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
+had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
+its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty
+propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
+The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
+every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
+longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
+sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
+was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
+incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
+end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
+at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
+said—
+
+“There is no use in staying here; I must be off.”
+
+“Are you going back to town?”
+
+“No—to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day
+or two. Good bye.”
+
+He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;—he pressed
+it with affection.
+
+“And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?” said he,
+letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
+he was to go.
+
+Elinor assured him that she did;—that she forgave, pitied, wished him
+well—was even interested in his happiness—and added some gentle counsel
+as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very
+encouraging.
+
+“As to that,” said he, “I must rub through the world as well as I can.
+Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to
+think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
+may be the means—it may put me on my guard—at least, it may be
+something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were
+I even by any blessed chance at liberty again—”
+
+Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
+
+“Well,”—he replied—“once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in
+dread of one event.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Your sister’s marriage.”
+
+“You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is
+now.”
+
+“But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should
+be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear—but I will not
+stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that
+where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,—God bless
+you!”
+
+And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV.
+
+
+Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
+sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
+crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
+was the general result, to think even of her sister.
+
+Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
+worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
+degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
+her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
+tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
+within herself—to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his
+influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
+in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
+open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
+and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
+innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
+could feel his influence less.
+
+When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
+just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
+her hopes. Elinor’s heart was full. The past, the present, the future,
+Willoughby’s visit, Marianne’s safety, and her mother’s expected
+arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept
+off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying
+herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear
+could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby’s leaving
+the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another
+carriage.—Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment’s
+horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
+outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
+almost the conviction of Marianne’s being no more, had no voice to
+inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting neither
+for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her
+mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
+overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was
+supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;
+and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak,
+embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press
+Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude,
+and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the
+moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
+
+As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
+first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
+rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
+Elinor’s delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
+checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:
+but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life
+of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother
+was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation,
+submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse
+around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and
+Elinor, in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed. But the
+rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most
+wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of
+spirits. Willoughby, “poor Willoughby,” as she now allowed herself to
+call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard
+his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself
+for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it
+to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of
+it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after
+such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a
+moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon,
+reproved herself, felt that to _his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far
+more than to his rival’s, the reward of her sister was due, and wished
+any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby’s death.
+
+The shock of Colonel Brandon’s errand at Barton had been much softened
+to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
+uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
+for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
+intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
+that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
+as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.
+
+Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
+Mrs. Dashwood’s looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
+declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could
+not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
+wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs.
+Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
+which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
+think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from
+a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment
+in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
+contributed to place her;—and in her recovery she had yet another
+source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as
+soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
+
+“At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
+Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.”
+
+Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
+not surprised, was all silent attention.
+
+“You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
+composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
+family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon’s marrying one of you as
+the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most
+happy with him of the two.”
+
+Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
+satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
+characters, or feelings, could be given;—but her mother must always be
+carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
+therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
+
+“He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out
+quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk
+of nothing but my child;—he could not conceal his distress; I saw that
+it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as
+the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy—or rather, not
+thinking at all, I suppose—giving way to irresistible feelings, made me
+acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne.
+He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing
+her.”
+
+Here, however, Elinor perceived,—not the language, not the professions
+of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother’s
+active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it
+chose.
+
+“His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
+ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
+constant—which ever we are to call it—has subsisted through all the
+knowledge of dear Marianne’s unhappy prepossession for that worthless
+young man!—and without selfishness—without encouraging a hope!—could he
+have seen her happy with another—Such a noble mind!—such openness, such
+sincerity!—no one can be deceived in _him_.”
+
+“Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as an excellent man, is
+well established.”
+
+“I know it is,”—replied her mother seriously, “or after such a warning,
+_I_ should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be
+pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such
+ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.”
+
+“His character, however,” answered Elinor, “does not rest on _one_ act
+of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of
+the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons,
+he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect
+him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
+considerable; and so highly do _I_ value and esteem him, that if
+Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to
+think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What
+answer did you give him?—Did you allow him to hope?”
+
+“Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
+Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or
+encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
+effusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet
+after a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if
+she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
+promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
+security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
+encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
+do everything; Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
+man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.”
+
+“To judge from the Colonel’s spirits, however, you have not yet made
+him equally sanguine.”
+
+“No. He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply rooted for any change in
+it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
+free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
+difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,
+however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as
+to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed; and
+his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
+your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his
+favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
+handsome as Willoughby; but at the same time, there is something much
+more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you
+remember, in Willoughby’s eyes at times, which I did not like.”
+
+Elinor could _not_ remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her
+assent, continued,
+
+“And his manners, the Colonel’s manners are not only more pleasing to
+me than Willoughby’s ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
+be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine
+attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
+more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often
+artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself,
+that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
+himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
+_him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon.”
+
+She paused.—Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
+dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
+
+“At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,” added Mrs.
+Dashwood, “even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,—for I
+hear it is a large village,—indeed there certainly _must_ be some small
+house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
+present situation.”
+
+Poor Elinor!—here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!—but her
+spirit was stubborn.
+
+“His fortune too!—for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
+about _that;_—and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
+really is, I am sure it must be a good one.”
+
+Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
+Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
+friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI.
+
+
+Marianne’s illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
+enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
+her mother’s presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
+to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
+Palmer’s dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for
+she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
+mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.
+
+His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
+receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
+such, as, in Elinor’s conjecture, must arise from something more than
+his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
+others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
+complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
+past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
+between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
+by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
+and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
+with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
+different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel’s behaviour but what arose
+from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
+and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
+more than gratitude already dawned.
+
+At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
+every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
+daughter’s wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_
+measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
+quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods’ stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
+brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
+equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.
+Jennings’s united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
+accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
+accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
+invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
+made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
+engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
+course of a few weeks.
+
+The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
+so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
+grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
+heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
+Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
+assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
+should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
+and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
+feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
+to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
+companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
+solitary way to Delaford.
+
+The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
+on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous
+affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
+was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
+in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the
+observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen
+her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
+heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
+conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
+apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
+of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
+cheerfulness.
+
+As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
+field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
+she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
+notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could
+neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne
+from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion
+too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in
+its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent
+manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable
+exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room,
+than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute
+firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of
+every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
+connected.—She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
+and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
+the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
+She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
+opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
+favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
+hand-writing.—That would not do.—She shook her head, put the music
+aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
+feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
+however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
+much.
+
+The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the
+contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
+and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
+Margaret’s return, and talking of the dear family party which would
+then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
+only happiness worth a wish.
+
+“When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,” said
+she, “we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the
+farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
+walk to Sir John’s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
+and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace
+its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we
+shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never
+to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
+divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,
+and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own
+library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond
+mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the
+Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can
+borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall
+gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which
+I now feel myself to want.”
+
+Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
+though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
+to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
+in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
+virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
+remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
+she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
+Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
+tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to
+wait till her sister’s health were more secure, before she appointed
+it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.
+
+Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
+fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a
+soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter’s
+wishes and the mother’s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s
+arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
+the lane before the house.
+
+The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
+exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had
+advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
+hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
+towards it, Marianne calmly said,—
+
+“There, exactly there,”—pointing with one hand, “on that projecting
+mound,—there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.”
+
+Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
+
+“I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!
+shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?” hesitatingly it was said.
+“Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to
+do.”
+
+Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
+
+“As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done with that, as far as _he_
+is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have
+been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be
+satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not
+_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I
+could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have
+sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl—”
+
+She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
+
+“If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.”
+
+“Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it
+horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,
+of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a
+situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
+expose me to—”
+
+“How then,” asked her sister, “would you account for his behaviour?”
+
+“I would suppose him,—Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
+very, very fickle.”
+
+Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility
+of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in
+stronger health;—and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
+
+“I am not wishing him too much good,” said Marianne at last with a
+sigh, “when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
+than my own. He will suffer enough in them.”
+
+“Do you compare your conduct with his?”
+
+“No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
+yours.”
+
+“Our situations have borne little resemblance.”
+
+“They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
+your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness
+has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious
+recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was
+perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own
+behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
+autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
+kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
+sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
+to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
+myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
+time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I
+did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
+feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,—wonder
+that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
+atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I
+died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
+friend, my sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
+latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I
+have lived in _your_ remembrance! My mother too! How could you have
+consoled her! I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I
+looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
+indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing
+kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To
+the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common
+acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
+hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
+attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they
+deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above
+my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and
+its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?—not to any compassion
+that could benefit you or myself.—Your example was before me; but to
+what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I
+imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part
+in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which
+you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew
+you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn
+away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing
+sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had
+deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an
+unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.”
+
+Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
+impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
+that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
+deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,—
+
+“You are very good.—The future must be my proof. I have laid down my
+plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it—my feelings shall be
+governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor
+torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother,
+and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my
+affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never
+again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other
+society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart
+amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of
+life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby—to say that I
+shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His
+remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.
+But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason,
+by constant employment.”
+
+She paused—and added in a low voice, “If I could but know _his_ heart,
+everything would become easy.”
+
+Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
+impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
+nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
+reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
+leading to the fact.
+
+She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
+anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
+points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
+repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
+Marianne said not a word.—She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
+ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A
+thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
+one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
+unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister’s, and tears covered
+her cheeks.
+
+Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
+reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
+must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
+but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
+minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
+be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a
+kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
+tears, “Tell mama,” withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
+stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as
+what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
+result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
+fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
+injunction.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII.
+
+
+Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
+favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
+imputed guilt;—she was sorry for him;—she wished him happy. But the
+feelings of the past could not be recalled.—Nothing could restore him
+with a faith unbroken—a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing
+could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his
+means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could
+replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests
+of Colonel Brandon.
+
+Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby’s story from
+himself—had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of
+his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
+would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor’s power, nor in
+her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
+explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection
+had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
+Willoughby’s deserts;—she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple
+truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character,
+without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
+
+In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
+voluntarily to speak of him again;—but that it was not without an
+effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for
+some time previously sitting—her rising colour, as she spoke,—and her
+unsteady voice, plainly showed.
+
+“I wish to assure you both,” said she, “that I see every thing—as you
+can desire me to do.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
+tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister’s
+unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne
+slowly continued,—
+
+“It is a great relief to me—what Elinor told me this morning—I have now
+heard exactly what I wished to hear.”—For some moments her voice was
+lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than
+before—“I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never
+could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I
+must have known, all this.—I should have had no confidence, no esteem.
+Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.”
+
+“I know it—I know it,” cried her mother. “Happy with a man of libertine
+practices!—With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our
+friends, and the best of men!—No—my Marianne has not a heart to be made
+happy with such a man!—Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would
+have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt.”
+
+Marianne sighed, and repeated, “I wish for no change.”
+
+“You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “exactly as a good mind and a
+sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
+well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
+reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you
+in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have
+been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
+Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is
+acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
+self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your
+inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
+on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous to you, from
+having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. _Your_ sense of
+honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your
+situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you
+possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on
+your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but
+beyond that—and how little could the utmost of your single management
+do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? Beyond
+_that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge _his_
+enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on
+feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own
+influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had
+involved him in such difficulties?”
+
+Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word “Selfish?” in a
+tone that implied—“do you really think him selfish?”
+
+“The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “from the beginning to
+the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was
+selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
+afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of
+it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or
+his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.”
+
+“It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object.”
+
+“At present,” continued Elinor, “he regrets what he has done. And why
+does he regret it?—Because he finds it has not answered towards
+himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now
+unembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only
+that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But
+does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?—The
+inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered
+under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now
+reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could
+make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous—always
+poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable
+comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance,
+even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.”
+
+“I have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “and I have nothing to
+regret—nothing but my own folly.”
+
+“Rather say your mother’s imprudence, my child,” said Mrs. Dashwood;
+“_she_ must be answerable.”
+
+Marianne would not let her proceed;—and Elinor, satisfied that each
+felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might
+weaken her sister’s spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
+subject, immediately continued,
+
+“_One_ observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
+story—that all Willoughby’s difficulties have arisen from the first
+offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime
+has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
+discontents.”
+
+Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
+by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon’s injuries and merits, warm
+as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not
+look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.
+
+Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
+days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
+but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
+cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time
+upon her health.
+
+Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
+other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
+usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
+Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
+
+Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing
+of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing
+certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her
+and her brother, in consequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first
+of John’s, there had been this sentence:—“We know nothing of our
+unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a
+subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;” which was all the
+intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name
+was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not
+doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
+
+Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
+when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
+mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
+communication,—
+
+“I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.”
+
+Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
+turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,
+whose eyes, as she answered the servant’s inquiry, had intuitively
+taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor’s
+countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
+alike distressed by Marianne’s situation, knew not on which child to
+bestow her principal attention.
+
+The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
+enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood’s assistance,
+supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather
+better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
+maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far
+recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an
+inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood
+immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
+benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
+
+“Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?”
+
+“I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
+too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of
+the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the
+Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up
+as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss
+Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and
+inquired after you, ma’am, and the young ladies, especially Miss
+Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars’s,
+their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not
+time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go
+forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
+howsever, when they come back, they’d make sure to come and see you.”
+
+“But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
+she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken
+young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.”
+
+“Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
+up;—he never was a gentleman much for talking.”
+
+Elinor’s heart could easily account for his not putting himself
+forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
+
+“Was there no one else in the carriage?”
+
+“No, ma’am, only they two.”
+
+“Do you know where they came from?”
+
+“They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy—Mrs. Ferrars told me.”
+
+“And are they going farther westward?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am—but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and
+then they’d be sure and call here.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
+to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
+was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed
+in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to
+Mr. Pratt’s, near Plymouth.
+
+Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to
+hear more.
+
+“Did you see them off, before you came away?”
+
+“No, ma’am—the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
+longer; I was afraid of being late.”
+
+“Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
+always a very handsome young lady—and she seemed vastly contented.”
+
+Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
+tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
+Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
+Mrs. Dashwood’s and Elinor’s appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
+might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both
+her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
+had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go
+without her dinner before.
+
+When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
+Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
+similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to
+hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found
+that she had erred in relying on Elinor’s representation of herself;
+and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at
+the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as
+she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled
+by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the
+attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in
+reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved
+to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,
+inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;—that Marianne’s
+affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had
+too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in
+Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly
+with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII.
+
+
+Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
+unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
+and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
+always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
+would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
+own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
+establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
+But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking
+flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.
+
+That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
+orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
+living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it
+was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him,
+should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were married,
+married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle’s. What had Edward
+felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother’s
+servant, on hearing Lucy’s message!
+
+They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—Delaford,—that
+place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
+wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in
+an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,
+contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with
+the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
+economical practices;—pursuing her own interest in every thought,
+courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
+wealthy friend. In Edward—she knew not what she saw, nor what she
+wished to see;—happy or unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away
+her head from every sketch of him.
+
+Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
+would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
+particulars,—but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
+tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
+with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.
+
+“When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?” was an inquiry which
+sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
+
+“I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
+hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
+not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.”
+
+This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel
+Brandon _must_ have some information to give.
+
+Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
+horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a
+gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and
+she trembled in expectation of it. But it was _not_ Colonel Brandon;
+neither his air, nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must
+be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted: she could not be
+mistaken,—it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down. “He comes from
+Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm; I _will_ be mistress
+of myself.”
+
+In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
+mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
+at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have
+given the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that
+she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
+him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
+own discretion.
+
+Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the
+appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel
+path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
+them.
+
+His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
+Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
+fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
+Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
+that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
+guided in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave
+him her hand, and wished him joy.
+
+He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips
+had moved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over,
+she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too
+late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and
+talked of the weather.
+
+Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
+distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of
+the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
+took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
+silence.
+
+When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
+awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt
+obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried
+manner, he replied in the affirmative.
+
+Another pause.
+
+Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
+voice, now said,
+
+“Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?”
+
+“At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise. “No, my mother is
+in town.”
+
+“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to enquire
+for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars.”
+
+She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their
+eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
+after some hesitation, said,—
+
+“Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars.”
+
+“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
+accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even
+_her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose
+from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing
+what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while
+spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as
+he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,—
+
+“Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is
+lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.”
+
+His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
+who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
+agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
+
+“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”
+
+Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as
+soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
+she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any
+where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even
+heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
+which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.
+Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted
+the room, and walked out towards the village—leaving the others in the
+greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so
+wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity which they had no means of
+lessening but by their own conjectures.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIX.
+
+
+Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
+appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
+what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
+by all;—for after experiencing the blessings of _one_ imprudent
+engagement, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already
+done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
+the failure of _that_, than the immediate contraction of another.
+
+His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
+Elinor to marry him;—and considering that he was not altogether
+inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
+feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
+need of encouragement and fresh air.
+
+How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
+soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
+expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
+told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at
+four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
+lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous
+profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
+of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
+joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell
+his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach
+to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from
+a woman whom he had long ceased to love;—and elevated at once to that
+security with another, which he must have thought of almost with
+despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was
+brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;—and
+the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful
+cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
+
+His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
+confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
+philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
+
+“It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he, “the
+consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my
+mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
+from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never
+have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the
+time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had
+any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance
+from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
+attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
+must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of
+having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any
+myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first
+twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
+belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered
+at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to
+do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home
+in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
+brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
+be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and
+was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part
+of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything
+that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—at least I thought so
+_then;_ and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
+comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I
+hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
+way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
+piece of folly.”
+
+The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
+of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—as promised them all, the
+satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
+comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
+to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
+nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
+together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
+
+Marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
+occur—regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for
+her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
+
+But Elinor—how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of
+learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
+moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
+was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had
+passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
+her situation with what so lately it had been,—saw him honourably
+released from his former engagement,—saw him instantly profiting by the
+release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
+constant as she had ever supposed it to be,—she was oppressed, she was
+overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind
+to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required
+several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
+tranquillity to her heart.
+
+Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—for whatever
+other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
+week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or
+suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
+the future;—for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
+incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
+common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
+different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is
+even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
+
+Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
+formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;—and
+Elinor’s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
+every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
+circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
+and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
+whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,—a
+girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
+brother had been thrown off by his family—it was beyond her
+comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair,
+to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her
+judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
+
+Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
+at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
+on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
+Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
+opinion of what his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might have
+done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
+
+“_That_ was exactly like Robert,” was his immediate observation. “And
+_that_,” he presently added, “might perhaps be in _his_ head when the
+acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might
+think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs
+might afterward arise.”
+
+How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
+at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
+remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
+of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
+were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the
+smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
+what followed;—and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
+herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
+the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the
+letter into Elinor’s hands.
+
+“DEAR SIR,
+    “Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought
+    myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of
+    being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with
+    you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another’s.
+    Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my
+    fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship
+    now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am
+    sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your
+    brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live
+    without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are
+    now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear
+    brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first
+    trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
+
+
+“Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
+“LUCY FERRARS.
+
+
+“I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first
+opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls—but the ring with my hair you
+are very welcome to keep.”
+
+Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
+
+“I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,” said Edward.—“For
+worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former
+days.—In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!—how I have blushed
+over the pages of her writing!—and I believe I may say that since the
+first half year of our foolish—business—this is the only letter I ever
+received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the
+defect of the style.”
+
+“However it may have come about,” said Elinor, after a pause,—“they are
+certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
+appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through
+resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;
+and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do
+the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She
+will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than
+she would have been by your marrying her.”
+
+“She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.—She
+will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
+much sooner.”
+
+In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
+not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
+by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy’s
+letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road
+to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which
+that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do
+nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
+rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
+jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
+the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
+with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
+a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he
+_did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a
+twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
+wives.
+
+That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
+malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
+Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
+character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
+meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
+even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
+want of liberality in some of her opinions—they had been equally
+imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
+reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
+good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such
+a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement,
+which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother’s
+anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
+
+“I thought it my duty,” said he, “independent of my feelings, to give
+her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
+renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
+the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed
+nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how
+could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing
+my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most
+disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
+comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could
+be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest
+regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could
+not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.”
+
+“No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
+that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
+nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
+fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was
+certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
+among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
+be better for her to marry _you_ than be single.”
+
+Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
+been more natural than Lucy’s conduct, nor more self-evident than the
+motive of it.
+
+Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
+compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
+Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
+
+“Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,” said she; “because—to say
+nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
+fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be.”
+
+He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
+confidence in the force of his engagement.
+
+“I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to
+another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
+consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
+as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
+friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
+Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_
+wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
+reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
+these:—The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
+myself.”
+
+Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
+
+Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being expected at the
+Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
+but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
+his giving him the living of Delaford—“Which, at present,” said he,
+“after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
+he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.”
+
+_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the
+place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed
+all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the
+parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor
+herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it
+with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
+
+One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
+difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
+mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
+their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
+certain—and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two
+thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
+that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
+Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
+enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
+would supply them with the comforts of life.
+
+Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
+mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their
+income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still
+be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken
+of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a lesser evil than his
+chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert’s offence would serve no
+other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
+
+About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
+complete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
+having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
+with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the
+privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
+night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
+in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers’ first tête-à-tête
+before breakfast.
+
+A three weeks’ residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
+least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
+thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
+which needed all the improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness
+of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s language, to
+make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
+did revive. No rumour of Lucy’s marriage had yet reached him:—he knew
+nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
+consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
+explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
+in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
+interest of Elinor.
+
+It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
+opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other’s acquaintance,
+for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and
+good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have
+been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
+attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
+fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
+which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
+
+The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
+nerve in Elinor’s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
+with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful
+tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour
+forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had
+quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts,
+almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. “I do think,” she continued, “nothing
+was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called
+and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the
+matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day
+after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not
+knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her
+money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make
+a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so I
+was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter,
+where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in
+hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say
+that Lucy’s crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is
+worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but
+you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort
+him.”
+
+Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
+unfortunate of women—poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility—and
+he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful
+wonder. Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy’s was infinitely
+worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars;
+and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his
+wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to
+appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been
+carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously
+heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the
+others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage;
+and he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy’s
+engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she
+should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. He
+thus continued:—
+
+“Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, which does not
+surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
+received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
+by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
+line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
+submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to
+her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
+Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
+on good terms with her children.”
+
+This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
+Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
+exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
+
+“A letter of proper submission!” repeated he; “would they have me beg
+my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude to _her_, and breach of
+honour to _me?_ I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor
+penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would not
+interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to make.”
+
+“You may certainly ask to be forgiven,” said Elinor, “because you have
+offended;—and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to
+profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
+on you your mother’s anger.”
+
+He agreed that he might.
+
+“And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
+convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
+in _her_ eyes as the first.”
+
+He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
+letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
+as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
+word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
+to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
+offices in his favour. “And if they really _do_ interest themselves,”
+said Marianne, in her new character of candour, “in bringing about a
+reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
+without merit.”
+
+After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or four days, the
+two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to
+Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
+home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
+were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
+nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER L.
+
+
+After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
+and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
+seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
+was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
+
+Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of
+her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
+a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
+Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
+resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
+
+In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
+feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
+present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
+feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
+as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was
+revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars
+at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss
+Dashwood, by every argument in her power;—told him, that in Miss Morton
+he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;—and enforced
+the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a
+nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the
+daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three;_ but when she
+found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation,
+he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest,
+from the experience of the past, to submit—and therefore, after such an
+ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to
+prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent
+to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
+
+What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to
+be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
+her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
+inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
+objection was made against Edward’s taking orders for the sake of two
+hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
+the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
+been given with Fanny.
+
+It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by
+Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,
+seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.
+
+With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
+they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
+living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
+an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
+considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
+completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
+and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
+as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
+till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
+church early in the autumn.
+
+The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
+Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
+Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;—could
+chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings’s
+prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
+she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
+Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
+believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact
+nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
+and rather better pasturage for their cows.
+
+They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
+and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
+almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the
+expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
+
+“I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,” said John, as
+they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
+House, “_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been
+one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I
+confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
+brother. His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in
+such respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,—I have not
+seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
+Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the
+person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable for
+you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
+Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen;
+for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody
+else,—and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage,
+and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance: you
+understand me.”
+
+But though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated them
+with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by
+her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the folly of Robert,
+and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many
+months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had
+at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of
+his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous
+attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was
+given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
+re-established him completely in her favour.
+
+The whole of Lucy’s behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
+crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
+of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
+its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
+advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
+conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
+visited her in Bartlett’s Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
+to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
+engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection
+of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
+the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though
+Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in
+_time_, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to
+produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when
+they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour’s
+discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means secured, and
+the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came
+gradually to talk only of Robert,—a subject on which he had always more
+to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest
+even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to
+both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his
+conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying
+privately without his mother’s consent. What immediately followed is
+known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she
+had many relations and old acquaintances to cut—and he drew several
+plans for magnificent cottages;—and from thence returning to town,
+procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of
+asking it, which, at Lucy’s instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness,
+at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and
+Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have
+transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But
+perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation
+for Robert’s offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated
+with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its
+graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest
+state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs.
+Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never
+cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor,
+though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an
+intruder, _she_ was in every thing considered, and always openly
+acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received
+very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms
+imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and
+ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their
+husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic
+disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed
+the harmony in which they all lived together.
+
+What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
+puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to
+it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however,
+justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever
+appeared in Robert’s style of living or of talking to give a suspicion
+of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his
+brother too little, or bringing himself too much;—and if Edward might
+be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular,
+from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the
+regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less
+contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
+
+Elinor’s marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
+be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
+for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
+her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
+in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
+Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
+rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her
+darling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she
+desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
+valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was
+equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and
+their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the
+reward of all.
+
+With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge so intimate of his
+goodness—with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at
+last, though long after it was observable to everybody else—burst on
+her—what could she do?
+
+Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to
+discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
+conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an
+affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
+superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
+her hand to another!—and _that_ other, a man who had suffered no less
+than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years
+before, she had considered too old to be married,—and who still sought
+the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
+
+But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
+passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with
+expecting,—instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and
+finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in
+her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,—she found
+herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new
+duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the
+patroness of a village.
+
+Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
+believed he deserved to be;—in Marianne he was consoled for every past
+affliction;—her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
+and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own
+happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of
+each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her
+whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had
+once been to Willoughby.
+
+Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
+punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of
+Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as
+the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
+behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy
+and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own
+punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;—nor that he long thought
+of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that he
+was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an
+habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be
+depended on—for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to
+enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home
+always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in
+sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic
+felicity.
+
+For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her
+loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
+every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
+perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
+in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
+
+Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
+attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
+Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an
+age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
+supposed to have a lover.
+
+Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
+which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the
+merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
+as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
+within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
+between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
+
+THE END
diff --git a/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_BeautifulAndDamned.txt b/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_BeautifulAndDamned.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..67067b5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_BeautifulAndDamned.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,15867 @@
+
+
+BOOK ONE
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+ANTHONY PATCH
+
+In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone
+since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at
+least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the
+ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual "There!"--yet
+at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the
+conscious stage. As you first see him he wonders frequently whether he
+is not without honor and slightly mad, a shameful and obscene thinness
+glistening on the surface of the world like oil on a clean pond, these
+occasions being varied, of course, with those in which he thinks himself
+rather an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted
+to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else
+he knows.
+
+This was his healthy state and it made him cheerful, pleasant, and very
+attractive to intelligent men and to all women. In this state he
+considered that he would one day accomplish some quiet subtle thing that
+the elect would deem worthy and, passing on, would join the dimmer stars
+in a nebulous, indeterminate heaven half-way between death and
+immortality. Until the time came for this effort he would be Anthony
+Patch--not a portrait of a man but a distinct and dynamic personality,
+opinionated, contemptuous, functioning from within outward--a man who
+was aware that there could be no honor and yet had honor, who knew the
+sophistry of courage and yet was brave.
+
+
+A WORTHY MAN AND HIS GIFTED SON
+
+Anthony drew as much consciousness of social security from being the
+grandson of Adam J. Patch as he would have had from tracing his line
+over the sea to the crusaders. This is inevitable; Virginians and
+Bostonians to the contrary notwithstanding, an aristocracy founded
+sheerly on money postulates wealth in the particular.
+
+Now Adam J. Patch, more familiarly known as "Cross Patch," left his
+father's farm in Tarrytown early in sixty-one to join a New York cavalry
+regiment. He came home from the war a major, charged into Wall Street,
+and amid much fuss, fume, applause, and ill will he gathered to himself
+some seventy-five million dollars.
+
+This occupied his energies until he was fifty-seven years old. It was
+then that he determined, after a severe attack of sclerosis, to
+consecrate the remainder of his life to the moral regeneration of the
+world. He became a reformer among reformers. Emulating the magnificent
+efforts of Anthony Comstock, after whom his grandson was named, he
+levelled a varied assortment of uppercuts and body-blows at liquor,
+literature, vice, art, patent medicines, and Sunday theatres. His mind,
+under the influence of that insidious mildew which eventually forms on
+all but the few, gave itself up furiously to every indignation of the
+age. From an armchair in the office of his Tarrytown estate he directed
+against the enormous hypothetical enemy, unrighteousness, a campaign
+which went on through fifteen years, during which he displayed himself a
+rabid monomaniac, an unqualified nuisance, and an intolerable bore. The
+year in which this story opens found him wearying; his campaign had
+grown desultory; 1861 was creeping up slowly on 1895; his thoughts ran a
+great deal on the Civil War, somewhat on his dead wife and son, almost
+infinitesimally on his grandson Anthony.
+
+Early in his career Adam Patch had married an anemic lady of thirty,
+Alicia Withers, who brought him one hundred thousand dollars and an
+impeccable entr� into the banking circles of New York. Immediately and
+rather spunkily she had borne him a son and, as if completely
+devitalized by the magnificence of this performance, she had thenceforth
+effaced herself within the shadowy dimensions of the nursery. The boy,
+Adam Ulysses Patch, became an inveterate joiner of clubs, connoisseur of
+good form, and driver of tandems--at the astonishing age of twenty-six
+he began his memoirs under the title "New York Society as I Have Seen
+It." On the rumor of its conception this work was eagerly bid for among
+publishers, but as it proved after his death to be immoderately verbose
+and overpoweringly dull, it never obtained even a private printing.
+
+This Fifth Avenue Chesterfield married at twenty-two. His wife was
+Henrietta Lebrune, the Boston "Society Contralto," and the single child
+of the union was, at the request of his grandfather, christened Anthony
+Comstock Patch. When he went to Harvard, the Comstock dropped out of his
+name to a nether hell of oblivion and was never heard of thereafter.
+
+Young Anthony had one picture of his father and mother together--so
+often had it faced his eyes in childhood that it had acquired the
+impersonality of furniture, but every one who came into his bedroom
+regarded it with interest. It showed a dandy of the nineties, spare and
+handsome, standing beside a tall dark lady with a muff and the
+suggestion of a bustle. Between them was a little boy with long brown
+curls, dressed in a velvet Lord Fauntleroy suit. This was Anthony at
+five, the year of his mother's death.
+
+His memories of the Boston Society Contralto were nebulous and musical.
+She was a lady who sang, sang, sang, in the music room of their house on
+Washington Square--sometimes with guests scattered all about her, the
+men with their arms folded, balanced breathlessly on the edges of sofas,
+the women with their hands in their laps, occasionally making little
+whispers to the men and always clapping very briskly and uttering cooing
+cries after each song--and often she sang to Anthony alone, in Italian
+or French or in a strange and terrible dialect which she imagined to be
+the speech of the Southern negro.
+
+His recollections of the gallant Ulysses, the first man in America to
+roll the lapels of his coat, were much more vivid. After Henrietta
+Lebrune Patch had "joined another choir," as her widower huskily
+remarked from time to time, father and son lived up at grampa's in
+Tarrytown, and Ulysses came daily to Anthony's nursery and expelled
+pleasant, thick-smelling words for sometimes as much as an hour. He was
+continually promising Anthony hunting trips and fishing trips and
+excursions to Atlantic City, "oh, some time soon now"; but none of them
+ever materialized. One trip they did take; when Anthony was eleven they
+went abroad, to England and Switzerland, and there in the best hotel in
+Lucerne his father died with much sweating and grunting and crying aloud
+for air. In a panic of despair and terror Anthony was brought back to
+America, wedded to a vague melancholy that was to stay beside him
+through the rest of his life.
+
+
+PAST AND PERSON OF THE HERO
+
+At eleven he had a horror of death. Within six impressionable years his
+parents had died and his grandmother had faded off almost imperceptibly,
+until, for the first time since her marriage, her person held for one
+day an unquestioned supremacy over her own drawing room. So to Anthony
+life was a struggle against death, that waited at every corner. It was
+as a concession to his hypochondriacal imagination that he formed the
+habit of reading in bed--it soothed him. He read until he was tired and
+often fell asleep with the lights still on.
+
+His favorite diversion until he was fourteen was his stamp collection;
+enormous, as nearly exhaustive as a boy's could be--his grandfather
+considered fatuously that it was teaching him geography. So Anthony kept
+up a correspondence with a half dozen "Stamp and Coin" companies and it
+was rare that the mail failed to bring him new stamp-books or packages
+of glittering approval sheets--there was a mysterious fascination in
+transferring his acquisitions interminably from one book to another. His
+stamps were his greatest happiness and he bestowed impatient frowns on
+any one who interrupted him at play with them; they devoured his
+allowance every month, and he lay awake at night musing untiringly on
+their variety and many-colored splendor.
+
+At sixteen he had lived almost entirely within himself, an inarticulate
+boy, thoroughly un-American, and politely bewildered by his
+contemporaries. The two preceding years had been spent in Europe with a
+private tutor, who persuaded him that Harvard was the thing; it would
+"open doors," it would be a tremendous tonic, it would give him
+innumerable self-sacrificing and devoted friends. So he went to
+Harvard--there was no other logical thing to be done with him.
+
+Oblivious to the social system, he lived for a while alone and unsought
+in a high room in Beck Hall--a slim dark boy of medium height with a shy
+sensitive mouth. His allowance was more than liberal. He laid the
+foundations for a library by purchasing from a wandering bibliophile
+first editions of Swinburne, Meredith, and Hardy, and a yellowed
+illegible autograph letter of Keats's, finding later that he had been
+amazingly overcharged. He became an exquisite dandy, amassed a rather
+pathetic collection of silk pajamas, brocaded dressing-gowns, and
+neckties too flamboyant to wear; in this secret finery he would parade
+before a mirror in his room or lie stretched in satin along his
+window-seat looking down on the yard and realizing dimly this clamor,
+breathless and immediate, in which it seemed he was never to have
+a part.
+
+Curiously enough he found in senior year that he had acquired a position
+in his class. He learned that he was looked upon as a rather romantic
+figure, a scholar, a recluse, a tower of erudition. This amused him but
+secretly pleased him--he began going out, at first a little and then a
+great deal. He made the Pudding. He drank--quietly and in the proper
+tradition. It was said of him that had he not come to college so young
+he might have "done extremely well." In 1909, when he graduated, he was
+only twenty years old.
+
+Then abroad again--to Rome this time, where he dallied with architecture
+and painting in turn, took up the violin, and wrote some ghastly Italian
+sonnets, supposedly the ruminations of a thirteenth-century monk on the
+joys of the contemplative life. It became established among his Harvard
+intimates that he was in Rome, and those of them who were abroad that
+year looked him up and discovered with him, on many moonlight
+excursions, much in the city that was older than the Renaissance or
+indeed than the republic. Maury Noble, from Philadelphia, for instance,
+remained two months, and together they realized the peculiar charm of
+Latin women and had a delightful sense of being very young and free in a
+civilization that was very old and free. Not a few acquaintances of his
+grandfather's called on him, and had he so desired he might have been
+_persona grata_ with the diplomatic set--indeed, he found that his
+inclinations tended more and more toward conviviality, but that long
+adolescent aloofness and consequent shyness still dictated to
+his conduct.
+
+He returned to America in 1912 because of one of his grandfather's
+sudden illnesses, and after an excessively tiresome talk with the
+perpetually convalescent old man he decided to put off until his
+grandfather's death the idea of living permanently abroad. After a
+prolonged search he took an apartment on Fifty-second Street and to all
+appearances settled down.
+
+In 1913 Anthony Patch's adjustment of himself to the universe was in
+process of consummation. Physically, he had improved since his
+undergraduate days--he was still too thin but his shoulders had widened
+and his brunette face had lost the frightened look of his freshman year.
+He was secretly orderly and in person spick and span--his friends
+declared that they had never seen his hair rumpled. His nose was too
+sharp; his mouth was one of those unfortunate mirrors of mood inclined
+to droop perceptibly in moments of unhappiness, but his blue eyes were
+charming, whether alert with intelligence or half closed in an
+expression of melancholy humor.
+
+One of those men devoid of the symmetry of feature essential to the
+Aryan ideal, he was yet, here and there, considered handsome--moreover,
+he was very clean, in appearance and in reality, with that especial
+cleanness borrowed from beauty.
+
+
+THE REPROACHLESS APARTMENT
+
+Fifth and Sixth Avenues, it seemed to Anthony, were the uprights of a
+gigantic ladder stretching from Washington Square to Central Park.
+Coming up-town on top of a bus toward Fifty-second Street invariably
+gave him the sensation of hoisting himself hand by hand on a series of
+treacherous rungs, and when the bus jolted to a stop at his own rung he
+found something akin to relief as he descended the reckless metal steps
+to the sidewalk.
+
+After that, he had but to walk down Fifty-second Street half a block,
+pass a stodgy family of brownstone houses--and then in a jiffy he was
+under the high ceilings of his great front room. This was entirely
+satisfactory. Here, after all, life began. Here he slept, breakfasted,
+read, and entertained.
+
+The house itself was of murky material, built in the late nineties; in
+response to the steadily growing need of small apartments each floor had
+been thoroughly remodelled and rented individually. Of the four
+apartments Anthony's, on the second floor, was the most desirable.
+
+The front room had fine high ceilings and three large windows that
+loomed down pleasantly upon Fifty-second Street. In its appointments it
+escaped by a safe margin being of any particular period; it escaped
+stiffness, stuffiness, bareness, and decadence. It smelt neither of
+smoke nor of incense--it was tall and faintly blue. There was a deep
+lounge of the softest brown leather with somnolence drifting about it
+like a haze. There was a high screen of Chinese lacquer chiefly
+concerned with geometrical fishermen and huntsmen in black and gold;
+this made a corner alcove for a voluminous chair guarded by an
+orange-colored standing lamp. Deep in the fireplace a quartered shield
+was burned to a murky black.
+
+Passing through the dining-room, which, as Anthony took only breakfast
+at home, was merely a magnificent potentiality, and down a comparatively
+long hall, one came to the heart and core of the apartment--Anthony's
+bedroom and bath.
+
+Both of them were immense. Under the ceilings of the former even the
+great canopied bed seemed of only average size. On the floor an exotic
+rug of crimson velvet was soft as fleece on his bare feet. His bathroom,
+in contrast to the rather portentous character of his bedroom, was gay,
+bright, extremely habitable and even faintly facetious. Framed around
+the walls were photographs of four celebrated thespian beauties of the
+day: Julia Sanderson as "The Sunshine Girl," Ina Claire as "The Quaker
+Girl," Billie Burke as "The Mind-the-Paint Girl," and Hazel Dawn as "The
+Pink Lady." Between Billie Burke and Hazel Dawn hung a print
+representing a great stretch of snow presided over by a cold and
+formidable sun--this, claimed Anthony, symbolized the cold shower.
+
+The bathtub, equipped with an ingenious bookholder, was low and large.
+Beside it a wall wardrobe bulged with sufficient linen for three men and
+with a generation of neckties. There was no skimpy glorified towel of a
+carpet--instead, a rich rug, like the one in his bedroom a miracle of
+softness, that seemed almost to massage the wet foot emerging from
+the tub....
+
+All in all a room to conjure with--it was easy to see that Anthony
+dressed there, arranged his immaculate hair there, in fact did
+everything but sleep and eat there. It was his pride, this bathroom. He
+felt that if he had a love he would have hung her picture just facing
+the tub so that, lost in the soothing steamings of the hot water, he
+might lie and look up at her and muse warmly and sensuously on
+her beauty.
+
+
+NOR DOES HE SPIN
+
+The apartment was kept clean by an English servant with the singularly,
+almost theatrically, appropriate name of Bounds, whose technic was
+marred only by the fact that he wore a soft collar. Had he been entirely
+Anthony's Bounds this defect would have been summarily remedied, but he
+was also the Bounds of two other gentlemen in the neighborhood. From
+eight until eleven in the morning he was entirely Anthony's. He arrived
+with the mail and cooked breakfast. At nine-thirty he pulled the edge of
+Anthony's blanket and spoke a few terse words--Anthony never remembered
+clearly what they were and rather suspected they were deprecative; then
+he served breakfast on a card-table in the front room, made the bed and,
+after asking with some hostility if there was anything else, withdrew.
+
+In the mornings, at least once a week, Anthony went to see his broker.
+His income was slightly under seven thousand a year, the interest on
+money inherited from his mother. His grandfather, who had never allowed
+his own son to graduate from a very liberal allowance, judged that this
+sum was sufficient for young Anthony's needs. Every Christmas he sent
+him a five-hundred-dollar bond, which Anthony usually sold, if possible,
+as he was always a little, not very, hard up.
+
+The visits to his broker varied from semi-social chats to discussions of
+the safety of eight per cent investments, and Anthony always enjoyed
+them. The big trust company building seemed to link him definitely to
+the great fortunes whose solidarity he respected and to assure him that
+he was adequately chaperoned by the hierarchy of finance. From these
+hurried men he derived the same sense of safety that he had in
+contemplating his grandfather's money--even more, for the latter
+appeared, vaguely, a demand loan made by the world to Adam Patch's own
+moral righteousness, while this money down-town seemed rather to have
+been grasped and held by sheer indomitable strengths and tremendous
+feats of will; in addition, it seemed more definitely and
+explicitly--money.
+
+Closely as Anthony trod on the heels of his income, he considered it to
+be enough. Some golden day, of course, he would have many millions;
+meanwhile he possessed a _raison d'etre_ in the theoretical creation of
+essays on the popes of the Renaissance. This flashes back to the
+conversation with his grandfather immediately upon his return from Rome.
+
+He had hoped to find his grandfather dead, but had learned by
+telephoning from the pier that Adam Patch was comparatively well
+again--the next day he had concealed his disappointment and gone out to
+Tarrytown. Five miles from the station his taxicab entered an
+elaborately groomed drive that threaded a veritable maze of walls and
+wire fences guarding the estate--this, said the public, was because it
+was definitely known that if the Socialists had their way, one of the
+first men they'd assassinate would be old Cross Patch.
+
+Anthony was late and the venerable philanthropist was awaiting him in a
+glass-walled sun parlor, where he was glancing through the morning
+papers for the second time. His secretary, Edward Shuttleworth--who
+before his regeneration had been gambler, saloon-keeper, and general
+reprobate--ushered Anthony into the room, exhibiting his redeemer and
+benefactor as though he were displaying a treasure of immense value.
+
+They shook hands gravely. "I'm awfully glad to hear you're better,"
+Anthony said.
+
+The senior Patch, with an air of having seen his grandson only last
+week, pulled out his watch.
+
+"Train late?" he asked mildly.
+
+It had irritated him to wait for Anthony. He was under the delusion not
+only that in his youth he had handled his practical affairs with the
+utmost scrupulousness, even to keeping every engagement on the dot, but
+also that this was the direct and primary cause of his success.
+
+"It's been late a good deal this month," he remarked with a shade of
+meek accusation in his voice--and then after a long sigh, "Sit down."
+
+Anthony surveyed his grandfather with that tacit amazement which always
+attended the sight. That this feeble, unintelligent old man was
+possessed of such power that, yellow journals to the contrary, the men
+in the republic whose souls he could not have bought directly or
+indirectly would scarcely have populated White Plains, seemed as
+impossible to believe as that he had once been a pink-and-white baby.
+
+The span of his seventy-five years had acted as a magic bellows--the
+first quarter-century had blown him full with life, and the last had
+sucked it all back. It had sucked in the cheeks and the chest and the
+girth of arm and leg. It had tyrannously demanded his teeth, one by one,
+suspended his small eyes in dark-bluish sacks, tweeked out his hairs,
+changed him from gray to white in some places, from pink to yellow in
+others--callously transposing his colors like a child trying over a
+paintbox. Then through his body and his soul it had attacked his brain.
+It had sent him night-sweats and tears and unfounded dreads. It had
+split his intense normality into credulity and suspicion. Out of the
+coarse material of his enthusiasm it had cut dozens of meek but petulant
+obsessions; his energy was shrunk to the bad temper of a spoiled child,
+and for his will to power was substituted a fatuous puerile desire for a
+land of harps and canticles on earth.
+
+The amenities having been gingerly touched upon, Anthony felt that he
+was expected to outline his intentions--and simultaneously a glimmer in
+the old man's eye warned him against broaching, for the present, his
+desire to live abroad. He wished that Shuttleworth would have tact
+enough to leave the room--he detested Shuttleworth--but the secretary
+had settled blandly in a rocker and was dividing between the two Patches
+the glances of his faded eyes.
+
+"Now that you're here you ought to _do_ something," said his grandfather
+softly, "accomplish something."
+
+Anthony waited for him to speak of "leaving something done when you pass
+on." Then he made a suggestion:
+
+"I thought--it seemed to me that perhaps I'm best qualified to write--"
+
+Adam Patch winced, visualizing a family poet with a long hair and three
+mistresses.
+
+"--history," finished Anthony.
+
+"History? History of what? The Civil War? The Revolution?"
+
+"Why--no, sir. A history of the Middle Ages." Simultaneously an idea was
+born for a history of the Renaissance popes, written from some novel
+angle. Still, he was glad he had said "Middle Ages."
+
+"Middle Ages? Why not your own country? Something you know about?"
+
+"Well, you see I've lived so much abroad--"
+
+"Why you should write about the Middle Ages, I don't know. Dark Ages, we
+used to call 'em. Nobody knows what happened, and nobody cares, except
+that they're over now." He continued for some minutes on the uselessness
+of such information, touching, naturally, on the Spanish Inquisition and
+the "corruption of the monasteries." Then:
+
+"Do you think you'll be able to do any work in New York--or do you
+really intend to work at all?" This last with soft, almost
+imperceptible, cynicism.
+
+"Why, yes, I do, sir."
+
+"When'll you be done?"
+
+"Well, there'll be an outline, you see--and a lot of preliminary
+reading."
+
+"I should think you'd have done enough of that already."
+
+The conversation worked itself jerkily toward a rather abrupt
+conclusion, when Anthony rose, looked at his watch, and remarked that he
+had an engagement with his broker that afternoon. He had intended to
+stay a few days with his grandfather, but he was tired and irritated
+from a rough crossing, and quite unwilling to stand a subtle and
+sanctimonious browbeating. He would come out again in a few days,
+he said.
+
+Nevertheless, it was due to this encounter that work had come into his
+life as a permanent idea. During the year that had passed since then, he
+had made several lists of authorities, he had even experimented with
+chapter titles and the division of his work into periods, but not one
+line of actual writing existed at present, or seemed likely ever to
+exist. He did nothing--and contrary to the most accredited copy-book
+logic, he managed to divert himself with more than average content.
+
+
+AFTERNOON
+
+It was October in 1913, midway in a week of pleasant days, with the
+sunshine loitering in the cross-streets and the atmosphere so languid as
+to seem weighted with ghostly falling leaves. It was pleasant to sit
+lazily by the open window finishing a chapter of "Erewhon." It was
+pleasant to yawn about five, toss the book on a table, and saunter
+humming along the hall to his bath.
+
+"To ... you ... beaut-if-ul lady,"
+
+he was singing as he turned on the tap.
+
+"I raise ... my ... eyes;
+To ... you ... beaut-if-ul la-a-dy
+My ... heart ... cries--"
+
+He raised his voice to compete with the flood of water pouring into the
+tub, and as he looked at the picture of Hazel Dawn upon the wall he put
+an imaginary violin to his shoulder and softly caressed it with a
+phantom bow. Through his closed lips he made a humming noise, which he
+vaguely imagined resembled the sound of a violin. After a moment his
+hands ceased their gyrations and wandered to his shirt, which he began
+to unfasten. Stripped, and adopting an athletic posture like the
+tiger-skin man in the advertisement, he regarded himself with some
+satisfaction in the mirror, breaking off to dabble a tentative foot in
+the tub. Readjusting a faucet and indulging in a few preliminary grunts,
+he slid in.
+
+Once accustomed to the temperature of the water he relaxed into a state
+of drowsy content. When he finished his bath he would dress leisurely
+and walk down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz, where he had an appointment for
+dinner with his two most frequent companions, Dick Caramel and Maury
+Noble. Afterward he and Maury were going to the theatre--Caramel would
+probably trot home and work on his book, which ought to be finished
+pretty soon.
+
+Anthony was glad _he_ wasn't going to work on _his_ book. The notion of
+sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe
+thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was
+absurdly beyond his desires.
+
+Emerging from his bath he polished himself with the meticulous attention
+of a bootblack. Then he wandered into the bedroom, and whistling the
+while a weird, uncertain melody, strolled here and there buttoning,
+adjusting, and enjoying the warmth of the thick carpet on his feet.
+
+He lit a cigarette, tossed the match out the open top of the window,
+then paused in his tracks with the cigarette two inches from his
+mouth--which fell faintly ajar. His eyes were focussed upon a spot of
+brilliant color on the roof of a house farther down the alley.
+
+It was a girl in a red neglig�, silk surely, drying her hair by the
+still hot sun of late afternoon. His whistle died upon the stiff air of
+the room; he walked cautiously another step nearer the window with a
+sudden impression that she was beautiful. Sitting on the stone parapet
+beside her was a cushion the same color as her garment and she was
+leaning both arms upon it as she looked down into the sunny areaway,
+where Anthony could hear children playing.
+
+He watched her for several minutes. Something was stirred in him,
+something not accounted for by the warm smell of the afternoon or the
+triumphant vividness of red. He felt persistently that the girl was
+beautiful--then of a sudden he understood: it was her distance, not a
+rare and precious distance of soul but still distance, if only in
+terrestrial yards. The autumn air was between them, and the roofs and
+the blurred voices. Yet for a not altogether explained second, posing
+perversely in time, his emotion had been nearer to adoration than in the
+deepest kiss he had ever known.
+
+He finished his dressing, found a black bow tie and adjusted it
+carefully by the three-sided mirror in the bathroom. Then yielding to an
+impulse he walked quickly into the bedroom and again looked out the
+window. The woman was standing up now; she had tossed her hair back and
+he had a full view of her. She was fat, full thirty-five, utterly
+undistinguished. Making a clicking noise with his mouth he returned to
+the bathroom and reparted his hair.
+
+"To ... you ... beaut-if-ul lady,"
+
+he sang lightly,
+
+"I raise ... my ... eyes--"
+
+Then with a last soothing brush that left an iridescent surface of sheer
+gloss he left his bathroom and his apartment and walked down Fifth
+Avenue to the Ritz-Carlton.
+
+
+THREE MEN
+
+At seven Anthony and his friend Maury Noble are sitting at a corner
+table on the cool roof. Maury Noble is like nothing so much as a large
+slender and imposing cat. His eyes are narrow and full of incessant,
+protracted blinks. His hair is smooth and flat, as though it has been
+licked by a possible--and, if so, Herculean--mother-cat. During
+Anthony's time at Harvard he had been considered the most unique figure
+in his class, the most brilliant, the most original--smart, quiet and
+among the saved.
+
+This is the man whom Anthony considers his best friend. This is the only
+man of all his acquaintance whom he admires and, to a bigger extent than
+he likes to admit to himself, envies.
+
+They are glad to see each other now--their eyes are full of kindness as
+each feels the full effect of novelty after a short separation. They are
+drawing a relaxation from each other's presence, a new serenity; Maury
+Noble behind that fine and absurdly catlike face is all but purring. And
+Anthony, nervous as a will-o'-the-wisp, restless--he is at rest now.
+
+They are engaged in one of those easy short-speech conversations that
+only men under thirty or men under great stress indulge in.
+
+ANTHONY: Seven o'clock. Where's the Caramel? _(Impatiently.)_ I wish
+he'd finish that interminable novel. I've spent more time hungry----
+
+MAURY: He's got a new name for it. "The Demon Lover "--not bad, eh?
+
+ANTHONY: _(interested)_ "The Demon Lover"? Oh "woman wailing"--No--not a
+bit bad! Not bad at all--d'you think?
+
+MAURY: Rather good. What time did you say?
+
+ANTHONY: Seven.
+
+MAURY:_(His eyes narrowing--not unpleasantly, but to express a faint
+disapproval)_ Drove me crazy the other day.
+
+ANTHONY: How?
+
+MAURY: That habit of taking notes.
+
+ANTHONY: Me, too. Seems I'd said something night before that he
+considered material but he'd forgotten it--so he had at me. He'd say
+"Can't you try to concentrate?" And I'd say "You bore me to tears. How
+do I remember?"
+
+_(MAURY laughs noiselessly, by a sort of bland and appreciative widening
+of his features.)_
+
+MAURY: Dick doesn't necessarily see more than any one else. He merely
+can put down a larger proportion of what he sees.
+
+ANTHONY: That rather impressive talent----
+
+MAURY: Oh, yes. Impressive!
+
+ANTHONY: And energy--ambitious, well-directed energy. He's so
+entertaining--he's so tremendously stimulating and exciting. Often
+there's something breathless in being with him.
+
+MAURY: Oh, yes. _(Silence, and then:)_
+
+ANTHONY: _(With his thin, somewhat uncertain face at its most convinced)
+_But not indomitable energy. Some day, bit by bit, it'll blow away, and
+his rather impressive talent with it, and leave only a wisp of a man,
+fretful and egotistic and garrulous.
+
+MAURY: _(With laughter)_ Here we sit vowing to each other that little
+Dick sees less deeply into things than we do. And I'll bet he feels a
+measure of superiority on his side--creative mind over merely critical
+mind and all that.
+
+ANTHONY: Oh, yes. But he's wrong. He's inclined to fall for a million
+silly enthusiasms. If it wasn't that he's absorbed in realism and
+therefore has to adopt the garments of the cynic he'd be--he'd be
+credulous as a college religious leader. He's an idealist. Oh, yes. He
+thinks he's not, because he's rejected Christianity. Remember him in
+college? just swallow every writer whole, one after another, ideas,
+technic, and characters, Chesterton, Shaw, Wells, each one as easily
+as the last.
+
+MAURY:_(Still considering his own last observation)_ I remember.
+
+ANTHONY: It's true. Natural born fetich-worshipper. Take art--
+
+MAURY: Let's order. He'll be--
+
+ANTHONY: Sure. Let's order. I told him--
+
+MAURY: Here he comes. Look--he's going to bump that waiter. _(He lifts
+his finger as a signal--lifts it as though it were a soft and friendly
+claw.)_ Here y'are, Caramel.
+
+A NEW VOICE: _(Fiercely)_ Hello, Maury. Hello, Anthony Comstock Patch.
+How is old Adam's grandson? D�butantes still after you, eh?
+
+_In person_ RICHARD CARAMEL _is short and fair--he is to be bald at
+thirty-five. He has yellowish eyes--one of them startlingly clear, the
+other opaque as a muddy pool--and a bulging brow like a funny-paper
+baby. He bulges in other places--his paunch bulges, prophetically, his
+words have an air of bulging from his mouth, even his dinner coat
+pockets bulge, as though from contamination, with a dog-eared collection
+of time-tables, programmes, and miscellaneous scraps--on these he takes
+his notes with great screwings up of his unmatched yellow eyes and
+motions of silence with his disengaged left hand._
+
+_When he reaches the table he shakes hands with ANTHONY and MAURY. He is
+one of those men who invariably shake hands, even with people whom they
+have seen an hour before._
+
+ANTHONY: Hello, Caramel. Glad you're here. We needed a comic relief.
+
+MAURY: You're late. Been racing the postman down the block? We've been
+clawing over your character.
+
+DICK: (_Fixing_ ANTHONY _eagerly with the bright eye_) What'd you say?
+Tell me and I'll write it down. Cut three thousand words out of Part One
+this afternoon.
+
+MAURY: Noble aesthete. And I poured alcohol into my stomach.
+
+DICK: I don't doubt it. I bet you two have been sitting here for an hour
+talking about liquor.
+
+ANTHONY: We never pass out, my beardless boy.
+
+MAURY: We never go home with ladies we meet when we're lit.
+
+ANTHONY: All in our parties are characterized by a certain haughty
+distinction.
+
+DICK: The particularly silly sort who boast about being "tanks"! Trouble
+is you're both in the eighteenth century. School of the Old English
+Squire. Drink quietly until you roll under the table. Never have a good
+time. Oh, no, that isn't done at all.
+
+ANTHONY: This from Chapter Six, I'll bet.
+
+DICK: Going to the theatre?
+
+MAURY: Yes. We intend to spend the evening doing some deep thinking over
+of life's problems. The thing is tersely called "The Woman." I presume
+that she will "pay."
+
+ANTHONY: My God! Is that what it is? Let's go to the Follies again.
+
+MAURY: I'm tired of it. I've seen it three times. (_To DICK:_) The first
+time, we went out after Act One and found a most amazing bar. When we
+came back we entered the wrong theatre.
+
+ANTHONY: Had a protracted dispute with a scared young couple we thought
+were in our seats.
+
+DICK: (_As though talking to himself_) I think--that when I've done
+another novel and a play, and maybe a book of short stories, I'll do a
+musical comedy.
+
+MAURY: I know--with intellectual lyrics that no one will listen to. And
+all the critics will groan and grunt about "Dear old Pinafore." And I
+shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a
+meaningless world.
+
+DICK: (_Pompously_) Art isn't meaningless.
+
+MAURY: It is in itself. It isn't in that it tries to make life less so.
+
+ANTHONY: In other words, Dick, you're playing before a grand stand
+peopled with ghosts.
+
+MAURY: Give a good show anyhow.
+
+ANTHONY:(To MAURY) On the contrary, I'd feel that it being a meaningless
+world, why write? The very attempt to give it purpose is purposeless.
+
+DICK: Well, even admitting all that, be a decent pragmatist and grant a
+poor man the instinct to live. Would you want every one to accept that
+sophistic rot?
+
+ANTHONY: Yeah, I suppose so.
+
+MAURY: No, sir! I believe that every one in America but a selected
+thousand should be compelled to accept a very rigid system of
+morals--Roman Catholicism, for instance. I don't complain of
+conventional morality. I complain rather of the mediocre heretics who
+seize upon the findings of sophistication and adopt the pose of a moral
+freedom to which they are by no means entitled by their intelligences.
+
+(_Here the soup arrives and what MAURY might have gone on to say is lost
+for all time._)
+
+
+NIGHT
+
+Afterward they visited a ticket speculator and, at a price, obtained
+seats for a new musical comedy called "High Jinks." In the foyer of the
+theatre they waited a few moments to see the first-night crowd come in.
+There were opera cloaks stitched of myriad, many-colored silks and furs;
+there were jewels dripping from arms and throats and ear-tips of white
+and rose; there were innumerable broad shimmers down the middles of
+innumerable silk hats; there were shoes of gold and bronze and red and
+shining black; there were the high-piled, tight-packed coiffures of many
+women and the slick, watered hair of well-kept men--most of all there
+was the ebbing, flowing, chattering, chuckling, foaming, slow-rolling
+wave effect of this cheerful sea of people as to-night it poured its
+glittering torrent into the artificial lake of laughter....
+
+After the play they parted--Maury was going to a dance at Sherry's,
+Anthony homeward and to bed.
+
+He found his way slowly over the jostled evening mass of Times Square,
+which the chariot race and its thousand satellites made rarely beautiful
+and bright and intimate with carnival. Faces swirled about him, a
+kaleidoscope of girls, ugly, ugly as sin--too fat, too lean, yet
+floating upon this autumn air as upon their own warm and passionate
+breaths poured out into the night. Here, for all their vulgarity, he
+thought, they were faintly and subtly mysterious. He inhaled carefully,
+swallowing into his lungs perfume and the not unpleasant scent of many
+cigarettes. He caught the glance of a dark young beauty sitting alone in
+a closed taxicab. Her eyes in the half-light suggested night and
+violets, and for a moment he stirred again to that half-forgotten
+remoteness of the afternoon.
+
+Two young Jewish men passed him, talking in loud voices and craning
+their necks here and there in fatuous supercilious glances. They were
+dressed in suits of the exaggerated tightness then semi-fashionable;
+their turned over collars were notched at the Adam's apple; they wore
+gray spats and carried gray gloves on their cane handles.
+
+Passed a bewildered old lady borne along like a basket of eggs between
+two men who exclaimed to her of the wonders of Times Square--explained
+them so quickly that the old lady, trying to be impartially interested,
+waved her head here and there like a piece of wind-worried old
+orange-peel. Anthony heard a snatch of their conversation:
+
+"There's the Astor, mama!"
+
+"Look! See the chariot race sign----"
+
+"There's where we were to-day. No, _there!_"
+
+"Good gracious! ..."
+
+"You should worry and grow thin like a dime." He recognized the current
+witticism of the year as it issued stridently from one of the pairs at
+his elbow.
+
+"And I says to him, I says----"
+
+The soft rush of taxis by him, and laughter, laughter hoarse as a
+crow's, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways
+underneath--and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and
+recedings of light--light dividing like pearls--forming and reforming in
+glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut
+amazingly on the sky.
+
+He turned thankfully down the hush that blew like a dark wind out of a
+cross-street, passed a bakery-restaurant in whose windows a dozen roast
+chickens turned over and over on an automatic spit. From the door came a
+smell that was hot, doughy, and pink. A drug-store next, exhaling
+medicines, spilt soda water and a pleasant undertone from the cosmetic
+counter; then a Chinese laundry, still open, steamy and stifling,
+smelling folded and vaguely yellow. All these depressed him; reaching
+Sixth Avenue he stopped at a corner cigar store and emerged feeling
+better--the cigar store was cheerful, humanity in a navy blue mist,
+buying a luxury ....
+
+Once in his apartment he smoked a last cigarette, sitting in the dark by
+his open front window. For the first time in over a year he found
+himself thoroughly enjoying New York. There was a rare pungency in it
+certainly, a quality almost Southern. A lonesome town, though. He who
+had grown up alone had lately learned to avoid solitude. During the past
+several months he had been careful, when he had no engagement for the
+evening, to hurry to one of his clubs and find some one. Oh, there was a
+loneliness here----
+
+His cigarette, its smoke bordering the thin folds of curtain with rims
+of faint white spray, glowed on until the clock in St. Anne's down the
+street struck one with a querulous fashionable beauty. The elevated,
+half a quiet block away, sounded a rumble of drums--and should he lean
+from his window he would see the train, like an angry eagle, breasting
+the dark curve at the corner. He was reminded of a fantastic romance he
+had lately read in which cities had been bombed from aerial trains, and
+for a moment he fancied that Washington Square had declared war on
+Central Park and that this was a north-bound menace loaded with battle
+and sudden death. But as it passed the illusion faded; it diminished to
+the faintest of drums--then to a far-away droning eagle.
+
+There were the bells and the continued low blur of auto horns from Fifth
+Avenue, but his own street was silent and he was safe in here from all
+the threat of life, for there was his door and the long hall and his
+guardian bedroom--safe, safe! The arc-light shining into his window
+seemed for this hour like the moon, only brighter and more beautiful
+than the moon.
+
+
+A FLASH-BACK IN PARADISE
+
+_Beauty, who was born anew every hundred years, sat in a sort of outdoor
+waiting room through which blew gusts of white wind and occasionally a
+breathless hurried star. The stars winked at her intimately as they went
+by and the winds made a soft incessant flurry in her hair. She was
+incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one--the beauty of
+her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by
+philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of
+winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in
+the contemplation of herself._
+
+_It became known to her, at length, that she was to be born again.
+Sighing, she began a long conversation with a voice that was in the
+white wind, a conversation that took many hours and of which I can give
+only a fragment here._
+
+BEAUTY: (_Her lips scarcely stirring, her eyes turned, as always, inward
+upon herself_) Whither shall I journey now?
+
+THE VOICE: To a new country--a land you have never seen before.
+
+BEAUTY: (_Petulantly_) I loathe breaking into these new civilizations.
+How long a stay this time?
+
+THE VOICE: Fifteen years.
+
+BEAUTY: And what's the name of the place?
+
+THE VOICE: It is the most opulent, most gorgeous land on earth--a land
+whose wisest are but little wiser than its dullest; a land where the
+rulers have minds like little children and the law-givers believe in
+Santa Claus; where ugly women control strong men----
+
+BEAUTY: (_In astonishment_) What?
+
+THE VOICE: (_Very much depressed_) Yes, it is truly a melancholy
+spectacle. Women with receding chins and shapeless noses go about in
+broad daylight saying "Do this!" and "Do that!" and all the men, even
+those of great wealth, obey implicitly their women to whom they refer
+sonorously either as "Mrs. So-and-so" or as "the wife."
+
+BEAUTY: But this can't be true! I can understand, of course, their
+obedience to women of charm--but to fat women? to bony women? to women
+with scrawny cheeks?
+
+THE VOICE: Even so.
+
+BEAUTY: What of me? What chance shall I have?
+
+THE VOICE: It will be "harder going," if I may borrow a phrase.
+
+BEAUTY: (_After a dissatisfied pause_) Why not the old lands, the land
+of grapes and soft-tongued men or the land of ships and seas?
+
+THE VOICE: It's expected that they'll be very busy shortly.
+
+BEAUTY: Oh!
+
+THE VOICE: Your life on earth will be, as always, the interval between
+two significant glances in a mundane mirror.
+
+BEAUTY: What will I be? Tell me?
+
+THE VOICE: At first it was thought that you would go this time as an
+actress in the motion pictures but, after all, it's not advisable. You
+will be disguised during your fifteen years as what is called a
+"susciety gurl."
+
+BEAUTY: What's that?
+
+(_There is a new sound in the wind which must for our purposes be
+interpreted as_ THE VOICE _scratching its head._)
+
+THE VOICE: (_At length_) It's a sort of bogus aristocrat.
+
+BEAUTY: Bogus? What is bogus?
+
+THE VOICE: That, too, you will discover in this land. You will find much
+that is bogus. Also, you will do much that is bogus.
+
+BEAUTY: (_Placidly_) It all sounds so vulgar.
+
+THE VOICE: Not half as vulgar as it is. You will be known during your
+fifteen years as a ragtime kid, a flapper, a jazz-baby, and a baby vamp.
+You will dance new dances neither more nor less gracefully than you
+danced the old ones.
+
+BEAUTY: (_In a whisper_) Will I be paid?
+
+THE VOICE: Yes, as usual--in love.
+
+BEAUTY: (_With a faint laugh which disturbs only momentarily the
+immobility of her lips_) And will I like being called a jazz-baby?
+
+THE VOICE: (_Soberly_) You will love it....
+
+(_The dialogue ends here, with_ BEAUTY _still sitting quietly, the stars
+pausing in an ecstasy of appreciation, the wind, white and gusty,
+blowing through her hair._
+
+_All this took place seven years before_ ANTHONY _sat by the front
+windows of his apartment and listened to the chimes of St. Anne's_.)
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+PORTRAIT OF A SIREN
+
+Crispness folded down upon New York a month later, bringing November and
+the three big football games and a great fluttering of furs along Fifth
+Avenue. It brought, also, a sense of tension to the city, and suppressed
+excitement. Every morning now there were invitations in Anthony's mail.
+Three dozen virtuous females of the first layer were proclaiming their
+fitness, if not their specific willingness, to bear children unto three
+dozen millionaires. Five dozen virtuous females of the second layer were
+proclaiming not only this fitness, but in addition a tremendous
+undaunted ambition toward the first three dozen young men, who were of
+course invited to each of the ninety-six parties--as were the young
+lady's group of family friends, acquaintances, college boys, and eager
+young outsiders. To continue, there was a third layer from the skirts of
+the city, from Newark and the Jersey suburbs up to bitter Connecticut
+and the ineligible sections of Long Island--and doubtless contiguous
+layers down to the city's shoes: Jewesses were coming out into a society
+of Jewish men and women, from Riverside to the Bronx, and looking
+forward to a rising young broker or jeweller and a kosher wedding; Irish
+girls were casting their eyes, with license at last to do so, upon a
+society of young Tammany politicians, pious undertakers, and grown-up
+choirboys.
+
+And, naturally, the city caught the contagious air of entr�--the working
+girls, poor ugly souls, wrapping soap in the factories and showing
+finery in the big stores, dreamed that perhaps in the spectacular
+excitement of this winter they might obtain for themselves the coveted
+male--as in a muddled carnival crowd an inefficient pickpocket may
+consider his chances increased. And the chimneys commenced to smoke and
+the subway's foulness was freshened. And the actresses came out in new
+plays and the publishers came out with new books and the Castles came
+out with new dances. And the railroads came out with new schedules
+containing new mistakes instead of the old ones that the commuters had
+grown used to....
+
+The City was coming out!
+
+Anthony, walking along Forty-second Street one afternoon under a
+steel-gray sky, ran unexpectedly into Richard Caramel emerging from the
+Manhattan Hotel barber shop. It was a cold day, the first definitely
+cold day, and Caramel had on one of those knee-length, sheep-lined coats
+long worn by the working men of the Middle West, that were just coming
+into fashionable approval. His soft hat was of a discreet dark brown,
+and from under it his clear eye flamed like a topaz. He stopped Anthony
+enthusiastically, slapping him on the arms more from a desire to keep
+himself warm than from playfulness, and, after his inevitable hand
+shake, exploded into sound.
+
+"Cold as the devil--Good Lord, I've been working like the deuce all day
+till my room got so cold I thought I'd get pneumonia. Darn landlady
+economizing on coal came up when I yelled over the stairs for her for
+half an hour. Began explaining why and all. God! First she drove me
+crazy, then I began to think she was sort of a character, and took notes
+while she talked--so she couldn't see me, you know, just as though I
+were writing casually--"
+
+He had seized Anthony's arm and walking him briskly up Madison Avenue.
+
+"Where to?"
+
+"Nowhere in particular."
+
+"Well, then what's the use?" demanded Anthony.
+
+They stopped and stared at each other, and Anthony wondered if the cold
+made his own face as repellent as Dick Caramel's, whose nose was
+crimson, whose bulging brow was blue, whose yellow unmatched eyes were
+red and watery at the rims. After a moment they began walking again.
+
+"Done some good work on my novel." Dick was looking and talking
+emphatically at the sidewalk. "But I have to get out once in a while."
+He glanced at Anthony apologetically, as though craving encouragement.
+
+"I have to talk. I guess very few people ever really _think_, I mean sit
+down and ponder and have ideas in sequence. I do my thinking in writing
+or conversation. You've got to have a start, sort of--something to
+defend or contradict--don't you think?"
+
+Anthony grunted and withdrew his arm gently.
+
+"I don't mind carrying you, Dick, but with that coat--"
+
+"I mean," continued Richard Caramel gravely, "that on paper your first
+paragraph contains the idea you're going to damn or enlarge on. In
+conversation you've got your vis-�-vis's last statement--but when you
+simply _ponder_, why, your ideas just succeed each other like
+magic-lantern pictures and each one forces out the last."
+
+They passed Forty-fifth Street and slowed down slightly. Both of them
+lit cigarettes and blew tremendous clouds of smoke and frosted breath
+into the air.
+
+"Let's walk up to the Plaza and have an egg-nog," suggested Anthony. "Do
+you good. Air'll get the rotten nicotine out of your lungs. Come
+on--I'll let you talk about your book all the way."
+
+"I don't want to if it bores you. I mean you needn't do it as a favor."
+The words tumbled out in haste, and though he tried to keep his face
+casual it screwed up uncertainly. Anthony was compelled to protest:
+"Bore me? I should say not!"
+
+"Got a cousin--" began Dick, but Anthony interrupted by stretching out
+his arms and breathing forth a low cry of exultation.
+
+"Good weather!" he exclaimed, "isn't it? Makes me feel about ten. I mean
+it makes me feel as I should have felt when I was ten. Murderous! Oh,
+God! one minute it's my world, and the next I'm the world's fool. To-day
+it's my world and everything's easy, easy. Even Nothing is easy!"
+
+"Got a cousin up at the Plaza. Famous girl. We can go up and meet her.
+She lives there in the winter--has lately anyway--with her mother
+and father."
+
+"Didn't know you had cousins in New York."
+
+"Her name's Gloria. She's from home--Kansas City. Her mother's a
+practising Bilphist, and her father's quite dull but a perfect
+gentleman."
+
+"What are they? Literary material?"
+
+"They try to be. All the old man does is tell me he just met the most
+wonderful character for a novel. Then he tells me about some idiotic
+friend of his and then he says: '_There_'s a character for you! Why
+don't you write him up? Everybody'd be interested in _him_.' Or else he
+tells me about Japan or Paris, or some other very obvious place, and
+says: 'Why don't you write a story about that place? That'd be a
+wonderful setting for a story!'"
+
+"How about the girl?" inquired Anthony casually, "Gloria--Gloria what?"
+
+"Gilbert. Oh, you've heard of her--Gloria Gilbert. Goes to dances at
+colleges--all that sort of thing."
+
+"I've heard her name."
+
+"Good-looking--in fact damned attractive."
+
+They reached Fiftieth Street and turned over toward the Avenue.
+
+"I don't care for young girls as a rule," said Anthony, frowning.
+
+This was not strictly true. While it seemed to him that the average
+debutante spent every hour of her day thinking and talking about what
+the great world had mapped out for her to do during the next hour, any
+girl who made a living directly on her prettiness interested him
+enormously.
+
+"Gloria's darn nice--not a brain in her head."
+
+Anthony laughed in a one-syllabled snort.
+
+"By that you mean that she hasn't a line of literary patter."
+
+"No, I don't."
+
+"Dick, you know what passes as brains in a girl for you. Earnest young
+women who sit with you in a corner and talk earnestly about life. The
+kind who when they were sixteen argued with grave faces as to whether
+kissing was right or wrong--and whether it was immoral for freshmen to
+drink beer."
+
+Richard Caramel was offended. His scowl crinkled like crushed paper.
+
+"No--" he began, but Anthony interrupted ruthlessly.
+
+"Oh, yes; kind who just at present sit in corners and confer on the
+latest Scandinavian Dante available in English translation."
+
+Dick turned to him, a curious falling in his whole countenance. His
+question was almost an appeal.
+
+"What's the matter with you and Maury? You talk sometimes as though I
+were a sort of inferior."
+
+Anthony was confused, but he was also cold and a little uncomfortable,
+so he took refuge in attack.
+
+"I don't think your brains matter, Dick."
+
+"Of course they matter!" exclaimed Dick angrily. "What do you mean? Why
+don't they matter?"
+
+"You might know too much for your pen."
+
+"I couldn't possibly."
+
+"I can imagine," insisted Anthony, "a man knowing too much for his
+talent to express. Like me. Suppose, for instance, I have more wisdom
+than you, and less talent. It would tend to make me inarticulate. You,
+on the contrary, have enough water to fill the pail and a big enough
+pail to hold the water."
+
+"I don't follow you at all," complained Dick in a crestfallen tone.
+Infinitely dismayed, he seemed to bulge in protest. He was staring
+intently at Anthony and caroming off a succession of passers-by, who
+reproached him with fierce, resentful glances.
+
+"I simply mean that a talent like Wells's could carry the intelligence
+of a Spencer. But an inferior talent can only be graceful when it's
+carrying inferior ideas. And the more narrowly you can look at a thing
+the more entertaining you can be about it."
+
+Dick considered, unable to decide the exact degree of criticism intended
+by Anthony's remarks. But Anthony, with that facility which seemed so
+frequently to flow from him, continued, his dark eyes gleaming in his
+thin face, his chin raised, his voice raised, his whole physical
+being raised:
+
+"Say I am proud and sane and wise--an Athenian among Greeks. Well, I
+might fail where a lesser man would succeed. He could imitate, he could
+adorn, he could be enthusiastic, he could be hopefully constructive. But
+this hypothetical me would be too proud to imitate, too sane to be
+enthusiastic, too sophisticated to be Utopian, too Grecian to adorn."
+
+"Then you don't think the artist works from his intelligence?"
+
+"No. He goes on improving, if he can, what he imitates in the way of
+style, and choosing from his own interpretation of the things around him
+what constitutes material. But after all every writer writes because
+it's his mode of living. Don't tell me you like this 'Divine Function of
+the Artist' business?"
+
+"I'm not accustomed even to refer to myself as an artist."
+
+"Dick," said Anthony, changing his tone, "I want to beg your pardon."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"For that outburst. I'm honestly sorry. I was talking for effect."
+
+Somewhat mollified, Dick rejoined:
+
+"I've often said you were a Philistine at heart."
+
+It was a crackling dusk when they turned in under the white fa�ade of
+the Plaza and tasted slowly the foam and yellow thickness of an egg-nog.
+Anthony looked at his companion. Richard Caramel's nose and brow were
+slowly approaching a like pigmentation; the red was leaving the one, the
+blue deserting the other. Glancing in a mirror, Anthony was glad to find
+that his own skin had not discolored. On the contrary, a faint glow had
+kindled in his cheeks--he fancied that he had never looked so well.
+
+"Enough for me," said Dick, his tone that of an athlete in training. "I
+want to go up and see the Gilberts. Won't you come?"
+
+"Why--yes. If you don't dedicate me to the parents and dash off in the
+corner with Dora."
+
+"Not Dora--Gloria."
+
+A clerk announced them over the phone, and ascending to the tenth floor
+they followed a winding corridor and knocked at 1088. The door was
+answered by a middle-aged lady--Mrs. Gilbert herself.
+
+"How do you do?" She spoke in the conventional American lady-lady
+language. "Well, I'm _aw_fully glad to see you--"
+
+Hasty interjections by Dick, and then:
+
+"Mr. Pats? Well, do come in, and leave your coat there." She pointed to
+a chair and changed her inflection to a deprecatory laugh full of minute
+gasps. "This is really lovely--lovely. Why, Richard, you haven't been
+here for _so_ long--no!--no!" The latter monosyllables served half as
+responses, half as periods, to some vague starts from Dick. "Well, do
+sit down and tell me what you've been doing."
+
+One crossed and recrossed; one stood and bowed ever so gently; one
+smiled again and again with helpless stupidity; one wondered if she
+would ever sit down at length one slid thankfully into a chair and
+settled for a pleasant call.
+
+"I suppose it's because you've been busy--as much as anything else,"
+smiled Mrs. Gilbert somewhat ambiguously. The "as much as anything else"
+she used to balance all her more rickety sentences. She had two other
+ones: "at least that's the way I look at it" and "pure and
+simple"--these three, alternated, gave each of her remarks an air of
+being a general reflection on life, as though she had calculated all
+causes and, at length, put her finger on the ultimate one.
+
+Richard Caramel's face, Anthony saw, was now quite normal. The brow and
+cheeks were of a flesh color, the nose politely inconspicuous. He had
+fixed his aunt with the bright-yellow eye, giving her that acute and
+exaggerated attention that young males are accustomed to render to all
+females who are of no further value.
+
+"Are you a writer too, Mr. Pats? ... Well, perhaps we can all bask in
+Richard's fame."--Gentle laughter led by Mrs. Gilbert.
+
+"Gloria's out," she said, with an air of laying down an axiom from which
+she would proceed to derive results. "She's dancing somewhere. Gloria
+goes, goes, goes. I tell her I don't see how she stands it. She dances
+all afternoon and all night, until I think she's going to wear herself
+to a shadow. Her father is very worried about her."
+
+She smiled from one to the other. They both smiled.
+
+She was composed, Anthony perceived, of a succession of semicircles and
+parabolas, like those figures that gifted folk make on the typewriter:
+head, arms, bust, hips, thighs, and ankles were in a bewildering tier of
+roundnesses. Well ordered and clean she was, with hair of an
+artificially rich gray; her large face sheltered weather-beaten blue
+eyes and was adorned with just the faintest white mustache.
+
+"I always say," she remarked to Anthony, "that Richard is an ancient
+soul."
+
+In the tense pause that followed, Anthony considered a pun--something
+about Dick having been much walked upon.
+
+"We all have souls of different ages," continued Mrs. Gilbert radiantly;
+"at least that's what I say."
+
+"Perhaps so," agreed Anthony with an air of quickening to a hopeful
+idea. The voice bubbled on:
+
+"Gloria has a very young soul--irresponsible, as much as anything else.
+She has no sense of responsibility."
+
+"She's sparkling, Aunt Catherine," said Richard pleasantly. "A sense of
+responsibility would spoil her. She's too pretty."
+
+"Well," confessed Mrs. Gilbert, "all I know is that she goes and goes
+and goes--"
+
+The number of goings to Gloria's discredit was lost in the rattle of the
+door-knob as it turned to admit Mr. Gilbert.
+
+He was a short man with a mustache resting like a small white cloud
+beneath his undistinguished nose. He had reached the stage where his
+value as a social creature was a black and imponderable negative. His
+ideas were the popular delusions of twenty years before; his mind
+steered a wabbly and anaemic course in the wake of the daily newspaper
+editorials. After graduating from a small but terrifying Western
+university, he had entered the celluloid business, and as this required
+only the minute measure of intelligence he brought to it, he did well
+for several years--in fact until about 1911, when he began exchanging
+contracts for vague agreements with the moving picture industry. The
+moving picture industry had decided about 1912 to gobble him up, and at
+this time he was, so to speak, delicately balanced on its tongue.
+Meanwhile he was supervising manager of the Associated Mid-western Film
+Materials Company, spending six months of each year in New York and the
+remainder in Kansas City and St. Louis. He felt credulously that there
+was a good thing coming to him--and his wife thought so, and his
+daughter thought so too.
+
+He disapproved of Gloria: she stayed out late, she never ate her meals,
+she was always in a mix-up--he had irritated her once and she had used
+toward him words that he had not thought were part of her vocabulary.
+His wife was easier. After fifteen years of incessant guerilla warfare
+he had conquered her--it was a war of muddled optimism against organized
+dulness, and something in the number of "yes's" with which he could
+poison a conversation had won him the victory.
+
+"Yes-yes-yes-yes," he would say, "yes-yes-yes-yes. Let me see. That was
+the summer of--let me see--ninety-one or ninety-two--Yes-yes-yes-yes----"
+
+Fifteen years of yes's had beaten Mrs. Gilbert. Fifteen further years of
+that incessant unaffirmative affirmative, accompanied by the perpetual
+flicking of ash-mushrooms from thirty-two thousand cigars, had broken
+her. To this husband of hers she made the last concession of married
+life, which is more complete, more irrevocable, than the first--she
+listened to him. She told herself that the years had brought her
+tolerance--actually they had slain what measure she had ever possessed
+of moral courage.
+
+She introduced him to Anthony.
+
+"This is Mr. Pats," she said.
+
+The young man and the old touched flesh; Mr. Gilbert's hand was soft,
+worn away to the pulpy semblance of a squeezed grapefruit. Then husband
+and wife exchanged greetings--he told her it had grown colder out; he
+said he had walked down to a news-stand on Forty-fourth Street for a
+Kansas City paper. He had intended to ride back in the bus but he had
+found it too cold, yes, yes, yes, yes, too cold.
+
+Mrs. Gilbert added flavor to his adventure by being impressed with his
+courage in braving the harsh air.
+
+"Well, you _are_ spunky!" she exclaimed admiringly. "You _are_ spunky. I
+wouldn't have gone out for anything."
+
+Mr. Gilbert with true masculine impassivity disregarded the awe he had
+excited in his wife. He turned to the two young men and triumphantly
+routed them on the subject of the weather. Richard Caramel was called on
+to remember the month of November in Kansas. No sooner had the theme
+been pushed toward him, however, than it was violently fished back to be
+lingered over, pawed over, elongated, and generally devitalized by
+its sponsor.
+
+The immemorial thesis that the days somewhere were warm but the nights
+very pleasant was successfully propounded and they decided the exact
+distance on an obscure railroad between two points that Dick had
+inadvertently mentioned. Anthony fixed Mr. Gilbert with a steady stare
+and went into a trance through which, after a moment, Mrs. Gilbert's
+smiling voice penetrated:
+
+"It seems as though the cold were damper here--it seems to eat into my
+bones."
+
+As this remark, adequately yessed, had been on the tip of Mr. Gilbert's
+tongue, he could not be blamed for rather abruptly changing the subject.
+
+"Where's Gloria?"
+
+"She ought to be here any minute."
+
+"Have you met my daughter, Mr.----?"
+
+"Haven't had the pleasure. I've heard Dick speak of her often."
+
+"She and Richard are cousins."
+
+"Yes?" Anthony smiled with some effort. He was not used to the society
+of his seniors, and his mouth was stiff from superfluous cheerfulness.
+It was such a pleasant thought about Gloria and Dick being cousins. He
+managed within the next minute to throw an agonized glance at
+his friend.
+
+Richard Caramel was afraid they'd have to toddle off.
+
+Mrs. Gilbert was tremendously sorry.
+
+Mr. Gilbert thought it was too bad.
+
+Mrs. Gilbert had a further idea--something about being glad they'd come,
+anyhow, even if they'd only seen an old lady 'way too old to flirt with
+them. Anthony and Dick evidently considered this a sly sally, for they
+laughed one bar in three-four time.
+
+Would they come again soon?
+
+"Oh, yes."
+
+Gloria would be _aw_fully sorry!
+
+"Good-by----"
+
+"Good-by----"
+
+Smiles!
+
+Smiles!
+
+Bang!
+
+Two disconsolate young men walking down the tenth-floor corridor of the
+Plaza in the direction of the elevator.
+
+
+A LADY'S LEGS
+
+Behind Maury Noble's attractive indolence, his irrelevance and his easy
+mockery, lay a surprising and relentless maturity of purpose. His
+intention, as he stated it in college, had been to use three years in
+travel, three years in utter leisure--and then to become immensely rich
+as quickly as possible.
+
+His three years of travel were over. He had accomplished the globe with
+an intensity and curiosity that in any one else would have seemed
+pedantic, without redeeming spontaneity, almost the self-editing of a
+human Baedeker; but, in this case, it assumed an air of mysterious
+purpose and significant design--as though Maury Noble were some
+predestined anti-Christ, urged by a preordination to go everywhere there
+was to go along the earth and to see all the billions of humans who bred
+and wept and slew each other here and there upon it.
+
+Back in America, he was sallying into the search for amusement with the
+same consistent absorption. He who had never taken more than a few
+cocktails or a pint of wine at a sitting, taught himself to drink as he
+would have taught himself Greek--like Greek it would be the gateway to a
+wealth of new sensations, new psychic states, new reactions in joy
+or misery.
+
+His habits were a matter for esoteric speculation. He had three rooms in
+a bachelor apartment on Forty-forth street, but he was seldom to be
+found there. The telephone girl had received the most positive
+instructions that no one should even have his ear without first giving a
+name to be passed upon. She had a list of half a dozen people to whom he
+was never at home, and of the same number to whom he was always at home.
+Foremost on the latter list were Anthony Patch and Richard Caramel.
+
+Maury's mother lived with her married son in Philadelphia, and there
+Maury went usually for the week-ends, so one Saturday night when
+Anthony, prowling the chilly streets in a fit of utter boredom, dropped
+in at the Molton Arms he was overjoyed to find that Mr. Noble was
+at home.
+
+His spirits soared faster than the flying elevator. This was so good, so
+extremely good, to be about to talk to Maury--who would be equally happy
+at seeing him. They would look at each other with a deep affection just
+behind their eyes which both would conceal beneath some attenuated
+raillery. Had it been summer they would have gone out together and
+indolently sipped two long Tom Collinses, as they wilted their collars
+and watched the faintly diverting round of some lazy August cabaret. But
+it was cold outside, with wind around the edges of the tall buildings
+and December just up the street, so better far an evening together under
+the soft lamplight and a drink or two of Bushmill's, or a thimbleful of
+Maury's Grand Marnier, with the books gleaming like ornaments against
+the walls, and Maury radiating a divine inertia as he rested, large and
+catlike, in his favorite chair.
+
+There he was! The room closed about Anthony, warmed him. The glow of
+that strong persuasive mind, that temperament almost Oriental in its
+outward impassivity, warmed Anthony's restless soul and brought him a
+peace that could be likened only to the peace a stupid woman gives. One
+must understand all--else one must take all for granted. Maury filled
+the room, tigerlike, godlike. The winds outside were stilled; the brass
+candlesticks on the mantel glowed like tapers before an altar.
+
+"What keeps you here to-day?" Anthony spread himself over a yielding
+sofa and made an elbow-rest among the pillows.
+
+"Just been here an hour. Tea dance--and I stayed so late I missed my
+train to Philadelphia."
+
+"Strange to stay so long," commented Anthony curiously.
+
+"Rather. What'd you do?"
+
+"Geraldine. Little usher at Keith's. I told you about her."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Paid me a call about three and stayed till five. Peculiar little
+soul--she gets me. She's so utterly stupid."
+
+Maury was silent.
+
+"Strange as it may seem," continued Anthony, "so far as I'm concerned,
+and even so far as I know, Geraldine is a paragon of virtue."
+
+He had known her a month, a girl of nondescript and nomadic habits.
+Someone had casually passed her on to Anthony, who considered her
+amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given
+him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a
+taxi through the Park. She had a vague family--a shadowy aunt and uncle
+who shared with her an apartment in the labyrinthine hundreds. She was
+company, familiar and faintly intimate and restful. Further than that he
+did not care to experiment--not from any moral compunction, but from a
+dread of allowing any entanglement to disturb what he felt was the
+growing serenity of his life.
+
+"She has two stunts," he informed Maury; "one of them is to get her hair
+over her eyes some way and then blow it out, and the other is to say
+'You cra-a-azy!' when some one makes a remark that's over her head. It
+fascinates me. I sit there hour after hour, completely intrigued by the
+maniacal symptoms she finds in my imagination."
+
+Maury stirred in his chair and spoke.
+
+"Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such
+a complex civilization. A woman like that actually takes the whole
+universe in the most matter-of-fact way. From the influence of Rousseau
+to the bearing of the tariff rates on her dinner, the whole phenomenon
+is utterly strange to her. She's just been carried along from an age of
+spearheads and plunked down here with the equipment of an archer for
+going into a pistol duel. You could sweep away the entire crust of
+history and she'd never know the difference."
+
+"I wish our Richard would write about her."
+
+"Anthony, surely you don't think she's worth writing about."
+
+"As much as anybody," he answered, yawning. "You know I was thinking
+to-day that I have a great confidence in Dick. So long as he sticks to
+people and not to ideas, and as long as his inspirations come from life
+and not from art, and always granting a normal growth, I believe he'll
+be a big man."
+
+"I should think the appearance of the black note-book would prove that
+he's going to life."
+
+Anthony raised himself on his elbow and answered eagerly:
+
+"He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst, but
+after all most of them live on predigested food. The incident or
+character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in
+terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a sea
+captain and thinks he's an original character. The truth is that he sees
+the resemblance between the sea captain and the last sea captain Dana
+created, or who-ever creates sea captains, and therefore he knows how
+to set this sea captain on paper. Dick, of course, can set down any
+consciously picturesque, character-like character, but could he
+accurately transcribe his own sister?"
+
+Then they were off for half an hour on literature.
+
+"A classic," suggested Anthony, "is a successful book that has survived
+the reaction of the next period or generation. Then it's safe, like a
+style in architecture or furniture. It's acquired a picturesque dignity
+to take the place of its fashion...."
+
+After a time the subject temporarily lost its tang. The interest of the
+two young men was not particularly technical. They were in love with
+generalities. Anthony had recently discovered Samuel Butler and the
+brisk aphorisms in the note-book seemed to him the quintessence of
+criticism. Maury, his whole mind so thoroughly mellowed by the very
+hardness of his scheme of life, seemed inevitably the wiser of the two,
+yet in the actual stuff of their intelligences they were not, it seemed,
+fundamentally different.
+
+They drifted from letters to the curiosities of each other's day.
+
+"Whose tea was it?"
+
+"People named Abercrombie."
+
+"Why'd you stay late? Meet a luscious d�butante?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Did you really?" Anthony's voice lifted in surprise.
+
+"Not a d�butante exactly. Said she came out two winters ago in Kansas
+City."
+
+"Sort of left-over?"
+
+"No," answered Maury with some amusement, "I think that's the last thing
+I'd say about her. She seemed--well, somehow the youngest person there."
+
+"Not too young to make you miss a train."
+
+"Young enough. Beautiful child."
+
+Anthony chuckled in his one-syllable snort.
+
+"Oh, Maury, you're in your second childhood. What do you mean by
+beautiful?"
+
+Maury gazed helplessly into space.
+
+"Well, I can't describe her exactly--except to say that she was
+beautiful. She was--tremendously alive. She was eating gum-drops."
+
+"What!"
+
+"It was a sort of attenuated vice. She's a nervous kind--said she always
+ate gum-drops at teas because she had to stand around so long in
+one place."
+
+"What'd you talk about--Bergson? Bilphism? Whether the one-step is
+immoral?"
+
+Maury was unruffled; his fur seemed to run all ways.
+
+"As a matter of fact we did talk on Bilphism. Seems her mother's a
+Bilphist. Mostly, though, we talked about legs."
+
+Anthony rocked in glee.
+
+"My God! Whose legs?"
+
+"Hers. She talked a lot about hers. As though they were a sort of choice
+bric-�-brac. She aroused a great desire to see them."
+
+"What is she--a dancer?"
+
+"No, I found she was a cousin of Dick's."
+
+Anthony sat upright so suddenly that the pillow he released stood on end
+like a live thing and dove to the floor.
+
+"Name's Gloria Gilbert?" he cried.
+
+"Yes. Isn't she remarkable?"
+
+"I'm sure I don't know--but for sheer dulness her father--"
+
+"Well," interrupted Maury with implacable conviction, "her family may be
+as sad as professional mourners but I'm inclined to think that she's a
+quite authentic and original character. The outer signs of the
+cut-and-dried Yale prom girl and all that--but different, very
+emphatically different."
+
+"Go on, go on!" urged Anthony. "Soon as Dick told me she didn't have a
+brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good."
+
+"Did he say that?"
+
+"Swore to it," said Anthony with another snorting laugh.
+
+"Well, what he means by brains in a woman is--"
+
+"I know," interrupted Anthony eagerly, "he means a smattering of
+literary misinformation."
+
+"That's it. The kind who believes that the annual moral let-down of the
+country is a very good thing or the kind who believes it's a very
+ominous thing. Either pince-nez or postures. Well, this girl talked
+about legs. She talked about skin too--her own skin. Always her own. She
+told me the sort of tan she'd like to get in the summer and how closely
+she usually approximated it."
+
+"You sat enraptured by her low alto?"
+
+"By her low alto! No, by tan! I began thinking about tan. I began to
+think what color I turned when I made my last exposure about two years
+ago. I did use to get a pretty good tan. I used to get a sort of bronze,
+if I remember rightly."
+
+Anthony retired into the cushions, shaken with laughter.
+
+"She's got you going--oh, Maury! Maury the Connecticut life-saver. The
+human nutmeg. Extra! Heiress elopes with coast-guard because of his
+luscious pigmentation! Afterward found to be Tasmanian strain in
+his family!"
+
+Maury sighed; rising he walked to the window and raised the shade.
+
+"Snowing hard."
+
+Anthony, still laughing quietly to himself, made no answer.
+
+"Another winter." Maury's voice from the window was almost a whisper.
+"We're growing old, Anthony. I'm twenty-seven, by God! Three years to
+thirty, and then I'm what an undergraduate calls a middle-aged man."
+
+Anthony was silent for a moment.
+
+"You _are_ old, Maury," he agreed at length. "The first signs of a very
+dissolute and wabbly senescence--you have spent the afternoon talking
+about tan and a lady's legs."
+
+Maury pulled down the shade with a sudden harsh snap.
+
+"Idiot!" he cried, "that from you! Here I sit, young Anthony, as I'll
+sit for a generation or more and watch such gay souls as you and Dick
+and Gloria Gilbert go past me, dancing and singing and loving and hating
+one another and being moved, being eternally moved. And I am moved only
+by my lack of emotion. I shall sit and the snow will come--oh, for a
+Caramel to take notes--and another winter and I shall be thirty and you
+and Dick and Gloria will go on being eternally moved and dancing by me
+and singing. But after you've all gone I'll be saying things for new
+Dicks to write down, and listening to the disillusions and cynicisms and
+emotions of new Anthonys--yes, and talking to new Glorias about the tans
+of summers yet to come."
+
+The firelight flurried up on the hearth. Maury left the window, stirred
+the blaze with a poker, and dropped a log upon the andirons. Then he sat
+back in his chair and the remnants of his voice faded in the new fire
+that spit red and yellow along the bark.
+
+"After all, Anthony, it's you who are very romantic and young. It's you
+who are infinitely more susceptible and afraid of your calm being
+broken. It's me who tries again and again to be moved--let myself go a
+thousand times and I'm always me. Nothing--quite--stirs me.
+
+"Yet," he murmured after another long pause, "there was something about
+that little girl with her absurd tan that was eternally old--like me."
+
+
+TURBULENCE
+
+Anthony turned over sleepily in his bed, greeting a patch of cold sun on
+his counterpane, crisscrossed with the shadows of the leaded window. The
+room was full of morning. The carved chest in the corner, the ancient
+and inscrutable wardrobe, stood about the room like dark symbols of the
+obliviousness of matter; only the rug was beckoning and perishable to
+his perishable feet, and Bounds, horribly inappropriate in his soft
+collar, was of stuff as fading as the gauze of frozen breath he uttered.
+He was close to the bed, his hand still lowered where he had been
+jerking at the upper blanket, his dark-brown eyes fixed imperturbably
+upon his master.
+
+"Bows!" muttered the drowsy god. "Thachew, Bows?"
+
+"It's I, sir."
+
+Anthony moved his head, forced his eyes wide, and blinked triumphantly.
+
+"Bounds."
+
+"Yes, sir?"
+
+"Can you get off--yeow-ow-oh-oh-oh God!--" Anthony yawned insufferably
+and the contents of his brain seemed to fall together in a dense hash.
+He made a fresh start.
+
+"Can you come around about four and serve some tea and sandwiches or
+something?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+Anthony considered with chilling lack of inspiration. "Some sandwiches,"
+he repeated helplessly, "oh, some cheese sandwiches and jelly ones and
+chicken and olive, I guess. Never mind breakfast."
+
+The strain of invention was too much. He shut his eyes wearily, let his
+head roll to rest inertly, and quickly relaxed what he had regained of
+muscular control. Out of a crevice of his mind crept the vague but
+inevitable spectre of the night before--but it proved in this case to be
+nothing but a seemingly interminable conversation with Richard Caramel,
+who had called on him at midnight; they had drunk four bottles of beer
+and munched dry crusts of bread while Anthony listened to a reading of
+the first part of "The Demon Lover."
+
+--Came a voice now after many hours. Anthony disregarded it, as sleep
+closed over him, folded down upon him, crept up into the byways of
+his mind.
+
+Suddenly he was awake, saying: "What?"
+
+"For how many, sir?" It was still Bounds, standing patient and
+motionless at the foot of the bed--Bounds who divided his manner among
+three gentlemen.
+
+"How many what?"
+
+"I think, sir, I'd better know how many are coming. I'll have to plan
+for the sandwiches, sir."
+
+"Two," muttered Anthony huskily; "lady and a gentleman."
+
+Bounds said, "Thank you, sir," and moved away, bearing with him his
+humiliating reproachful soft collar, reproachful to each of the three
+gentlemen, who only demanded of him a third.
+
+After a long time Anthony arose and drew an opalescent dressing grown of
+brown and blue over his slim pleasant figure. With a last yawn he went
+into the bathroom, and turning on the dresser light (the bathroom had no
+outside exposure) he contemplated himself in the mirror with some
+interest. A wretched apparition, he thought; he usually thought so in
+the morning--sleep made his face unnaturally pale. He lit a cigarette
+and glanced through several letters and the morning Tribune.
+
+An hour later, shaven and dressed, he was sitting at his desk looking at
+a small piece of paper he had taken out of his wallet. It was scrawled
+with semi-legible memoranda: "See Mr. Howland at five. Get hair-cut. See
+about Rivers' bill. Go book-store."
+
+--And under the last: "Cash in bank, $690 (crossed out), $612 (crossed
+out), $607."
+
+Finally, down at the bottom and in a hurried scrawl: "Dick and Gloria
+Gilbert for tea."
+
+This last item brought him obvious satisfaction. His day, usually a
+jelly-like creature, a shapeless, spineless thing, had attained Mesozoic
+structure. It was marching along surely, even jauntily, toward a climax,
+as a play should, as a day should. He dreaded the moment when the
+backbone of the day should be broken, when he should have met the girl
+at last, talked to her, and then bowed her laughter out the door,
+returning only to the melancholy dregs in the teacups and the gathering
+staleness of the uneaten sandwiches.
+
+There was a growing lack of color in Anthony's days. He felt it
+constantly and sometimes traced it to a talk he had had with Maury Noble
+a month before. That anything so ingenuous, so priggish, as a sense of
+waste should oppress him was absurd, but there was no denying the fact
+that some unwelcome survival of a fetish had drawn him three weeks
+before down to the public library, where, by the token of Richard
+Caramel's card, he had drawn out half a dozen books on the Italian
+Renaissance. That these books were still piled on his desk in the
+original order of carriage, that they were daily increasing his
+liabilities by twelve cents, was no mitigation of their testimony. They
+were cloth and morocco witnesses to the fact of his defection. Anthony
+had had several hours of acute and startling panic.
+
+In justification of his manner of living there was first, of course, The
+Meaninglessness of Life. As aides and ministers, pages and squires,
+butlers and lackeys to this great Khan there were a thousand books
+glowing on his shelves, there was his apartment and all the money that
+was to be his when the old man up the river should choke on his last
+morality. From a world fraught with the menace of d�butantes and the
+stupidity of many Geraldines he was thankfully delivered--rather should
+he emulate the feline immobility of Maury and wear proudly the
+culminative wisdom of the numbered generations.
+
+Over and against these things was something which his brain persistently
+analyzed and dealt with as a tiresome complex but which, though
+logically disposed of and bravely trampled under foot, had sent him out
+through the soft slush of late November to a library which had none of
+the books he most wanted. It is fair to analyze Anthony as far as he
+could analyze himself; further than that it is, of course, presumption.
+He found in himself a growing horror and loneliness. The idea of eating
+alone frightened him; in preference he dined often with men he detested.
+Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed at length, unendurable, a
+business of color without substance, a phantom chase after his own
+dream's shadow.
+
+--If I am essentially weak, he thought, I need work to do, work to do.
+It worried him to think that he was, after all, a facile mediocrity,
+with neither the poise of Maury nor the enthusiasm of Dick. It seemed a
+tragedy to want nothing--and yet he wanted something, something. He knew
+in flashes what it was--some path of hope to lead him toward what he
+thought was an imminent and ominous old age.
+
+After cocktails and luncheon at the University Club Anthony felt better.
+He had run into two men from his class at Harvard, and in contrast to
+the gray heaviness of their conversation his life assumed color. Both of
+them were married: one spent his coffee time in sketching an
+extra-nuptial adventure to the bland and appreciative smiles of the
+other. Both of them, he thought, were Mr. Gilberts in embryo; the number
+of their "yes's" would have to be quadrupled, their natures crabbed by
+twenty years--then they would be no more than obsolete and broken
+machines, pseudo-wise and valueless, nursed to an utter senility by the
+women they had broken.
+
+Ah, he was more than that, as he paced the long carpet in the lounge
+after dinner, pausing at the window to look into the harried street. He
+was Anthony Patch, brilliant, magnetic, the heir of many years and many
+men. This was his world now--and that last strong irony he craved lay in
+the offing.
+
+With a stray boyishness he saw himself a power upon the earth; with his
+grandfather's money he might build his own pedestal and be a Talleyrand,
+a Lord Verulam. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its
+versatile intelligence, all at their maturity and dominated by some
+purpose yet to be born would find him work to do. On this minor his
+dream faded--work to do: he tried to imagine himself in Congress rooting
+around in the litter of that incredible pigsty with the narrow and
+porcine brows he saw pictured sometimes in the rotogravure sections of
+the Sunday newspapers, those glorified proletarians babbling blandly to
+the nation the ideas of high school seniors! Little men with copy-book
+ambitions who by mediocrity had thought to emerge from mediocrity into
+the lustreless and unromantic heaven of a government by the people--and
+the best, the dozen shrewd men at the top, egotistic and cynical, were
+content to lead this choir of white ties and wire collar-buttons in a
+discordant and amazing hymn, compounded of a vague confusion between
+wealth as a reward of virtue and wealth as a proof of vice, and
+continued cheers for God, the Constitution, and the Rocky Mountains!
+
+Lord Verulam! Talleyrand!
+
+Back in his apartment the grayness returned. His cocktails had died,
+making him sleepy, somewhat befogged and inclined to be surly. Lord
+Verulam--he? The very thought was bitter. Anthony Patch with no record
+of achievement, without courage, without strength to be satisfied with
+truth when it was given him. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making
+careers out of cocktails and meanwhile regretting, weakly and secretly,
+the collapse of an insufficient and wretched idealism. He had garnished
+his soul in the subtlest taste and now he longed for the old rubbish. He
+was empty, it seemed, empty as an old bottle--
+
+The buzzer rang at the door. Anthony sprang up and lifted the tube to
+his ear. It was Richard Caramel's voice, stilted and facetious:
+
+"Announcing Miss Gloria Gilbert."
+
+"How do you do?" he said, smiling and holding the door ajar.
+
+Dick bowed.
+
+"Gloria, this is Anthony."
+
+"Well!" she cried, holding out a little gloved hand. Under her fur coat
+her dress was Alice-blue, with white lace crinkled stiffly about
+her throat.
+
+"Let me take your things."
+
+Anthony stretched out his arms and the brown mass of fur tumbled into
+them.
+
+"Thanks."
+
+"What do you think of her, Anthony?" Richard Caramel demanded
+barbarously. "Isn't she beautiful?"
+
+"Well!" cried the girl defiantly--withal unmoved.
+
+She was dazzling--alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a
+glance. Her hair, full of a heavenly glamour, was gay against the winter
+color of the room.
+
+Anthony moved about, magician-like, turning the mushroom lamp into an
+orange glory. The stirred fire burnished the copper andirons on
+the hearth--
+
+"I'm a solid block of ice," murmured Gloria casually, glancing around
+with eyes whose irises were of the most delicate and transparent bluish
+white. "What a slick fire! We found a place where you could stand on an
+iron-bar grating, sort of, and it blew warm air up at you--but Dick
+wouldn't wait there with me. I told him to go on alone and let me
+be happy."
+
+Conventional enough this. She seemed talking for her own pleasure,
+without effort. Anthony, sitting at one end of the sofa, examined her
+profile against the foreground of the lamp: the exquisite regularity of
+nose and upper lip, the chin, faintly decided, balanced beautifully on a
+rather short neck. On a photograph she must have been completely
+classical, almost cold--but the glow of her hair and cheeks, at once
+flushed and fragile, made her the most living person he had ever seen.
+
+"... Think you've got the best name I've heard," she was saying, still
+apparently to herself; her glance rested on him a moment and then
+flitted past him--to the Italian bracket-lamps clinging like luminous
+yellow turtles at intervals along the walls, to the books row upon row,
+then to her cousin on the other side. "Anthony Patch. Only you ought to
+look sort of like a horse, with a long narrow face--and you ought to be
+in tatters."
+
+"That's all the Patch part, though. How should Anthony look?"
+
+"You look like Anthony," she assured him seriously--he thought she had
+scarcely seen him--"rather majestic," she continued, "and solemn."
+
+Anthony indulged in a disconcerted smile.
+
+"Only I like alliterative names," she went on, "all except mine. Mine's
+too flamboyant. I used to know two girls named Jinks, though, and just
+think if they'd been named anything except what they were named--Judy
+Jinks and Jerry Jinks. Cute, what? Don't you think?" Her childish mouth
+was parted, awaiting a rejoinder.
+
+"Everybody in the next generation," suggested Dick, "will be named Peter
+or Barbara--because at present all the piquant literary characters are
+named Peter or Barbara."
+
+Anthony continued the prophecy:
+
+"Of course Gladys and Eleanor, having graced the last generation of
+heroines and being at present in their social prime, will be passed on
+to the next generation of shop-girls--"
+
+"Displacing Ella and Stella," interrupted Dick.
+
+"And Pearl and Jewel," Gloria added cordially, "and Earl and Elmer and
+Minnie."
+
+"And then I'll come along," remarked Dick, "and picking up the obsolete
+name, Jewel, I'll attach it to some quaint and attractive character and
+it'll start its career all over again."
+
+Her voice took up the thread of subject and wove along with faintly
+upturning, half-humorous intonations for sentence ends--as though
+defying interruption--and intervals of shadowy laughter. Dick had told
+her that Anthony's man was named Bounds--she thought that was wonderful!
+Dick had made some sad pun about Bounds doing patchwork, but if there
+was one thing worse than a pun, she said, it was a person who, as the
+inevitable come-back to a pun, gave the perpetrator a mock-reproachful
+look.
+
+"Where are you from?" inquired Anthony. He knew, but beauty had rendered
+him thoughtless.
+
+"Kansas City, Missouri."
+
+"They put her out the same time they barred cigarettes."
+
+"Did they bar cigarettes? I see the hand of my holy grandfather."
+
+"He's a reformer or something, isn't he?"
+
+"I blush for him."
+
+"So do I," she confessed. "I detest reformers, especially the sort who
+try to reform me."
+
+"Are there many of those?"
+
+"Dozens. It's 'Oh, Gloria, if you smoke so many cigarettes you'll lose
+your pretty complexion!' and 'Oh, Gloria, why don't you marry and
+settle down?'"
+
+Anthony agreed emphatically while he wondered who had had the temerity
+to speak thus to such a personage.
+
+"And then," she continued, "there are all the subtle reformers who tell
+you the wild stories they've heard about you and how they've been
+sticking up for you."
+
+He saw, at length, that her eyes were gray, very level and cool, and
+when they rested on him he understood what Maury had meant by saying she
+was very young and very old. She talked always about herself as a very
+charming child might talk, and her comments on her tastes and distastes
+were unaffected and spontaneous.
+
+"I must confess," said Anthony gravely, "that even _I_'ve heard one
+thing about you."
+
+Alert at once, she sat up straight. Those eyes, with the grayness and
+eternity of a cliff of soft granite, caught his.
+
+"Tell me. I'll believe it. I always believe anything any one tells me
+about myself--don't you?"
+
+"Invariably!" agreed the two men in unison.
+
+"Well, tell me."
+
+"I'm not sure that I ought to," teased Anthony, smiling unwillingly. She
+was so obviously interested, in a state of almost laughable
+self-absorption.
+
+"He means your nickname," said her cousin.
+
+"What name?" inquired Anthony, politely puzzled.
+
+Instantly she was shy--then she laughed, rolled back against the
+cushions, and turned her eyes up as she spoke:
+
+"Coast-to-Coast Gloria." Her voice was full of laughter, laughter
+undefined as the varying shadows playing between fire and lamp upon her
+hair. "O Lord!"
+
+Still Anthony was puzzled.
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"_Me_, I mean. That's what some silly boys coined for _me_."
+
+"Don't you see, Anthony," explained Dick, "traveller of a nation-wide
+notoriety and all that. Isn't that what you've heard? She's been called
+that for years--since she was seventeen."
+
+Anthony's eyes became sad and humorous.
+
+"Who's this female Methuselah you've brought in here, Caramel?"
+
+She disregarded this, possibly rather resented it, for she switched back
+to the main topic.
+
+"What _have_ you heard of me?"
+
+"Something about your physique."
+
+"Oh," she said, coolly disappointed, "that all?"
+
+"Your tan."
+
+"My tan?" She was puzzled. Her hand rose to her throat, rested there an
+instant as though the fingers were feeling variants of color.
+
+"Do you remember Maury Noble? Man you met about a month ago. You made a
+great impression."
+
+She thought a moment.
+
+"I remember--but he didn't call me up."
+
+"He was afraid to, I don't doubt."
+
+It was black dark without now and Anthony wondered that his apartment
+had ever seemed gray--so warm and friendly were the books and pictures
+on the walls and the good Bounds offering tea from a respectful shadow
+and the three nice people giving out waves of interest and laughter back
+and forth across the happy fire.
+
+
+DISSATISFACTION
+
+On Thursday afternoon Gloria and Anthony had tea together in the grill
+room at the Plaza. Her fur-trimmed suit was gray--"because with gray you
+_have_ to wear a lot of paint," she explained--and a small toque sat
+rakishly on her head, allowing yellow ripples of hair to wave out in
+jaunty glory. In the higher light it seemed to Anthony that her
+personality was infinitely softer--she seemed so young, scarcely
+eighteen; her form under the tight sheath, known then as a hobble-skirt,
+was amazingly supple and slender, and her hands, neither "artistic" nor
+stubby, were small as a child's hands should be.
+
+As they entered, the orchestra were sounding the preliminary whimpers to
+a maxixe, a tune full of castanets and facile faintly languorous violin
+harmonies, appropriate to the crowded winter grill teeming with an
+excited college crowd, high-spirited at the approach of the holidays.
+Carefully, Gloria considered several locations, and rather to Anthony's
+annoyance paraded him circuitously to a table for two at the far side of
+the room. Reaching it she again considered. Would she sit on the right
+or on the left? Her beautiful eyes and lips were very grave as she made
+her choice, and Anthony thought again how na�ve was her every gesture;
+she took all the things of life for hers to choose from and apportion,
+as though she were continually picking out presents for herself from an
+inexhaustible counter.
+
+Abstractedly she watched the dancers for a few moments, commenting
+murmurously as a couple eddied near.
+
+"There's a pretty girl in blue"--and as Anthony looked obediently--"
+there! No. behind you--there!"
+
+"Yes," he agreed helplessly.
+
+"You didn't see her."
+
+"I'd rather look at you."
+
+"I know, but she was pretty. Except that she had big ankles."
+
+"Was she?--I mean, did she?" he said indifferently.
+
+A girl's salutation came from a couple dancing close to them.
+
+"Hello, Gloria! O Gloria!"
+
+"Hello there."
+
+"Who's that?" he demanded.
+
+"I don't know. Somebody." She caught sight of another face. "Hello,
+Muriel!" Then to Anthony: "There's Muriel Kane. Now I think she's
+attractive, 'cept not very."
+
+Anthony chuckled appreciatively.
+
+"Attractive, 'cept not very," he repeated.
+
+She smiled--was interested immediately.
+
+"Why is that funny?" Her tone was pathetically intent.
+
+"It just was."
+
+"Do you want to dance?"
+
+"Do you?"
+
+"Sort of. But let's sit," she decided.
+
+"And talk about you? You love to talk about you, don't you?"
+
+"Yes." Caught in a vanity, she laughed.
+
+"I imagine your autobiography would be a classic."
+
+"Dick says I haven't got one."
+
+"Dick!" he exclaimed. "What does he know about you?"
+
+"Nothing. But he says the biography of every woman begins with the first
+kiss that counts, and ends when her last child is laid in her arms."
+
+"He's talking from his book."
+
+"He says unloved women have no biographies--they have histories."
+
+Anthony laughed again.
+
+"Surely you don't claim to be unloved!"
+
+"Well, I suppose not."
+
+"Then why haven't you a biography? Haven't you ever had a kiss that
+counted?" As the words left his lips he drew in his breath sharply as
+though to suck them back. This _baby_!
+
+"I don't know what you mean 'counts,'" she objected.
+
+"I wish you'd tell me how old you are."
+
+"Twenty-two," she said, meeting his eyes gravely. "How old did you
+think?"
+
+"About eighteen."
+
+"I'm going to start being that. I don't like being twenty-two. I hate it
+more than anything in the world."
+
+"Being twenty-two?"
+
+"No. Getting old and everything. Getting married."
+
+"Don't you ever want to marry?"
+
+"I don't want to have responsibility and a lot of children to take care
+of."
+
+Evidently she did not doubt that on her lips all things were good. He
+waited rather breathlessly for her next remark, expecting it to follow
+up her last. She was smiling, without amusement but pleasantly, and
+after an interval half a dozen words fell into the space between them:
+
+"I wish I had some gum-drops."
+
+"You shall!" He beckoned to a waiter and sent him to the cigar counter.
+
+"D'you mind? I love gum-drops. Everybody kids me about it because I'm
+always whacking away at one--whenever my daddy's not around."
+
+"Not at all.--Who are all these children?" he asked suddenly. "Do you
+know them all?"
+
+"Why--no, but they're from--oh, from everywhere, I suppose. Don't you
+ever come here?"
+
+"Very seldom. I don't care particularly for 'nice girls.'"
+
+Immediately he had her attention. She turned a definite shoulder to the
+dancers, relaxed in her chair, and demanded:
+
+"What _do_ you do with yourself?"
+
+Thanks to a cocktail Anthony welcomed the question. In a mood to talk,
+he wanted, moreover, to impress this girl whose interest seemed so
+tantalizingly elusive--she stopped to browse in unexpected pastures,
+hurried quickly over the inobviously obvious. He wanted to pose. He
+wanted to appear suddenly to her in novel and heroic colors. He wanted
+to stir her from that casualness she showed toward everything
+except herself.
+
+"I do nothing," he began, realizing simultaneously that his words were
+to lack the debonair grace he craved for them. "I do nothing, for
+there's nothing I can do that's worth doing."
+
+"Well?" He had neither surprised her nor even held her, yet she had
+certainly understood him, if indeed he had said aught worth
+understanding.
+
+"Don't you approve of lazy men?"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"I suppose so, if they're gracefully lazy. Is that possible for an
+American?"
+
+"Why not?" he demanded, discomfited.
+
+But her mind had left the subject and wandered up ten floors.
+
+"My daddy's mad at me," she observed dispassionately.
+
+"Why? But I want to know just why it's impossible for an American to be
+gracefully idle"--his words gathered conviction--"it astonishes me.
+It--it--I don't understand why people think that every young man ought
+to go down-town and work ten hours a day for the best twenty years of
+his life at dull, unimaginative work, certainly not altruistic work."
+
+He broke off. She watched him inscrutably. He waited for her to agree or
+disagree, but she did neither.
+
+"Don't you ever form judgments on things?" he asked with some
+exasperation.
+
+She shook her head and her eyes wandered back to the dancers as she
+answered:
+
+"I don't know. I don't know anything about--what you should do, or what
+anybody should do."
+
+She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had
+never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.
+
+"Well," he admitted apologetically, "neither do I, of course, but--"
+
+"I just think of people," she continued, "whether they seem right where
+they are and fit into the picture. I don't mind if they don't do
+anything. I don't see why they should; in fact it always astonishes me
+when anybody does anything."
+
+"You don't want to do anything?"
+
+"I want to sleep."
+
+For a second he was startled, almost as though she had meant this
+literally.
+
+"Sleep?"
+
+"Sort of. I want to just be lazy and I want some of the people around me
+to be doing things, because that makes me feel comfortable and safe--and
+I want some of them to be doing nothing at all, because they can be
+graceful and companionable for me. But I never want to change people or
+get excited over them."
+
+"You're a quaint little determinist," laughed Anthony. "It's your world,
+isn't it?"
+
+"Well--" she said with a quick upward glance, "isn't it? As long as
+I'm--young."
+
+She had paused slightly before the last word and Anthony suspected that
+she had started to say "beautiful." It was undeniably what she
+had intended.
+
+Her eyes brightened and he waited for her to enlarge on the theme. He
+had drawn her out, at any rate--he bent forward slightly to catch
+the words.
+
+But "Let's dance!" was all she said.
+
+That winter afternoon at the Plaza was the first of a succession of
+"dates" Anthony made with her in the blurred and stimulating days before
+Christmas. Invariably she was busy. What particular strata of the city's
+social life claimed her he was a long time finding out. It seemed to
+matter very little. She attended the semi-public charity dances at the
+big hotels; he saw her several times at dinner parties in Sherry's, and
+once as he waited for her to dress, Mrs. Gilbert, apropos of her
+daughter's habit of "going," rattled off an amazing holiday programme
+that included half a dozen dances to which Anthony had received cards.
+
+He made engagements with her several times for lunch and tea--the former
+were hurried and, to him at least, rather unsatisfactory occasions, for
+she was sleepy-eyed and casual, incapable of concentrating upon anything
+or of giving consecutive attention to his remarks. When after two of
+these sallow meals he accused her of tendering him the skin and bones of
+the day she laughed and gave him a tea-time three days off. This was
+infinitely more satisfactory.
+
+One Sunday afternoon just before Christmas he called up and found her in
+the lull directly after some important but mysterious quarrel: she
+informed him in a tone of mingled wrath and amusement that she had sent
+a man out of her apartment--here Anthony speculated violently--and that
+the man had been giving a little dinner for her that very night and that
+of course she wasn't going. So Anthony took her to supper.
+
+"Let's go to something!" she proposed as they went down in the elevator.
+"I want to see a show, don't you?"
+
+Inquiry at the hotel ticket desk disclosed only two Sunday night
+"concerts."
+
+"They're always the same," she complained unhappily, "same old Yiddish
+comedians. Oh, let's go somewhere!"
+
+To conceal a guilty suspicion that he should have arranged a performance
+of some kind for her approval Anthony affected a knowing cheerfulness.
+
+"We'll go to a good cabaret."
+
+"I've seen every one in town."
+
+"Well, we'll find a new one."
+
+She was in wretched humor; that was evident. Her gray eyes were granite
+now indeed. When she wasn't speaking she stared straight in front of her
+as if at some distasteful abstraction in the lobby.
+
+"Well, come on, then."
+
+He followed her, a graceful girl even in her enveloping fur, out to a
+taxicab, and, with an air of having a definite place in mind, instructed
+the driver to go over to Broadway and then turn south. He made several
+casual attempts at conversation but as she adopted an impenetrable armor
+of silence and answered him in sentences as morose as the cold darkness
+of the taxicab he gave up, and assuming a like mood fell into a
+dim gloom.
+
+A dozen blocks down Broadway Anthony's eyes were caught by a large and
+unfamiliar electric sign spelling "Marathon" in glorious yellow script,
+adorned with electrical leaves and flowers that alternately vanished and
+beamed upon the wet and glistening street. He leaned and rapped on the
+taxi-window and in a moment was receiving information from a colored
+doorman: Yes, this was a cabaret. Fine cabaret. Bes' showina city!
+
+"Shall we try it?"
+
+With a sigh Gloria tossed her cigarette out the open door and prepared
+to follow it; then they had passed under the screaming sign, under the
+wide portal, and up by a stuffy elevator into this unsung palace
+of pleasure.
+
+The gay habitats of the very rich and the very poor, the very dashing
+and the very criminal, not to mention the lately exploited very
+Bohemian, are made known to the awed high school girls of Augusta,
+Georgia, and Redwing, Minnesota, not only through the bepictured and
+entrancing spreads of the Sunday theatrical supplements but through the
+shocked and alarmful eyes of Mr. Rupert Hughes and other chroniclers of
+the mad pace of America. But the excursions of Harlem onto Broadway, the
+deviltries of the dull and the revelries of the respectable are a matter
+of esoteric knowledge only to the participants themselves.
+
+A tip circulates--and in the place knowingly mentioned, gather the lower
+moral-classes on Saturday and Sunday nights--the little troubled men who
+are pictured in the comics as "the Consumer" or "the Public." They have
+made sure that the place has three qualifications: it is cheap; it
+imitates with a sort of shoddy and mechanical wistfulness the glittering
+antics of the great cafes in the theatre district; and--this, above all,
+important--it is a place where they can "take a nice girl," which means,
+of course, that every one has become equally harmless, timid, and
+uninteresting through lack of money and imagination.
+
+There on Sunday nights gather the credulous, sentimental, underpaid,
+overworked people with hyphenated occupations: book-keepers,
+ticket-sellers, office-managers, salesmen, and, most of all,
+clerks--clerks of the express, of the mail, of the grocery, of the
+brokerage, of the bank. With them are their giggling, over-gestured,
+pathetically pretentious women, who grow fat with them, bear them too
+many babies, and float helpless and uncontent in a colorless sea of
+drudgery and broken hopes.
+
+They name these brummagem cabarets after Pullman cars. The "Marathon"!
+Not for them the salacious similes borrowed from the caf�s of Paris!
+This is where their docile patrons bring their "nice women," whose
+starved fancies are only too willing to believe that the scene is
+comparatively gay and joyous, and even faintly immoral. This is life!
+Who cares for the morrow?
+
+Abandoned people!
+
+Anthony and Gloria, seated, looked about them. At the next table a party
+of four were in process of being joined by a party of three, two men and
+a girl, who were evidently late--and the manner of the girl was a study
+in national sociology. She was meeting some new men--and she was
+pretending desperately. By gesture she was pretending and by words and
+by the scarcely perceptible motionings of her eyelids that she belonged
+to a class a little superior to the class with which she now had to do,
+that a while ago she had been, and presently would again be, in a
+higher, rarer air. She was almost painfully refined--she wore a last
+year's hat covered with violets no more yearningly pretentious and
+palpably artificial than herself.
+
+Fascinated, Anthony and Gloria watched the girl sit down and radiate the
+impression that she was only condescendingly present. For _me_, her eyes
+said, this is practically a slumming expedition, to be cloaked with
+belittling laughter and semi-apologetics.
+
+--And the other women passionately poured out the impression that though
+they were in the crowd they were not of it. This was not the sort of
+place to which they were accustomed; they had dropped in because it was
+near by and convenient--every party in the restaurant poured out that
+impression ... who knew? They were forever changing class, all of
+them--the women often marrying above their opportunities, the men
+striking suddenly a magnificent opulence: a sufficiently preposterous
+advertising scheme, a celestialized ice cream cone. Meanwhile, they met
+here to eat, closing their eyes to the economy displayed in infrequent
+changings of table-cloths, in the casualness of the cabaret performers,
+most of all in the colloquial carelessness and familiarity of the
+waiters. One was sure that these waiters were not impressed by their
+patrons. One expected that presently they would sit at the tables ...
+
+"Do you object to this?" inquired Anthony.
+
+Gloria's face warmed and for the first time that evening she smiled.
+
+"I love it," she said frankly. It was impossible to doubt her. Her gray
+eyes roved here and there, drowsing, idle or alert, on each group,
+passing to the next with unconcealed enjoyment, and to Anthony were made
+plain the different values of her profile, the wonderfully alive
+expressions of her mouth, and the authentic distinction of face and form
+and manner that made her like a single flower amidst a collection of
+cheap bric-�-brac. At her happiness, a gorgeous sentiment welled into
+his eyes, choked him up, set his nerves a-tingle, and filled his throat
+with husky and vibrant emotion. There was a hush upon the room. The
+careless violins and saxophones, the shrill rasping complaint of a child
+near by, the voice of the violet-hatted girl at the next table, all
+moved slowly out, receded, and fell away like shadowy reflections on the
+shining floor--and they two, it seemed to him, were alone and infinitely
+remote, quiet. Surely the freshness of her cheeks was a gossamer
+projection from a land of delicate and undiscovered shades; her hand
+gleaming on the stained table-cloth was a shell from some far and wildly
+virginal sea....
+
+Then the illusion snapped like a nest of threads; the room grouped
+itself around him, voices, faces, movement; the garish shimmer of the
+lights overhead became real, became portentous; breath began, the slow
+respiration that she and he took in time with this docile hundred, the
+rise and fall of bosoms, the eternal meaningless play and interplay and
+tossing and reiterating of word and phrase--all these wrenched his
+senses open to the suffocating pressure of life--and then her voice came
+at him, cool as the suspended dream he had left behind.
+
+"I belong here," she murmured, "I'm like these people."
+
+For an instant this seemed a sardonic and unnecessary paradox hurled at
+him across the impassable distances she created about herself. Her
+entrancement had increased--her eyes rested upon a Semitic violinist who
+swayed his shoulders to the rhythm of the year's mellowest fox-trot:
+
+"Something--goes
+Ring-a-ting-a-ling-a-ling
+Right in-your ear--"
+
+Again she spoke, from the centre of this pervasive illusion of her own.
+It amazed him. It was like blasphemy from the mouth of a child.
+
+"I'm like they are--like Japanese lanterns and crape paper, and the
+music of that orchestra."
+
+"You're a young idiot!" he insisted wildly. She shook her blond head.
+
+"No, I'm not. I _am_ like them.... You ought to see.... You don't know
+me." She hesitated and her eyes came back to him, rested abruptly on
+his, as though surprised at the last to see him there. "I've got a
+streak of what you'd call cheapness. I don't know where I get it but
+it's--oh, things like this and bright colors and gaudy vulgarity. I seem
+to belong here. These people could appreciate me and take me for
+granted, and these men would fall in love with me and admire me, whereas
+the clever men I meet would just analyze me and tell me I'm this because
+of this or that because of that."
+
+--Anthony for the moment wanted fiercely to paint her, to set her down
+_now_, as she was, as, as with each relentless second she could never
+be again.
+
+"What were you thinking?" she asked.
+
+"Just that I'm not a realist," he said, and then: "No, only the
+romanticist preserves the things worth preserving."
+
+Out of the deep sophistication of Anthony an understanding formed,
+nothing atavistic or obscure, indeed scarcely physical at all, an
+understanding remembered from the romancings of many generations of
+minds that as she talked and caught his eyes and turned her lovely head,
+she moved him as he had never been moved before. The sheath that held
+her soul had assumed significance--that was all. She was a sun, radiant,
+growing, gathering light and storing it--then after an eternity pouring
+it forth in a glance, the fragment of a sentence, to that part of him
+that cherished all beauty and all illusion.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+THE CONNOISSEUR OF KISSES
+
+From his undergraduate days as editor of The Harvard Crimson Richard
+Caramel had desired to write. But as a senior he had picked up the
+glorified illusion that certain men were set aside for "service" and,
+going into the world, were to accomplish a vague yearnful something
+which would react either in eternal reward or, at the least, in the
+personal satisfaction of having striven for the greatest good of the
+greatest number.
+
+This spirit has long rocked the colleges in America. It begins, as a
+rule, during the immaturities and facile impressions of freshman
+year--sometimes back in preparatory school. Prosperous apostles known
+for their emotional acting go the rounds of the universities and, by
+frightening the amiable sheep and dulling the quickening of interest and
+intellectual curiosity which is the purpose of all education, distil a
+mysterious conviction of sin, harking back to childhood crimes and to
+the ever-present menace of "women." To these lectures go the wicked
+youths to cheer and joke and the timid to swallow the tasty pills, which
+would be harmless if administered to farmers' wives and pious
+drug-clerks but are rather dangerous medicine for these "future
+leaders of men."
+
+This octopus was strong enough to wind a sinuous tentacle about Richard
+Caramel. The year after his graduation it called him into the slums of
+New York to muck about with bewildered Italians as secretary to an
+"Alien Young Men's Rescue Association." He labored at it over a year
+before the monotony began to weary him. The aliens kept coming
+inexhaustibly--Italians, Poles, Scandinavians, Czechs, Armenians--with
+the same wrongs, the same exceptionally ugly faces and very much the
+same smells, though he fancied that these grew more profuse and diverse
+as the months passed. His eventual conclusions about the expediency of
+service were vague, but concerning his own relation to it they were
+abrupt and decisive. Any amiable young man, his head ringing with the
+latest crusade, could accomplish as much as he could with the d�bris of
+Europe--and it was time for him to write.
+
+He had been living in a down-town Y.M.C.A., but when he quit the task of
+making sow-ear purses out of sows' ears, he moved up-town and went to
+work immediately as a reporter for The Sun. He kept at this for a year,
+doing desultory writing on the side, with little success, and then one
+day an infelicitous incident peremptorily closed his newspaper career.
+On a February afternoon he was assigned to report a parade of Squadron
+A. Snow threatening, he went to sleep instead before a hot fire, and
+when he woke up did a smooth column about the muffled beats of the
+horses' hoofs in the snow... This he handed in. Next morning a marked
+copy of the paper was sent down to the City Editor with a scrawled note:
+"Fire the man who wrote this." It seemed that Squadron A had also seen
+the snow threatening--had postponed the parade until another day.
+
+A week later he had begun "The Demon Lover."...
+
+In January, the Monday of the months, Richard Caramel's nose was blue
+constantly, a sardonic blue, vaguely suggestive of the flames licking
+around a sinner. His book was nearly ready, and as it grew in
+completeness it seemed to grow also in its demands, sapping him,
+overpowering him, until he walked haggard and conquered in its shadow.
+Not only to Anthony and Maury did he pour out his hopes and boasts and
+indecisions, but to any one who could be prevailed upon to listen. He
+called on polite but bewildered publishers, he discussed it with his
+casual vis-�-vis at the Harvard Club; it was even claimed by Anthony
+that he had been discovered, one Sunday night, debating the
+transposition of Chapter Two with a literary ticket-collector in the
+chill and dismal recesses of a Harlem subway station. And latest among
+his confidantes was Mrs. Gilbert, who sat with him by the hour and
+alternated between Bilphism and literature in an intense cross-fire.
+
+"Shakespeare was a Bilphist," she assured him through a fixed smile.
+"Oh, yes! He was a Bilphist. It's been proved."
+
+At this Dick would look a bit blank.
+
+"If you've read 'Hamlet' you can't help but see."
+
+"Well, he--he lived in a more credulous age--a more religious age."
+
+But she demanded the whole loaf:
+
+"Oh, yes, but you see Bilphism isn't a religion. It's the science of all
+religions." She smiled defiantly at him. This was the _bon mot_ of her
+belief. There was something in the arrangement of words which grasped
+her mind so definitely that the statement became superior to any
+obligation to define itself. It is not unlikely that she would have
+accepted any idea encased in this radiant formula--which was perhaps not
+a formula; it was the _reductio ad absurdum_ of all formulas.
+
+Then eventually, but gorgeously, would come Dick's turn.
+
+"You've heard of the new poetry movement. You haven't? Well, it's a lot
+of young poets that are breaking away from the old forms and doing a lot
+of good. Well, what I was going to say was that my book is going to
+start a new prose movement, a sort of renaissance."
+
+"I'm sure it will," beamed Mrs. Gilbert. "I'm _sure_ it will. I went to
+Jenny Martin last Tuesday, the palmist, you know, that every one's _mad_
+about. I told her my nephew was engaged upon a work and she said she
+knew I'd be glad to hear that his success would be _extraordinary_. But
+she'd never seen you or known anything about you--not even your _name_."
+
+Having made the proper noises to express his amazement at this
+astounding phenomenon, Dick waved her theme by him as though he were an
+arbitrary traffic policeman, and, so to speak, beckoned forward his
+own traffic.
+
+"I'm absorbed, Aunt Catherine," he assured her, "I really am. All my
+friends are joshing me--oh, I see the humor in it and I don't care. I
+think a person ought to be able to take joshing. But I've got a sort of
+conviction," he concluded gloomily.
+
+"You're an ancient soul, I always say."
+
+"Maybe I am." Dick had reached the stage where he no longer fought, but
+submitted. He _must_ be an ancient soul, he fancied grotesquely; so old
+as to be absolutely rotten. However, the reiteration of the phrase still
+somewhat embarrassed him and sent uncomfortable shivers up his back. He
+changed the subject.
+
+"Where is my distinguished cousin Gloria?"
+
+"She's on the go somewhere, with some one."
+
+Dick paused, considered, and then, screwing up his face into what was
+evidently begun as a smile but ended as a terrifying frown, delivered
+a comment.
+
+"I think my friend Anthony Patch is in love with her."
+
+Mrs. Gilbert started, beamed half a second too late, and breathed her
+"Really?" in the tone of a detective play-whisper.
+
+"I _think_ so," corrected Dick gravely. "She's the first girl I've ever
+seen him with, so much."
+
+"Well, of course," said Mrs. Gilbert with meticulous carelessness,
+"Gloria never makes me her confidante. She's very secretive. Between you
+and me"--she bent forward cautiously, obviously determined that only
+Heaven and her nephew should share her confession--"between you and me,
+I'd like to see her settle down."
+
+Dick arose and paced the floor earnestly, a small, active, already
+rotund young man, his hands thrust unnaturally into his bulging pockets.
+
+"I'm not claiming I'm right, mind you," he assured the
+infinitely-of-the-hotel steel-engraving which smirked respectably back
+at him. "I'm saying nothing that I'd want Gloria to know. But I think
+Mad Anthony is interested--tremendously so. He talks about her
+constantly. In any one else that'd be a bad sign."
+
+"Gloria is a very young soul--" began Mrs. Gilbert eagerly, but her
+nephew interrupted with a hurried sentence:
+
+"Gloria'd be a very young nut not to marry him." He stopped and faced
+her, his expression a battle map of lines and dimples, squeezed and
+strained to its ultimate show of intensity--this as if to make up by his
+sincerity for any indiscretion in his words. "Gloria's a wild one, Aunt
+Catherine. She's uncontrollable. How she's done it I don't know, but
+lately she's picked up a lot of the funniest friends. She doesn't seem
+to care. And the men she used to go with around New York were--" He
+paused for breath.
+
+"Yes-yes-yes," interjected Mrs. Gilbert, with an anaemic attempt to hide
+the immense interest with which she listened.
+
+"Well," continued Richard Caramel gravely, "there it is. I mean that the
+men she went with and the people she went with used to be first rate.
+Now they aren't."
+
+Mrs. Gilbert blinked very fast--her bosom trembled, inflated, remained
+so for an instant, and with the exhalation her words flowed out in
+a torrent.
+
+She knew, she cried in a whisper; oh, yes, mothers see these things. But
+what could she do? He knew Gloria. He'd seen enough of Gloria to know
+how hopeless it was to try to deal with her. Gloria had been so
+spoiled--in a rather complete and unusual way. She had been suckled
+until she was three, for instance, when she could probably have chewed
+sticks. Perhaps--one never knew--it was this that had given that health
+and _hardiness_ to her whole personality. And then ever since she was
+twelve years old she'd had boys about her so thick--oh, so thick one
+couldn't _move_. At sixteen she began going to dances at preparatory
+schools, and then came the colleges; and everywhere she went, boys,
+boys, boys. At first, oh, until she was eighteen there had been so many
+that it never seemed one any more than the others, but then she began to
+single them out.
+
+She knew there had been a string of affairs spread over about three
+years, perhaps a dozen of them altogether. Sometimes the men were
+undergraduates, sometimes just out of college--they lasted on an average
+of several months each, with short attractions in between. Once or twice
+they had endured longer and her mother had hoped she would be engaged,
+but always a new one came--a new one--
+
+The men? Oh, she made them miserable, literally! There was only one who
+had kept any sort of dignity, and he had been a mere child, young Carter
+Kirby, of Kansas City, who was so conceited anyway that he just sailed
+out on his vanity one afternoon and left for Europe next day with his
+father. The others had been--wretched. They never seemed to know when
+she was tired of them, and Gloria had seldom been deliberately unkind.
+They would keep phoning, writing letters to her, trying to see her,
+making long trips after her around the country. Some of them had
+confided in Mrs. Gilbert, told her with tears in their eyes that they
+would never get over Gloria ... at least two of them had since married,
+though.... But Gloria, it seemed, struck to kill--to this day Mr.
+Carstairs called up once a week, and sent her flowers which she no
+longer bothered to refuse.
+
+Several times, twice, at least, Mrs. Gilbert knew it had gone as far as
+a private engagement--with Tudor Baird and that Holcome boy at Pasadena.
+She was sure it had, because--this must go no further--she had come in
+unexpectedly and found Gloria acting, well, very much engaged indeed.
+She had not spoken to her daughter, of course. She had had a certain
+sense of delicacy and, besides, each time she had expected an
+announcement in a few weeks. But the announcement never came; instead, a
+new man came.
+
+Scenes! Young men walking up and down the library like caged tigers!
+Young men glaring at each other in the hall as one came and the other
+left! Young men calling up on the telephone and being hung up upon in
+desperation! Young men threatening South America! ... Young men writing
+the most pathetic letters! (She said nothing to this effect, but Dick
+fancied that Mrs. Gilbert's eyes had seen some of these letters.)
+
+... And Gloria, between tears and laughter, sorry, glad, out of love and
+in love, miserable, nervous, cool, amidst a great returning of presents,
+substitution of pictures in immemorial frames, and taking of hot baths
+and beginning again--with the next.
+
+That state of things continued, assumed an air of permanency. Nothing
+harmed Gloria or changed her or moved her. And then out of a clear sky
+one day she informed her mother that undergraduates wearied her. She was
+absolutely going to no more college dances.
+
+This had begun the change--not so much in her actual habits, for she
+danced, and had as many "dates" as ever--but they were dates in a
+different spirit. Previously it had been a sort of pride, a matter of
+her own vainglory. She had been, probably, the most celebrated and
+sought-after young beauty in the country. Gloria Gilbert of Kansas City!
+She had fed on it ruthlessly--enjoying the crowds around her, the manner
+in which the most desirable men singled her out; enjoying the fierce
+jealousy of other girls; enjoying the fabulous, not to say scandalous,
+and, her mother was glad to say, entirely unfounded rumors about
+her--for instance, that she had gone in the Yale swimming-pool one night
+in a chiffon evening dress.
+
+And from loving it with a vanity that was almost masculine--it had been
+in the nature of a triumphant and dazzling career--she became suddenly
+anaesthetic to it. She retired. She who had dominated countless parties,
+who had blown fragrantly through many ballrooms to the tender tribute of
+many eyes, seemed to care no longer. He who fell in love with her now
+was dismissed utterly, almost angrily. She went listlessly with the most
+indifferent men. She continually broke engagements, not as in the past
+from a cool assurance that she was irreproachable, that the man she
+insulted would return like a domestic animal--but indifferently, without
+contempt or pride. She rarely stormed at men any more--she yawned at
+them. She seemed--and it was so strange--she seemed to her mother to be
+growing cold.
+
+Richard Caramel listened. At first he had remained standing, but as his
+aunt's discourse waxed in content--it stands here pruned by half, of all
+side references to the youth of Gloria's soul and to Mrs. Gilbert's own
+mental distresses--he drew a chair up and attended rigorously as she
+floated, between tears and plaintive helplessness, down the long story
+of Gloria's life. When she came to the tale of this last year, a tale of
+the ends of cigarettes left all over New York in little trays marked
+"Midnight Frolic" and "Justine Johnson's Little Club," he began nodding
+his head slowly, then faster and faster, until, as she finished on a
+staccato note, it was bobbing briskly up and down, absurdly like a
+doll's wired head, expressing--almost anything.
+
+In a sense Gloria's past was an old story to him. He had followed it
+with the eyes of a journalist, for he was going to write a book about
+her some day. But his interests, just at present, were family interests.
+He wanted to know, in particular, who was this Joseph Bloeckman that he
+had seen her with several times; and those two girls she was with
+constantly, "this" Rachael Jerryl and "this" Miss Kane--surely Miss Kane
+wasn't exactly the sort one would associate with Gloria!
+
+But the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having climbed the hill of
+exposition was about to glide swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse. Her
+eyes were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements.
+The flesh about her mouth was trembling.
+
+And at the moment the door opened, admitting into the room Gloria and
+the two young ladies lately mentioned.
+
+
+TWO YOUNG WOMEN
+
+"Well!"
+
+"How do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!"
+
+Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard Caramel. "This is
+Dick" (laughter).
+
+"I've heard so much about you," says Miss Kane between a giggle and a
+shout.
+
+"How do you do," says Miss Jerryl shyly.
+
+Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure were better. He is
+torn between his innate cordiality and the fact that he considers these
+girls rather common--not at all the Farmover type.
+
+Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom.
+
+"Do sit down," beams Mrs. Gilbert, who is by now quite herself. "Take
+off your things." Dick is afraid she will make some remark about the age
+of his soul, but he forgets his qualms in completing a conscientious,
+novelist's examination of the two young women.
+
+Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East Orange. She was
+short rather than small, and hovered audaciously between plumpness and
+width. Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This, in conjunction
+with her handsome, rather bovine eyes, and her over-red lips, combined
+to make her resemble Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress.
+People told her constantly that she was a "vampire," and she believed
+them. She suspected hopefully that they were afraid of her, and she did
+her utmost under all circumstances to give the impression of danger. An
+imaginative man could see the red flag that she constantly carried,
+waving it wildly, beseechingly--and, alas, to little spectacular avail.
+She was also tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs, all the
+latest songs--when one of them was played on the phonograph she would
+rise to her feet and rock her shoulders back and forth and snap her
+fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany herself
+by humming.
+
+Her conversation was also timely: "I don't care," she would say, "I
+should worry and lose my figure"--and again: "I can't make my feet
+behave when I hear that tune. Oh, baby!"
+
+Her finger-nails were too long and ornate, polished to a pink and
+unnatural fever. Her clothes were too tight, too stylish, too vivid, her
+eyes too roguish, her smile too coy. She was almost pitifully
+overemphasized from head to foot.
+
+The other girl was obviously a more subtle personality. She was an
+exquisitely dressed Jewess with dark hair and a lovely milky pallor. She
+seemed shy and vague, and these two qualities accentuated a rather
+delicate charm that floated about her. Her family were "Episcopalians,"
+owned three smart women's shops along Fifth Avenue, and lived in a
+magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive. It seemed to Dick, after a few
+moments, that she was attempting to imitate Gloria--he wondered that
+people invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.
+
+"We had the most _hectic_ time!" Muriel was exclaiming enthusiastically.
+"There was a crazy woman behind us on the bus. She was absitively,
+posolutely _nutty_! She kept talking to herself about something she'd
+like to do to somebody or something. I was _pet_rified, but Gloria
+simply _wouldn't_ get off."
+
+Mrs. Gilbert opened her mouth, properly awed.
+
+"Really?"
+
+"Oh, she was crazy. But we should worry, she didn't hurt us. Ugly!
+Gracious! The man across from us said her face ought to be on a
+night-nurse in a home for the blind, and we all _howled_, naturally, so
+the man tried to pick us up."
+
+Presently Gloria emerged from her bedroom and in unison every eye turned
+on her. The two girls receded into a shadowy background,
+unperceived, unmissed.
+
+"We've been talking about you," said Dick quickly, "--your mother and
+I."
+
+"Well," said Gloria.
+
+A pause--Muriel turned to Dick.
+
+"You're a great writer, aren't you?"
+
+"I'm a writer," he confessed sheepishly.
+
+"I always say," said Muriel earnestly, "that if I ever had time to write
+down all my experiences it'd make a wonderful book."
+
+Rachael giggled sympathetically; Richard Caramel's bow was almost
+stately. Muriel continued:
+
+"But I don't see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I
+can't make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!"
+
+Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria
+was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily out the window. Mrs.
+Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed.
+
+"But you see," she said in a sort of universal exposition, "you're not
+an ancient soul--like Richard."
+
+The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp of relief--it was out at last.
+
+Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a
+sudden announcement:
+
+"I'm going to give a party."
+
+"Oh, can I come?" cried Muriel with facetious daring.
+
+"A dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and
+Anthony, and that man named Noble--I liked him--and Bloeckman."
+
+Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies of enthusiasm.
+Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in
+with a question:
+
+"Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?"
+
+Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him.
+
+"Joseph Bloeckman? He's the moving picture man. Vice-president of 'Films
+Par Excellence.' He and father do a lot of business."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Well, will you all come?"
+
+They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose,
+adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile.
+
+"By-by," said Muriel, waving her hand gaily, "call me up some time."
+
+Richard Caramel blushed for her.
+
+
+DEPLORABLE END OF THE CHEVALIER O'KEEFE
+
+It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon at the Beaux
+Arts--afterward they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the
+little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth,
+gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant.
+
+Geraldine Burke, usher at Keith's, had been an amusement of several
+months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable
+affair with a d�butante the preceding summer, when he had discovered
+that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary
+of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye
+on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of
+personal delicacy--but a girl who was usher at Keith's was approached
+with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate
+valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one's
+social level.
+
+Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with
+narrow slanting eyes.
+
+"You drink all the time, don't you?" she said suddenly.
+
+"Why, I suppose so," replied Anthony in some surprise. "Don't you?"
+
+"Nope. I go on parties sometimes--you know, about once a week, but I
+only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all
+the time. I should think you'd ruin your health."
+
+Anthony was somewhat touched.
+
+"Why, aren't you sweet to worry about me!"
+
+"Well, I do."
+
+"I don't drink so very much," he declared. "Last month I didn't touch a
+drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week."
+
+"But you have something to drink every day and you're only twenty-five.
+Haven't you any ambition? Think what you'll be at forty?"
+
+"I sincerely trust that I won't live that long."
+
+She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
+
+"You cra-azy!" she said as he mixed another cocktail--and then: "Are you
+any relation to Adam Patch?"
+
+"Yes, he's my grandfather."
+
+"Really?" She was obviously thrilled.
+
+"Absolutely."
+
+"That's funny. My daddy used to work for him."
+
+"He's a queer old man."
+
+"Is he nice?" she demanded.
+
+"Well, in private life he's seldom unnecessarily disagreeable."
+
+"Tell us about him."
+
+"Why," Anthony considered "--he's all shrunken up and he's got the
+remains of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in
+it. He's very moral."
+
+"He's done a lot of good," said Geraldine with intense gravity.
+
+"Rot!" scoffed Anthony. "He's a pious ass--a chickenbrain."
+
+Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
+
+"Why don't you live with him?"
+
+"Why don't I board in a Methodist parsonage?"
+
+"You cra-azy!"
+
+Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony
+thought how moral was this little waif at heart--how completely moral
+she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her
+off the sands of respectability.
+
+"Do you hate him?"
+
+"I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for
+you."
+
+"Does he hate you?"
+
+"My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have
+another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the
+room sniffing. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I
+probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but
+I don't suppose it matters."
+
+Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted,
+between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a
+touch of awe.
+
+"How do you mean a hypocrite?"
+
+"Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not. But he doesn't like
+the things that I like, and so, as far as I'm concerned, he's
+uninteresting."
+
+"Hm." Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the
+sofa and sipped her cocktail.
+
+"You're a funny one," she commented thoughtfully. "Does everybody want
+to marry you because your grandfather is rich?"
+
+"They don't--but I shouldn't blame them if they did. Still, you see, I
+never intend to marry."
+
+She scorned this.
+
+"You'll fall in love someday. Oh, you will--I know." She nodded wisely.
+
+"It'd be idiotic to be overconfident. That's what ruined the Chevalier
+O'Keefe."
+
+"Who was he?"
+
+"A creature of my splendid mind. He's my one creation, the Chevalier."
+
+"Cra-a-azy!" she murmured pleasantly, using the clumsy rope ladder with
+which she bridged all gaps and climbed after her mental superiors.
+Subconsciously she felt that it eliminated distances and brought the
+person whose imagination had eluded her back within range.
+
+"Oh, no!" objected Anthony, "oh, no, Geraldine. You mustn't play the
+alienist upon the Chevalier. If you feel yourself unable to understand
+him I won't bring him in. Besides, I should feel a certain uneasiness
+because of his regrettable reputation."
+
+"I guess I can understand anything that's got any sense to it," answered
+Geraldine a bit testily.
+
+"In that case there are various episodes in the life of the Chevalier
+which might prove diverting."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"It was his untimely end that caused me to think of him and made him
+apropos in the conversation. I hate to introduce him end foremost, but
+it seems inevitable that the Chevalier must back into your life."
+
+"Well, what about him? Did he die?"
+
+"He did! In this manner. He was an Irishman, Geraldine, a semi-fictional
+Irishman--the wild sort with a genteel brogue and 'reddish hair.' He was
+exiled from Erin in the late days of chivalry and, of course, crossed
+over to France. Now the Chevalier O'Keefe, Geraldine, had, like me, one
+weakness. He was enormously susceptible to all sorts and conditions of
+women. Besides being a sentimentalist he was a romantic, a vain fellow,
+a man of wild passions, a little blind in one eye and almost stone-blind
+in the other. Now a male roaming the world in this condition is as
+helpless as a lion without teeth, and in consequence the Chevalier was
+made utterly miserable for twenty years by a series of women who hated
+him, used him, bored him, aggravated him, sickened him, spent his money,
+made a fool of him--in brief, as the world has it, loved him.
+
+"This was bad, Geraldine, and as the Chevalier, save for this one
+weakness, this exceeding susceptibility, was a man of penetration, he
+decided that he would rescue himself once and for all from these drains
+upon him. With this purpose he went to a very famous monastery in
+Champagne called--well, anachronistically known as St. Voltaire's. It
+was the rule at St. Voltaire's that no monk could descend to the ground
+story of the monastery so long as he lived, but should exist engaged in
+prayer and contemplation in one of the four towers, which were called
+after the four commandments of the monastery rule: Poverty, Chastity,
+Obedience, and Silence.
+
+"When the day came that was to witness the Chevalier's farewell to the
+world he was utterly happy. He gave all his Greek books to his landlady,
+and his sword he sent in a golden sheath to the King of France, and all
+his mementos of Ireland he gave to the young Huguenot who sold fish in
+the street where he lived.
+
+"Then he rode out to St. Voltaire's, slew his horse at the door, and
+presented the carcass to the monastery cook.
+
+"At five o'clock that night he felt, for the first time, free--forever
+free from sex. No woman could enter the monastery; no monk could descend
+below the second story. So as he climbed the winding stair that led to
+his cell at the very top of the Tower of Chastity he paused for a moment
+by an open window which looked down fifty feet on to a road below. It
+was all so beautiful, he thought, this world that he was leaving, the
+golden shower of sun beating down upon the long fields, the spray of
+trees in the distance, the vineyards, quiet and green, freshening wide
+miles before him. He leaned his elbows on the window casement and gazed
+at the winding road.
+
+"Now, as it happened, Th�r�se, a peasant girl of sixteen from a
+neighboring village, was at that moment passing along this same road
+that ran in front of the monastery. Five minutes before, the little
+piece of ribbon which held up the stocking on her pretty left leg had
+worn through and broken. Being a girl of rare modesty she had thought to
+wait until she arrived home before repairing it, but it had bothered her
+to such an extent that she felt she could endure it no longer. So, as
+she passed the Tower of Chastity, she stopped and with a pretty gesture
+lifted her skirt--as little as possible, be it said to her credit--to
+adjust her garter.
+
+"Up in the tower the newest arrival in the ancient monastery of St.
+Voltaire, as though pulled forward by a gigantic and irresistible hand,
+leaned from the window. Further he leaned and further until suddenly one
+of the stones loosened under his weight, broke from its cement with a
+soft powdery sound--and, first headlong, then head over heels, finally
+in a vast and impressive revolution tumbled the Chevalier O'Keefe, bound
+for the hard earth and eternal damnation.
+
+"Th�r�se was so much upset by the occurrence that she ran all the way
+home and for ten years spent an hour a day in secret prayer for the soul
+of the monk whose neck and vows were simultaneously broken on that
+unfortunate Sunday afternoon.
+
+"And the Chevalier O'Keefe, being suspected of suicide, was not buried
+in consecrated ground, but tumbled into a field near by, where he
+doubtless improved the quality of the soil for many years afterward.
+Such was the untimely end of a very brave and gallant gentleman. What do
+you think, Geraldine?"
+
+But Geraldine, lost long before, could only smile roguishly, wave her
+first finger at him, and repeat her bridge-all, her explain-all:
+
+"Crazy!" she said, "you cra-a-azy!"
+
+His thin face was kindly, she thought, and his eyes quite gentle. She
+liked him because he was arrogant without being conceited, and because,
+unlike the men she met about the theatre, he had a horror of being
+conspicuous. What an odd, pointless story! But she had enjoyed the part
+about the stocking!
+
+After the fifth cocktail he kissed her, and between laughter and
+bantering caresses and a half-stifled flare of passion they passed an
+hour. At four-thirty she claimed an engagement, and going into the
+bathroom she rearranged her hair. Refusing to let him order her a taxi
+she stood for a moment in the doorway.
+
+"You _will_ get married," she was insisting, "you wait and see."
+
+Anthony was playing with an ancient tennis ball, and he bounced it
+carefully on the floor several times before he answered with a soup�on
+of acidity:
+
+"You're a little idiot, Geraldine."
+
+She smiled provokingly.
+
+"Oh, I am, am I? Want to bet?"
+
+"That'd be silly too."
+
+"Oh, it would, would it? Well, I'll just bet you'll marry somebody
+inside of a year."
+
+Anthony bounced the tennis ball very hard. This was one of his handsome
+days, she thought; a sort of intensity had displaced the melancholy in
+his dark eyes.
+
+"Geraldine," he said, at length, "in the first place I have no one I
+want to marry; in the second place I haven't enough money to support two
+people; in the third place I am entirely opposed to marriage for people
+of my type; in the fourth place I have a strong distaste for even the
+abstract consideration of it."
+
+But Geraldine only narrowed her eyes knowingly, made her clicking sound,
+and said she must be going. It was late.
+
+"Call me up soon," she reminded him as he kissed her goodbye, "you
+haven't for three weeks, you know."
+
+"I will," he promised fervently.
+
+He shut the door and coming back into the room stood for a moment lost
+in thought with the tennis ball still clasped in his hand. There was one
+of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the
+streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It
+was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no
+outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully--assuaged
+only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all
+efforts and attainments were equally valueless.
+
+He thought with emotion--aloud, ejaculative, for he was hurt and
+confused.
+
+"No _idea_ of getting married, by _God_!"
+
+Of a sudden he hurled the tennis ball violently across the room, where
+it barely missed the lamp, and, rebounding here and there for a moment,
+lay still upon the floor.
+
+
+SIGNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT
+
+For her dinner Gloria had taken a table in the Cascades at the Biltmore,
+and when the men met in the hall outside a little after eight, "that
+person Bloeckman" was the target of six masculine eyes. He was a
+stoutening, ruddy Jew of about thirty-five, with an expressive face
+under smooth sandy hair--and, no doubt, in most business gatherings his
+personality would have been considered ingratiating. He sauntered up to
+the three younger men, who stood in a group smoking as they waited for
+their hostess, and introduced himself with a little too evident
+assurance--nevertheless it is to be doubted whether he received the
+intended impression of faint and ironic chill: there was no hint of
+understanding in his manner.
+
+"You related to Adam J. Patch?" he inquired of Anthony, emitting two
+slender strings of smoke from nostrils overwide.
+
+Anthony admitted it with the ghost of a smile.
+
+"He's a fine man," pronounced Bloeckman profoundly. "He's a fine example
+of an American."
+
+"Yes," agreed Anthony, "he certainly is."
+
+--I detest these underdone men, he thought coldly. Boiled looking! Ought
+to be shoved back in the oven; just one more minute would do it.
+
+Bloeckman squinted at his watch.
+
+"Time these girls were showing up ..."
+
+--Anthony waited breathlessly; it came--
+
+"... but then," with a widening smile, "you know how women are."
+
+The three young men nodded; Bloeckman looked casually about him, his
+eyes resting critically on the ceiling and then passing lower. His
+expression combined that of a Middle Western farmer appraising his wheat
+crop and that of an actor wondering whether he is observed--the public
+manner of all good Americans. As he finished his survey he turned back
+quickly to the reticent trio, determined to strike to their very
+heart and core.
+
+"You college men? ... Harvard, eh. I see the Princeton boys beat you
+fellows in hockey."
+
+Unfortunate man. He had drawn another blank. They had been three years
+out and heeded only the big football games. Whether, after the failure
+of this sally, Mr. Bloeckman would have perceived himself to be in a
+cynical atmosphere is problematical, for--
+
+Gloria arrived. Muriel arrived. Rachael arrived. After a hurried "Hello,
+people!" uttered by Gloria and echoed by the other two, the three swept
+by into the dressing room.
+
+A moment later Muriel appeared in a state of elaborate undress and
+_crept_ toward them. She was in her element: her ebony hair was slicked
+straight back on her head; her eyes were artificially darkened; she
+reeked of insistent perfume. She was got up to the best of her ability
+as a siren, more popularly a "vamp"--a picker up and thrower away of
+men, an unscrupulous and fundamentally unmoved toyer with affections.
+Something in the exhaustiveness of her attempt fascinated Maury at first
+sight--a woman with wide hips affecting a panther-like litheness! As
+they waited the extra three minutes for Gloria, and, by polite
+assumption, for Rachael, he was unable to take his eyes from her. She
+would turn her head away, lowering her eyelashes and biting her nether
+lip in an amazing exhibition of coyness. She would rest her hands on her
+hips and sway from side to side in tune to the music, saying:
+
+"Did you ever hear such perfect ragtime? I just can't make my shoulders
+behave when I hear that."
+
+Mr. Bloeckman clapped his hands gallantly.
+
+"You ought to be on the stage."
+
+"I'd like to be!" cried Muriel; "will you back me?"
+
+"I sure will."
+
+With becoming modesty Muriel ceased her motions and turned to Maury,
+asking what he had "seen" this year. He interpreted this as referring to
+the dramatic world, and they had a gay and exhilarating exchange of
+titles, after this manner:
+
+MURIEL: Have you seen "Peg o' My Heart"?
+
+MAURY: No, I haven't.
+
+MURIEL: (_Eagerly_) It's wonderful! You want to see it.
+
+MAURY: Have you seen "Omar, the Tentmaker"?
+
+MURIEL: No, but I hear it's wonderful. I'm very anxious to see it. Have
+you seen "Fair and Warmer"?
+
+MAURY: (_Hopefully_) Yes.
+
+MURIEL: I don't think it's very good. It's trashy.
+
+MAURY: (_Faintly_) Yes, that's true.
+
+MURIEL: But I went to "Within the Law" last night and I thought it was
+fine. Have you seen "The Little Cafe"?...
+
+This continued until they ran out of plays. Dick, meanwhile, turned to
+Mr. Bloeckman, determined to extract what gold he could from this
+unpromising load.
+
+"I hear all the new novels are sold to the moving pictures as soon as
+they come out."
+
+"That's true. Of course the main thing in a moving picture is a strong
+story."
+
+"Yes, I suppose so."
+
+"So many novels are all full of talk and psychology. Of course those
+aren't as valuable to us. It's impossible to make much of that
+interesting on the screen."
+
+"You want plots first," said Richard brilliantly.
+
+"Of course. Plots first--" He paused, shifted his gaze. His pause
+spread, included the others with all the authority of a warning finger.
+Gloria followed by Rachael was coming out of the dressing room.
+
+Among other things it developed during dinner that Joseph Bloeckman
+never danced, but spent the music time watching the others with the
+bored tolerance of an elder among children. He was a dignified man and a
+proud one. Born in Munich he had begun his American career as a peanut
+vender with a travelling circus. At eighteen he was a side show
+ballyhoo; later, the manager of the side show, and, soon after, the
+proprietor of a second-class vaudeville house. Just when the moving
+picture had passed out of the stage of a curiosity and become a
+promising industry he was an ambitious young man of twenty-six with some
+money to invest, nagging financial ambitions and a good working
+knowledge of the popular show business. That had been nine years before.
+The moving picture industry had borne him up with it where it threw off
+dozens of men with more financial ability, more imagination, and more
+practical ideas...and now he sat here and contemplated the immortal
+Gloria for whom young Stuart Holcome had gone from New York to
+Pasadena--watched her, and knew that presently she would cease dancing
+and come back to sit on his left hand.
+
+He hoped she would hurry. The oysters had been standing some minutes.
+
+Meanwhile Anthony, who had been placed on Gloria's left hand, was
+dancing with her, always in a certain fourth of the floor. This, had
+there been stags, would have been a delicate tribute to the girl,
+meaning "Damn you, don't cut in!" It was very consciously intimate.
+
+"Well," he began, looking down at her, "you look mighty sweet to-night."
+
+She met his eyes over the horizontal half foot that separated them.
+
+"Thank you--Anthony."
+
+"In fact you're uncomfortably beautiful," he added. There was no smile
+this time.
+
+"And you're very charming."
+
+"Isn't this nice?" he laughed. "We actually approve of each other."
+
+"Don't you, usually?" She had caught quickly at his remark, as she
+always did at any unexplained allusion to herself, however faint.
+
+He lowered his voice, and when he spoke there was in it no more than a
+wisp of badinage.
+
+"Does a priest approve the Pope?"
+
+"I don't know--but that's probably the vaguest compliment I ever
+received."
+
+"Perhaps I can muster a few bromides."
+
+"Well, I wouldn't have you strain yourself. Look at Muriel! Right here
+next to us."
+
+He glanced over his shoulder. Muriel was resting her brilliant cheek
+against the lapel of Maury Noble's dinner coat and her powdered left arm
+was apparently twisted around his head. One was impelled to wonder why
+she failed to seize the nape of his neck with her hand. Her eyes, turned
+ceiling-ward, rolled largely back and forth; her hips swayed, and as she
+danced she kept up a constant low singing. This at first seemed to be a
+translation of the song into some foreign tongue but became eventually
+apparent as an attempt to fill out the metre of the song with the only
+words she knew--the words of the title--
+
+"He's a rag-picker,
+A rag-picker;
+A rag-time picking man,
+Rag-picking, picking, pick, pick,
+Rag-pick, pick, pick."
+
+--and so on, into phrases still more strange and barbaric. When she
+caught the amused glances of Anthony and Gloria she acknowledged them
+only with a faint smile and a half-closing of her eyes, to indicate that
+the music entering into her soul had put her into an ecstatic and
+exceedingly seductive trance.
+
+The music ended and they returned to their table, whose solitary but
+dignified occupant arose and tendered each of them a smile so
+ingratiating that it was as if he were shaking their hands and
+congratulating them on a brilliant performance.
+
+"Blockhead never will dance! I think he has a wooden leg," remarked
+Gloria to the table at large. The three young men started and the
+gentleman referred to winced perceptibly.
+
+This was the one rough spot in the course of Bloeckman's acquaintance
+with Gloria. She relentlessly punned on his name. First it had been
+"Block-house." lately, the more invidious "Blockhead." He had requested
+with a strong undertone of irony that she use his first name, and this
+she had done obediently several times--then slipping, helpless,
+repentant but dissolved in laughter, back into "Blockhead."
+
+It was a very sad and thoughtless thing.
+
+"I'm afraid Mr. Bloeckman thinks we're a frivolous crowd," sighed
+Muriel, waving a balanced oyster in his direction.
+
+"He has that air," murmured Rachael. Anthony tried to remember whether
+she had said anything before. He thought not. It was her initial remark.
+
+Mr. Bloeckman suddenly cleared his throat and said in a loud, distinct
+voice:
+
+"On the contrary. When a man speaks he's merely tradition. He has at
+best a few thousand years back of him. But woman, why, she is the
+miraculous mouthpiece of posterity."
+
+In the stunned pause that followed this astounding remark, Anthony
+choked suddenly on an oyster and hurried his napkin to his face. Rachael
+and Muriel raised a mild if somewhat surprised laugh, in which Dick and
+Maury joined, both of them red in the face and restraining
+uproariousness with the most apparent difficulty.
+
+"--My God!" thought Anthony. "It's a subtitle from one of his movies.
+The man's memorized it!"
+
+Gloria alone made no sound. She fixed Mr. Bloeckman with a glance of
+silent reproach.
+
+"Well, for the love of Heaven! Where on earth did you dig that up?"
+
+Bloeckman looked at her uncertainly, not sure of her intention. But in a
+moment he recovered his poise and assumed the bland and consciously
+tolerant smile of an intellectual among spoiled and callow youth.
+
+The soup came up from the kitchen--but simultaneously the orchestra
+leader came up from the bar, where he had absorbed the tone color
+inherent in a seidel of beer. So the soup was left to cool during the
+delivery of a ballad entitled "Everything's at Home Except Your Wife."
+
+Then the champagne--and the party assumed more amusing proportions. The
+men, except Richard Caramel, drank freely; Gloria and Muriel sipped a
+glass apiece; Rachael Jerryl took none. They sat out the waltzes but
+danced to everything else--all except Gloria, who seemed to tire after a
+while and preferred to sit smoking at the table, her eyes now lazy, now
+eager, according to whether she listened to Bloeckman or watched a
+pretty woman among the dancers. Several times Anthony wondered what
+Bloeckman was telling her. He was chewing a cigar back and forth in his
+mouth, and had expanded after dinner to the extent of violent gestures.
+
+Ten o'clock found Gloria and Anthony beginning a dance. Just as they
+were out of ear-shot of the table she said in a low voice:
+
+"Dance over by the door. I want to go down to the drug-store."
+
+Obediently Anthony guided her through the crowd in the designated
+direction; in the hall she left him for a moment, to reappear with a
+cloak over her arm.
+
+"I want some gum-drops," she said, humorously apologetic; "you can't
+guess what for this time. It's just that I want to bite my finger-nails,
+and I will if I don't get some gum-drops." She sighed, and resumed as
+they stepped into the empty elevator: "I've been biting 'em all day. A
+bit nervous, you see. Excuse the pun. It was unintentional--the words
+just arranged themselves. Gloria Gilbert, the female wag."
+
+Reaching the ground floor they na�vely avoided the hotel candy counter,
+descended the wide front staircase, and walking through several
+corridors found a drug-store in the Grand Central Station. After an
+intense examination of the perfume counter she made her purchase. Then
+on some mutual unmentioned impulse they strolled, arm in arm, not in the
+direction from which they had come, but out into Forty-third Street.
+
+The night was alive with thaw; it was so nearly warm that a breeze
+drifting low along the sidewalk brought to Anthony a vision of an
+unhoped-for hyacinthine spring. Above in the blue oblong of sky, around
+them in the caress of the drifting air, the illusion of a new season
+carried relief from the stiff and breathed-over atmosphere they had
+left, and for a hushed moment the traffic sounds and the murmur of water
+flowing in the gutters seemed an illusive and rarefied prolongation of
+that music to which they had lately danced. When Anthony spoke it was
+with surety that his words came from something breathless and desirous
+that the night had conceived in their two hearts.
+
+"Let's take a taxi and ride around a bit!" he suggested, without looking
+at her.
+
+Oh, Gloria, Gloria!
+
+A cab yawned at the curb. As it moved off like a boat on a labyrinthine
+ocean and lost itself among the inchoate night masses of the great
+buildings, among the now stilled, now strident, cries and clangings,
+Anthony put his arm around the girl, drew her over to him and kissed her
+damp, childish mouth.
+
+She was silent. She turned her face up to him, pale under the wisps and
+patches of light that trailed in like moonshine through a foliage. Her
+eyes were gleaming ripples in the white lake of her face; the shadows of
+her hair bordered the brow with a persuasive unintimate dusk. No love
+was there, surely; nor the imprint of any love. Her beauty was cool as
+this damp breeze, as the moist softness of her own lips.
+
+"You're such a swan in this light," he whispered after a moment. There
+were silences as murmurous as sound. There were pauses that seemed about
+to shatter and were only to be snatched back to oblivion by the
+tightening of his arms about her and the sense that she was resting
+there as a caught, gossamer feather, drifted in out of the dark. Anthony
+laughed, noiselessly and exultantly, turning his face up and away from
+her, half in an overpowering rush of triumph, half lest her sight of him
+should spoil the splendid immobility of her expression. Such a kiss--it
+was a flower held against the face, never to be described, scarcely to
+be remembered; as though her beauty were giving off emanations of itself
+which settled transiently and already dissolving upon his heart.
+
+... The buildings fell away in melted shadows; this was the Park now,
+and after a long while the great white ghost of the Metropolitan Museum
+moved majestically past, echoing sonorously to the rush of the cab.
+
+"Why, Gloria! Why, Gloria!"
+
+Her eyes appeared to regard him out of many thousand years: all emotion
+she might have felt, all words she might have uttered, would have seemed
+inadequate beside the adequacy of her silence, ineloquent against the
+eloquence of her beauty--and of her body, close to him, slender
+and cool.
+
+"Tell him to turn around," she murmured, "and drive pretty fast going
+back...."
+
+Up in the supper room the air was hot. The table, littered with napkins
+and ash-trays, was old and stale. It was between dances as they entered,
+and Muriel Kane looked up with roguishness extraordinary.
+
+"Well, where have _you_ been?"
+
+"To call up mother," answered Gloria coolly. "I promised her I would.
+Did we miss a dance?"
+
+Then followed an incident that though slight in itself Anthony had cause
+to reflect on many years afterward. Joseph Bloeckman, leaning well back
+in his chair, fixed him with a peculiar glance, in which several
+emotions were curiously and inextricably mingled. He did not greet
+Gloria except by rising, and he immediately resumed a conversation with
+Richard Caramel about the influence of literature on the
+moving pictures.
+
+
+MAGIC
+
+The stark and unexpected miracle of a night fades out with the lingering
+death of the last stars and the premature birth of the first newsboys.
+The flame retreats to some remote and platonic fire; the white heat has
+gone from the iron and the glow from the coal.
+
+Along the shelves of Anthony's library, filling a wall amply, crept a
+chill and insolent pencil of sunlight touching with frigid disapproval
+Th�r�se of France and Ann the Superwoman, Jenny of the Orient Ballet and
+Zuleika the Conjurer--and Hoosier Cora--then down a shelf and into the
+years, resting pityingly on the over-invoked shades of Helen, Tha�s,
+Salome, and Cleopatra.
+
+Anthony, shaved and bathed, sat in his most deeply cushioned chair and
+watched it until at the steady rising of the sun it lay glinting for a
+moment on the silk ends of the rug--and went out.
+
+It was ten o'clock. The Sunday Times, scattered about his feet,
+proclaimed by rotogravure and editorial, by social revelation and
+sporting sheet, that the world had been tremendously engrossed during
+the past week in the business of moving toward some splendid if somewhat
+indeterminate goal. For his part Anthony had been once to his
+grandfather's, twice to his broker's, and three times to his
+tailor's--and in the last hour of the week's last day he had kissed a
+very beautiful and charming girl.
+
+When he reached home his imagination had been teeming with high pitched,
+unfamiliar dreams. There was suddenly no question on his mind, no
+eternal problem for a solution and resolution. He had experienced an
+emotion that was neither mental nor physical, nor merely a mixture of
+the two, and the love of life absorbed him for the present to the
+exclusion of all else. He was content to let the experiment remain
+isolated and unique. Almost impersonally he was convinced that no woman
+he had ever met compared in any way with Gloria. She was deeply herself;
+she was immeasurably sincere--of these things he was certain. Beside her
+the two dozen schoolgirls and debutantes, young married women and waifs
+and strays whom he had known were so many females, in the word's most
+contemptuous sense, breeders and bearers, exuding still that faintly
+odorous atmosphere of the cave and the nursery.
+
+So far as he could see, she had neither submitted to any will of his nor
+caressed his vanity--except as her pleasure in his company was a caress.
+Indeed he had no reason for thinking she had given him aught that she
+did not give to others. This was as it should be. The idea of an
+entanglement growing out of the evening was as remote as it would have
+been repugnant. And she had disclaimed and buried the incident with a
+decisive untruth. Here were two young people with fancy enough to
+distinguish a game from its reality--who by the very casualness with
+which they met and passed on would proclaim themselves unharmed.
+
+Having decided this he went to the phone and called up the Plaza Hotel.
+
+Gloria was out. Her mother knew neither where she had gone nor when she
+would return.
+
+It was somehow at this point that the first wrongness in the case
+asserted itself. There was an element of callousness, almost of
+indecency, in Gloria's absence from home. He suspected that by going out
+she had intrigued him into a disadvantage. Returning she would find his
+name, and smile. Most discreetly! He should have waited a few hours in
+order to drive home the utter inconsequence with which he regarded the
+incident. What an asinine blunder! She would think he considered himself
+particularly favored. She would think he was reacting with the most
+inept intimacy to a quite trivial episode.
+
+He remembered that during the previous month his janitor, to whom he had
+delivered a rather muddled lecture on the "brother-hoove man," had come
+up next day and, on the basis of what had happened the night before,
+seated himself in the window seat for a cordial and chatty half-hour.
+Anthony wondered in horror if Gloria would regard him as he had regarded
+that man. Him--Anthony Patch! Horror!
+
+It never occurred to him that he was a passive thing, acted upon by an
+influence above and beyond Gloria, that he was merely the sensitive
+plate on which the photograph was made. Some gargantuan photographer had
+focussed the camera on Gloria and _snap_!--the poor plate could but
+develop, confined like all things to its nature.
+
+But Anthony, lying upon his couch and staring at the orange lamp, passed
+his thin fingers incessantly through his dark hair and made new symbols
+for the hours. She was in a shop now, it seemed, moving lithely among
+the velvets and the furs, her own dress making, as she walked, a
+debonair rustle in that world of silken rustles and cool soprano
+laughter and scents of many slain but living flowers. The Minnies and
+Pearls and jewels and jennies would gather round her like courtiers,
+bearing wispy frailties of Georgette crepe, delicate chiffon to echo her
+cheeks in faint pastel, milky lace to rest in pale disarray against her
+neck--damask was used but to cover priests and divans in these days, and
+cloth of Samarand was remembered only by the romantic poets.
+
+She would go elsewhere after a while, tilting her head a hundred ways
+under a hundred bonnets, seeking in vain for mock cherries to match her
+lips or plumes that were graceful as her own supple body.
+
+Noon would come--she would hurry along Fifth Avenue, a Nordic Ganymede,
+her fur coat swinging fashionably with her steps, her cheeks redder by a
+stroke of the wind's brush, her breath a delightful mist upon the
+bracing air--and the doors of the Ritz would revolve, the crowd would
+divide, fifty masculine eyes would start, stare, as she gave back
+forgotten dreams to the husbands of many obese and comic women.
+
+One o'clock. With her fork she would tantalize the heart of an adoring
+artichoke, while her escort served himself up in the thick, dripping
+sentences of an enraptured man.
+
+Four o'clock: her little feet moving to melody, her face distinct in the
+crowd, her partner happy as a petted puppy and mad as the immemorial
+hatter.... Then--then night would come drifting down and perhaps another
+damp. The signs would spill their light into the street. Who knew? No
+wiser than he, they haply sought to recapture that picture done in cream
+and shadow they had seen on the hushed Avenue the night before. And they
+might, ah, they might! A thousand taxis would yawn at a thousand
+corners, and only to him was that kiss forever lost and done. In a
+thousand guises Tha�s would hail a cab and turn up her face for loving.
+And her pallor would be virginal and lovely, and her kiss chaste as
+the moon....
+
+He sprang excitedly to his feet. How inappropriate that she should be
+out! He had realized at last what he wanted--to kiss her again, to find
+rest in her great immobility. She was the end of all restlessness, all
+malcontent.
+
+Anthony dressed and went out, as he should have done long before, and
+down to Richard Caramel's room to hear the last revision of the last
+chapter of "The Demon Lover." He did not call Gloria again until six. He
+did not find her in until eight and--oh, climax of anticlimaxes!--she
+could give him no engagement until Tuesday afternoon. A broken piece of
+gutta-percha clattered to the floor as he banged up the phone.
+
+
+BLACK MAGIC
+
+Tuesday was freezing cold. He called at a bleak two o'clock and as they
+shook hands he wondered confusedly whether he had ever kissed her; it
+was almost unbelievable--he seriously doubted if she remembered it.
+
+"I called you four times on Sunday," he told her.
+
+"Did you?"
+
+There was surprise in her voice and interest in her expression. Silently
+he cursed himself for having told her. He might have known her pride did
+not deal in such petty triumphs. Even then he had not guessed at the
+truth--that never having had to worry about men she had seldom used the
+wary subterfuges, the playings out and haulings in, that were the stock
+in trade of her sisterhood. When she liked a man, that was trick enough.
+Did she think she loved him--there was an ultimate and fatal thrust. Her
+charm endlessly preserved itself.
+
+"I was anxious to see you," he said simply. "I want to talk to you--I
+mean really talk, somewhere where we can be alone. May I?"
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+He swallowed a sudden lump of panic. He felt that she knew what he
+wanted.
+
+"I mean, not at a tea table," he said.
+
+"Well, all right, but not to-day. I want to get some exercise. Let's
+walk!"
+
+It was bitter and raw. All the evil hate in the mad heart of February
+was wrought into the forlorn and icy wind that cut its way cruelly
+across Central Park and down along Fifth Avenue. It was almost
+impossible to talk, and discomfort made him distracted, so much so that
+he turned at Sixty-first Street to find that she was no longer beside
+him. He looked around. She was forty feet in the rear standing
+motionless, her face half hidden in her fur coat collar, moved either by
+anger or laughter--he could not determine which. He started back.
+
+"Don't let me interrupt your walk!" she called.
+
+"I'm mighty sorry," he answered in confusion. "Did I go too fast?"
+
+"I'm cold," she announced. "I want to go home. And you walk too fast."
+
+"I'm very sorry."
+
+Side by side they started for the Plaza. He wished he could see her
+face.
+
+"Men don't usually get so absorbed in themselves when they're with me."
+
+"I'm sorry."
+
+"That's very interesting."
+
+"It _is_ rather too cold to walk," he said, briskly, to hide his
+annoyance.
+
+She made no answer and he wondered if she would dismiss him at the hotel
+entrance. She walked in without speaking, however, and to the elevator,
+throwing him a single remark as she entered it:
+
+"You'd better come up."
+
+He hesitated for the fraction of a moment.
+
+"Perhaps I'd better call some other time."
+
+"Just as you say." Her words were murmured as an aside. The main concern
+of life was the adjusting of some stray wisps of hair in the elevator
+mirror. Her cheeks were brilliant, her eyes sparkled--she had never
+seemed so lovely, so exquisitely to be desired.
+
+Despising himself, he found that he was walking down the tenth-floor
+corridor a subservient foot behind her; was in the sitting room while
+she disappeared to shed her furs. Something had gone wrong--in his own
+eyes he had lost a shred of dignity; in an unpremeditated yet
+significant encounter he had been completely defeated.
+
+However, by the time she reappeared in the sitting-room he had explained
+himself to himself with sophistic satisfaction. After all he had done
+the strongest thing, he thought. He had wanted to come up, he had come.
+Yet what happened later on that afternoon must be traced to the
+indignity he had experienced in the elevator; the girl was worrying him
+intolerably, so much so that when she came out he involuntarily drifted
+into criticism.
+
+"Who's this Bloeckman, Gloria?"
+
+"A business friend of father's."
+
+"Odd sort of fellow!"
+
+"He doesn't like you either," she said with a sudden smile.
+
+Anthony laughed.
+
+"I'm flattered at his notice. He evidently considers me a--" He broke
+off with "Is he in love with you?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"The deuce you don't," he insisted. "Of course he is. I remember the
+look he gave me when we got back to the table. He'd probably have had me
+quietly assaulted by a delegation of movie supes if you hadn't invented
+that phone call."
+
+"He didn't mind. I told him afterward what really happened."
+
+"You told him!"
+
+"He asked me."
+
+"I don't like that very well," he remonstrated.
+
+She laughed again.
+
+"Oh, you don't?"
+
+"What business is it of his?"
+
+"None. That's why I told him."
+
+Anthony in a turmoil bit savagely at his mouth.
+
+"Why should I lie?" she demanded directly. "I'm not ashamed of anything
+I do. It happened to interest him to know that I kissed you, and I
+happened to be in a good humor, so I satisfied his curiosity by a simple
+and precise 'yes.' Being rather a sensible man, after his fashion, he
+dropped the subject."
+
+"Except to say that he hated me."
+
+"Oh, it worries you? Well, if you must probe this stupendous matter to
+its depths he didn't say he hated you. I simply know he does."
+
+"It doesn't wor----"
+
+"Oh, let's drop it!" she cried spiritedly. "It's a most uninteresting
+matter to me."
+
+With a tremendous effort Anthony made his acquiescence a twist of
+subject, and they drifted into an ancient question-and-answer game
+concerned with each other's pasts, gradually warming as they discovered
+the age-old, immemorial resemblances in tastes and ideas. They said
+things that were more revealing than they intended--but each pretended
+to accept the other at face, or rather word, value.
+
+The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best
+picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood
+and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second
+portrait, and a third--before long the best lines cancel out--and the
+secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled
+and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a
+picture. We must be satisfied with hoping that such fatuous accounts of
+ourselves as we make to our wives and children and business associates
+are accepted as true.
+
+"It seems to me," Anthony was saying earnestly, "that the position of a
+man with neither necessity nor ambition is unfortunate. Heaven knows
+it'd be pathetic of me to be sorry for myself--yet, sometimes I
+envy Dick."
+
+Her silence was encouragement. It was as near as she ever came to an
+intentional lure.
+
+"--And there used to be dignified occupations for a gentleman who had
+leisure, things a little more constructive than filling up the landscape
+with smoke or juggling some one else's money. There's science, of
+course: sometimes I wish I'd taken a good foundation, say at Boston
+Tech. But now, by golly, I'd have to sit down for two years and struggle
+through the fundamentals of physics and chemistry."
+
+She yawned.
+
+"I've told you I don't know what anybody ought to do," she said
+ungraciously, and at her indifference his rancor was born again.
+
+"Aren't you interested in anything except yourself?"
+
+"Not much."
+
+He glared; his growing enjoyment in the conversation was ripped to
+shreds. She had been irritable and vindictive all day, and it seemed to
+him that for this moment he hated her hard selfishness. He stared
+morosely at the fire.
+
+Then a strange thing happened. She turned to him and smiled, and as he
+saw her smile every rag of anger and hurt vanity dropped from him--as
+though his very moods were but the outer ripples of her own, as though
+emotion rose no longer in his breast unless she saw fit to pull an
+omnipotent controlling thread.
+
+He moved closer and taking her hand pulled her ever so gently toward him
+until she half lay against his shoulder. She smiled up at him as he
+kissed her.
+
+"Gloria," he whispered very softly. Again she had made a magic, subtle
+and pervading as a spilt perfume, irresistible and sweet.
+
+Afterward, neither the next day nor after many years, could he remember
+the important things of that afternoon. Had she been moved? In his arms
+had she spoken a little--or at all? What measure of enjoyment had she
+taken in his kisses? And had she at any time lost herself ever
+so little?
+
+Oh, for him there was no doubt. He had risen and paced the floor in
+sheer ecstasy. That such a girl should be; should poise curled in a
+corner of the couch like a swallow newly landed from a clean swift
+flight, watching him with inscrutable eyes. He would stop his pacing
+and, half shy each time at first, drop his arm around her and find
+her kiss.
+
+She was fascinating, he told her. He had never met any one like her
+before. He besought her jauntily but earnestly to send him away; he
+didn't want to fall in love. He wasn't coming to see her any
+more--already she had haunted too many of his ways.
+
+What delicious romance! His true reaction was neither fear nor
+sorrow--only this deep delight in being with her that colored the
+banality of his words and made the mawkish seem sad and the posturing
+seem wise. He _would_ come back--eternally. He should have known!
+
+"This is all. It's been very rare to have known you, very strange and
+wonderful. But this wouldn't do--and wouldn't last." As he spoke there
+was in his heart that tremulousness that we take for sincerity in
+ourselves.
+
+Afterward he remembered one reply of hers to something he had asked her.
+He remembered it in this form--perhaps he had unconsciously arranged and
+polished it:
+
+"A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically
+without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress."
+
+As always when he was with her she seemed to grow gradually older until
+at the end ruminations too deep for words would be wintering in
+her eyes.
+
+An hour passed, and the fire leaped up in little ecstasies as though its
+fading life was sweet. It was five now, and the clock over the mantel
+became articulate in sound. Then as if a brutish sensibility in him was
+reminded by those thin, tinny beats that the petals were falling from
+the flowered afternoon, Anthony pulled her quickly to her feet and held
+her helpless, without breath, in a kiss that was neither a game nor
+a tribute.
+
+Her arms fell to her side. In an instant she was free.
+
+"Don't!" she said quietly. "I don't want that."
+
+She sat down on the far side of the lounge and gazed straight before
+her. A frown had gathered between her eyes. Anthony sank down beside her
+and closed his hand over hers. It was lifeless and unresponsive.
+
+"Why, Gloria!" He made a motion as if to put his arm about her but she
+drew away.
+
+"I don't want that," she repeated.
+
+"I'm very sorry," he said, a little impatiently. "I--I didn't know you
+made such fine distinctions."
+
+She did not answer.
+
+"Won't you kiss me, Gloria?"
+
+"I don't want to." It seemed to him she had not moved for hours.
+
+"A sudden change, isn't it?" Annoyance was growing in his voice.
+
+"Is it?" She appeared uninterested. It was almost as though she were
+looking at some one else.
+
+"Perhaps I'd better go."
+
+No reply. He rose and regarded her angrily, uncertainly. Again he sat
+down.
+
+"Gloria, Gloria, won't you kiss me?"
+
+"No." Her lips, parting for the word, had just faintly stirred.
+
+Again he got to his feet, this time with less decision, less confidence.
+
+"Then I'll go."
+
+Silence.
+
+"All right--I'll go."
+
+He was aware of a certain irremediable lack of originality in his
+remarks. Indeed he felt that the whole atmosphere had grown oppressive.
+He wished she would speak, rail at him, cry out upon him, anything but
+this pervasive and chilling silence. He cursed himself for a weak fool;
+his clearest desire was to move her, to hurt her, to see her wince.
+Helplessly, involuntarily, he erred again.
+
+"If you're tired of kissing me I'd better go."
+
+He saw her lips curl slightly and his last dignity left him. She spoke,
+at length:
+
+"I believe you've made that remark several times before."
+
+He looked about him immediately, saw his hat and coat on a
+chair--blundered into them, during an intolerable moment. Looking again
+at the couch he perceived that she had not turned, not even moved. With
+a shaken, immediately regretted "good-by" he went quickly but without
+dignity from the room.
+
+For over a moment Gloria made no sound. Her lips were still curled; her
+glance was straight, proud, remote. Then her eyes blurred a little, and
+she murmured three words half aloud to the death-bound fire:
+
+"Good-by, you ass!" she said.
+
+
+PANIC
+
+The man had had the hardest blow of his life. He knew at last what he
+wanted, but in finding it out it seemed that he had put it forever
+beyond his grasp. He reached home in misery, dropped into an armchair
+without even removing his overcoat, and sat there for over an hour, his
+mind racing the paths of fruitless and wretched self-absorption. She had
+sent him away! That was the reiterated burden of his despair. Instead of
+seizing the girl and holding her by sheer strength until she became
+passive to his desire, instead of beating down her will by the force of
+his own, he had walked, defeated and powerless, from her door, with the
+corners of his mouth drooping and what force there might have been in
+his grief and rage hidden behind the manner of a whipped schoolboy. At
+one minute she had liked him tremendously--ah, she had nearly loved him.
+In the next he had become a thing of indifference to her, an insolent
+and efficiently humiliated man.
+
+He had no great self-reproach--some, of course, but there were other
+things dominant in him now, far more urgent. He was not so much in love
+with Gloria as mad for her. Unless he could have her near him again,
+kiss her, hold her close and acquiescent, he wanted nothing more from
+life. By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had
+lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to
+be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts
+varied between a passionate desire for her kisses and an equally
+passionate craving to hurt and mar her, the residue of his mind craved
+in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through
+those three minutes. She was beautiful--but especially she was without
+mercy. He must own that strength that could send him away.
+
+At present no such analysis was possible to Anthony. His clarity of
+mind, all those endless resources which he thought his irony had brought
+him were swept aside. Not only for that night but for the days and weeks
+that followed his books were to be but furniture and his friends only
+people who lived and walked in a nebulous outer world from which he was
+trying to escape--that world was cold and full of bleak wind, and for a
+little while he had seen into a warm house where fires shone.
+
+About midnight he began to realize that he was hungry. He went down into
+Fifty-second Street, where it was so cold that he could scarcely see;
+the moisture froze on his lashes and in the corners of his lips.
+Everywhere dreariness had come down from the north, settling upon the
+thin and cheerless street, where black bundled figures blacker still
+against the night, moved stumbling along the sidewalk through the
+shrieking wind, sliding their feet cautiously ahead as though they were
+on skis. Anthony turned over toward Sixth Avenue, so absorbed in his
+thoughts as not to notice that several passers-by had stared at him. His
+overcoat was wide open, and the wind was biting in, hard and full of
+merciless death.
+
+... After a while a waitress spoke to him, a fat waitress with
+black-rimmed eye-glasses from which dangled a long black cord.
+
+"Order, please!"
+
+Her voice, he considered, was unnecessarily loud. He looked up
+resentfully.
+
+"You wanna order or doncha?"
+
+"Of course," he protested.
+
+"Well, I ast you three times. This ain't no rest-room."
+
+He glanced at the big clock and discovered with a start that it was
+after two. He was down around Thirtieth Street somewhere, and after a
+moment he found and translated the
+
+[Illustration: S'DLIHC]
+[Transcribers note: The illustration shows the word "CHILD's" in mirror
+image.]
+
+in a white semicircle of letters upon the glass front. The place was
+inhabited sparsely by three or four bleak and half-frozen night-hawks.
+
+"Give me some bacon and eggs and coffee, please."
+
+The waitress bent upon him a last disgusted glance and, looking
+ludicrously intellectual in her corded glasses, hurried away.
+
+God! Gloria's kisses had been such flowers. He remembered as though it
+had been years ago the low freshness of her voice, the beautiful lines
+of her body shining through her clothes, her face lily-colored under the
+lamps of the street--under the lamps.
+
+Misery struck at him again, piling a sort of terror upon the ache and
+yearning. He had lost her. It was true--no denying it, no softening it.
+But a new idea had seared his sky--what of Bloeckman! What would happen
+now? There was a wealthy man, middle-aged enough to be tolerant with a
+beautiful wife, to baby her whims and indulge her unreason, to wear her
+as she perhaps wished to be worn--a bright flower in his button-hole,
+safe and secure from the things she feared. He felt that she had been
+playing with the idea of marrying Bloeckman, and it was well possible
+that this disappointment in Anthony might throw her on sudden impulse
+into Bloeckman's arms.
+
+The idea drove him childishly frantic. He wanted to kill Bloeckman and
+make him suffer for his hideous presumption. He was saying this over and
+over to himself with his teeth tight shut, and a perfect orgy of hate
+and fright in his eyes.
+
+But, behind this obscene jealousy, Anthony was in love at last,
+profoundly and truly in love, as the word goes between man and woman.
+
+His coffee appeared at his elbow and gave off for a certain time a
+gradually diminishing wisp of steam. The night manager, seated at his
+desk, glanced at the motionless figure alone at the last table, and then
+with a sigh moved down upon him just as the hour hand crossed the figure
+three on the big clock.
+
+
+WISDOM
+
+After another day the turmoil subsided and Anthony began to exercise a
+measure of reason. He was in love--he cried it passionately to himself.
+The things that a week before would have seemed insuperable obstacles,
+his limited income, his desire to be irresponsible and independent, had
+in this forty hours become the merest chaff before the wind of his
+infatuation. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody
+on his own adolescence. To be able to face people and to endure the
+constant reminder of Gloria that all existence had become, it was
+necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately and
+tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be
+sure, a hope that was cracked and dissipated a dozen times a day, a hope
+mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn and
+sinew to his self-respect.
+
+Out of this developed a spark of wisdom, a true perception of his own
+from out the effortless past.
+
+"Memory is short," he thought.
+
+So very short. At the crucial point the Trust President is on the stand,
+a potential criminal needing but one push to be a jailbird, scorned by
+the upright for leagues around. Let him be acquitted--and in a year all
+is forgotten. "Yes, he did have some trouble once, just a technicality,
+I believe." Oh, memory is very short!
+
+Anthony had seen Gloria altogether about a dozen times, say two dozen
+hours. Supposing he left her alone for a month, made no attempt to see
+her or speak to her, and avoided every place where she might possibly
+be. Wasn't it possible, the more possible because she had never loved
+him, that at the end of that time the rush of events would efface his
+personality from her conscious mind, and with his personality his
+offense and humiliation? She would forget, for there would be other men.
+He winced. The implication struck out at him--other men. Two
+months--God! Better three weeks, two weeks----
+
+He thought this the second evening after the catastrophe when he was
+undressing, and at this point he threw himself down on the bed and lay
+there, trembling very slightly and looking at the top of the canopy.
+
+Two weeks--that was worse than no time at all. In two weeks he would
+approach her much as he would have to now, without personality or
+confidence--remaining still the man who had gone too far and then for a
+period that in time was but a moment but in fact an eternity, whined.
+No, two weeks was too short a time. Whatever poignancy there had been
+for her in that afternoon must have time to dull. He must give her a
+period when the incident should fade, and then a new period when she
+should gradually begin to think of him, no matter how dimly, with a true
+perspective that would remember his pleasantness as well as his
+humiliation.
+
+He fixed, finally, on six weeks as approximately the interval best
+suited to his purpose, and on a desk calendar he marked the days off,
+finding that it would fall on the ninth of April. Very well, on that day
+he would phone and ask her if he might call. Until then--silence.
+
+After his decision a gradual improvement was manifest. He had taken at
+least a step in the direction to which hope pointed, and he realized
+that the less he brooded upon her the better he would be able to give
+the desired impression when they met.
+
+In another hour he fell into a deep sleep.
+
+
+THE INTERVAL
+
+Nevertheless, though, as the days passed, the glory of her hair dimmed
+perceptibly for him and in a year of separation might have departed
+completely, the six weeks held many abominable days. He dreaded the
+sight of Dick and Maury, imagining wildly that they knew all--but when
+the three met it was Richard Caramel and not Anthony who was the centre
+of attention; "The Demon Lover" had been accepted for immediate
+publication. Anthony felt that from now on he moved apart. He no longer
+craved the warmth and security of Maury's society which had cheered him
+no further back than November. Only Gloria could give that now and no
+one else ever again. So Dick's success rejoiced him only casually and
+worried him not a little. It meant that the world was going
+ahead--writing and reading and publishing--and living. And he wanted the
+world to wait motionless and breathless for six weeks--while
+Gloria forgot.
+
+
+TWO ENCOUNTERS
+
+His greatest satisfaction was in Geraldine's company. He took her once
+to dinner and the theatre and entertained her several times in his
+apartment. When he was with her she absorbed him, not as Gloria had, but
+quieting those erotic sensibilities in him that worried over Gloria. It
+didn't matter how he kissed Geraldine. A kiss was a kiss--to be enjoyed
+to the utmost for its short moment. To Geraldine things belonged in
+definite pigeonholes: a kiss was one thing, anything further was quite
+another; a kiss was all right; the other things were "bad."
+
+When half the interval was up two incidents occurred on successive days
+that upset his increasing calm and caused a temporary relapse.
+
+The first was--he saw Gloria. It was a short meeting. Both bowed. Both
+spoke, yet neither heard the other. But when it was over Anthony read
+down a column of The Sun three times in succession without understanding
+a single sentence.
+
+One would have thought Sixth Avenue a safe street! Having forsworn his
+barber at the Plaza he went around the corner one morning to be shaved,
+and while waiting his turn he took off coat and vest, and with his soft
+collar open at the neck stood near the front of the shop. The day was an
+oasis in the cold desert of March and the sidewalk was cheerful with a
+population of strolling sun-worshippers. A stout woman upholstered in
+velvet, her flabby cheeks too much massaged, swirled by with her poodle
+straining at its leash--the effect being given of a tug bringing in an
+ocean liner. Just behind them a man in a striped blue suit, walking
+slue-footed in white-spatted feet, grinned at the sight and catching
+Anthony's eye, winked through the glass. Anthony laughed, thrown
+immediately into that humor in which men and women were graceless and
+absurd phantasms, grotesquely curved and rounded in a rectangular world
+of their own building. They inspired the same sensations in him as did
+those strange and monstrous fish who inhabit the esoteric world of green
+in the aquarium.
+
+Two more strollers caught his eye casually, a man and a girl--then in a
+horrified instant the girl resolved herself into Gloria. He stood here
+powerless; they came nearer and Gloria, glancing in, saw him. Her eyes
+widened and she smiled politely. Her lips moved. She was less than five
+feet away.
+
+"How do you do?" he muttered inanely.
+
+Gloria, happy, beautiful, and young--with a man he had never seen
+before!
+
+It was then that the barber's chair was vacated and he read down the
+newspaper column three times in succession.
+
+The second incident took place the next day. Going into the Manhattan
+bar about seven he was confronted with Bloeckman. As it happened, the
+room was nearly deserted, and before the mutual recognition he had
+stationed himself within a foot of the older man and ordered his drink,
+so it was inevitable that they should converse.
+
+"Hello, Mr. Patch," said Bloeckman amiably enough.
+
+Anthony took the proffered hand and exchanged a few aphorisms on the
+fluctuations of the mercury.
+
+"Do you come in here much?" inquired Bloeckman.
+
+"No, very seldom." He omitted to add that the Plaza bar had, until
+lately, been his favorite.
+
+"Nice bar. One of the best bars in town."
+
+Anthony nodded. Bloeckman emptied his glass and picked up his cane. He
+was in evening dress.
+
+"Well, I'll be hurrying on. I'm going to dinner with Miss Gilbert."
+
+Death looked suddenly out at him from two blue eyes. Had he announced
+himself as his vis-�-vis's prospective murderer he could not have struck
+a more vital blow at Anthony. The younger man must have reddened
+visibly, for his every nerve was in instant clamor. With tremendous
+effort he mustered a rigid--oh, so rigid--smile, and said a conventional
+good-by. But that night he lay awake until after four, half wild with
+grief and fear and abominable imaginings.
+
+
+WEAKNESS
+
+And one day in the fifth week he called her up. He had been sitting in
+his apartment trying to read "L'Education Sentimental," and something in
+the book had sent his thoughts racing in the direction that, set free,
+they always took, like horses racing for a home stable. With suddenly
+quickened breath he walked to the telephone. When he gave the number it
+seemed to him that his voice faltered and broke like a schoolboy's. The
+Central must have heard the pounding of his heart. The sound of the
+receiver being taken up at the other end was a crack of doom, and Mrs.
+Gilbert's voice, soft as maple syrup running into a glass container, had
+for him a quality of horror in its single "Hello-o-ah?"
+
+"Miss Gloria's not feeling well. She's lying down, asleep. Who shall I
+say called?"
+
+"Nobody!" he shouted.
+
+In a wild panic he slammed down the receiver; collapsed into his
+armchair in the cold sweat of breathless relief.
+
+
+SERENADE
+
+The first thing he said to her was: "Why, you've bobbed your hair!" and
+she answered: "Yes, isn't it gorgeous?"
+
+It was not fashionable then. It was to be fashionable in five or six
+years. At that time it was considered extremely daring.
+
+"It's all sunshine outdoors," he said gravely. "Don't you want to take a
+walk?"
+
+She put on a light coat and a quaintly piquant Napoleon hat of Alice
+Blue, and they walked along the Avenue and into the Zoo, where they
+properly admired the grandeur of the elephant and the collar-height of
+the giraffe, but did not visit the monkey house because Gloria said that
+monkeys smelt so bad.
+
+Then they returned toward the Plaza, talking about nothing, but glad for
+the spring singing in the air and for the warm balm that lay upon the
+suddenly golden city. To their right was the Park, while at the left a
+great bulk of granite and marble muttered dully a millionaire's chaotic
+message to whosoever would listen: something about "I worked and I saved
+and I was sharper than all Adam and here I sit, by golly, by golly!"
+
+All the newest and most beautiful designs in automobiles were out on
+Fifth Avenue, and ahead of them the Plaza loomed up rather unusually
+white and attractive. The supple, indolent Gloria walked a short
+shadow's length ahead of him, pouring out lazy casual comments that
+floated a moment on the dazzling air before they reached his ear.
+
+"Oh!" she cried, "I want to go south to Hot Springs! I want to get out
+in the air and just roll around on the new grass and forget there's ever
+been any winter."
+
+"Don't you, though!"
+
+"I want to hear a million robins making a frightful racket. I sort of
+like birds."
+
+"All women _are_ birds," he ventured.
+
+"What kind am I?"--quick and eager.
+
+"A swallow, I think, and sometimes a bird of paradise. Most girls are
+sparrows, of course--see that row of nurse-maids over there? They're
+sparrows--or are they magpies? And of course you've met canary
+girls--and robin girls."
+
+"And swan girls and parrot girls. All grown women are hawks, I think, or
+owls."
+
+"What am I--a buzzard?"
+
+She laughed and shook her head.
+
+"Oh, no, you're not a bird at all, do you think? You're a Russian
+wolfhound."
+
+Anthony remembered that they were white and always looked unnaturally
+hungry. But then they were usually photographed with dukes and
+princesses, so he was properly flattered.
+
+"Dick's a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier," she continued.
+
+"And Maury's a cat." Simultaneously it occurred to him how like
+Bloeckman was to a robust and offensive hog. But he preserved a
+discreet silence.
+
+Later, as they parted, Anthony asked when he might see her again.
+
+"Don't you ever make long engagements?" he pleaded, "even if it's a week
+ahead, I think it'd be fun to spend a whole day together, morning and
+afternoon both."
+
+"It would be, wouldn't it?" She thought for a moment. "Let's do it next
+Sunday."
+
+"All right. I'll map out a programme that'll take up every minute."
+
+He did. He even figured to a nicety what would happen in the two hours
+when she would come to his apartment for tea: how the good Bounds would
+have the windows wide to let in the fresh breeze--but a fire going also
+lest there be chill in the air--and how there would be clusters of
+flowers about in big cool bowls that he would buy for the occasion. They
+would sit on the lounge.
+
+And when the day came they did sit upon the lounge. After a while
+Anthony kissed her because it came about quite naturally; he found
+sweetness sleeping still upon her lips, and felt that he had never been
+away. The fire was bright and the breeze sighing in through the curtains
+brought a mellow damp, promising May and world of summer. His soul
+thrilled to remote harmonies; he heard the strum of far guitars and
+waters lapping on a warm Mediterranean shore--for he was young now as he
+would never be again, and more triumphant than death.
+
+Six o'clock stole down too soon and rang the querulous melody of St.
+Anne's chimes on the corner. Through the gathering dusk they strolled to
+the Avenue, where the crowds, like prisoners released, were walking with
+elastic step at last after the long winter, and the tops of the busses
+were thronged with congenial kings and the shops full of fine soft
+things for the summer, the rare summer, the gay promising summer that
+seemed for love what the winter was for money. Life was singing for his
+supper on the corner! Life was handing round cocktails in the street! Old
+women there were in that crowd who felt that they could have run and won
+a hundred-yard dash!
+
+In bed that night with the lights out and the cool room swimming with
+moonlight, Anthony lay awake and played with every minute of the day
+like a child playing in turn with each one of a pile of long-wanted
+Christmas toys. He had told her gently, almost in the middle of a kiss,
+that he loved her, and she had smiled and held him closer and murmured,
+"I'm glad," looking into his eyes. There had been a new quality in her
+attitude, a new growth of sheer physical attraction toward him and a
+strange emotional tenseness, that was enough to make him clinch his
+hands and draw in his breath at the recollection. He had felt nearer to
+her than ever before. In a rare delight he cried aloud to the room that
+he loved her.
+
+He phoned next morning--no hesitation now, no uncertainty--instead a
+delirious excitement that doubled and trebled when he heard her voice:
+
+"Good morning--Gloria."
+
+"Good morning."
+
+"That's all I called you up to say-dear."
+
+"I'm glad you did."
+
+"I wish I could see you."
+
+"You will, to-morrow night."
+
+"That's a long time, isn't it?"
+
+"Yes--" Her voice was reluctant. His hand tightened on the receiver.
+
+"Couldn't I come to-night?" He dared anything in the glory and
+revelation of that almost whispered "yes."
+
+"I have a date."
+
+"Oh--"
+
+"But I might--I might be able to break it."
+
+"Oh!"--a sheer cry, a rhapsody. "Gloria?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"I love you."
+
+Another pause and then:
+
+"I--I'm glad."
+
+Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after
+the alleviation of some especially intense misery. But oh, Anthony's
+face as he walked down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza that night!
+His dark eyes were gleaming--around his mouth were lines it was a
+kindness to see. He was handsome then if never before, bound for one of
+those immortal moments which come so radiantly that their remembered
+light is enough to see by for years.
+
+He knocked and, at a word, entered. Gloria, dressed in simple pink,
+starched and fresh as a flower, was across the room, standing very
+still, and looking at him wide-eyed.
+
+As he closed the door behind him she gave a little cry and moved swiftly
+over the intervening space, her arms rising in a premature caress as she
+came near. Together they crushed out the stiff folds of her dress in one
+triumphant and enduring embrace.
+
+
+
+
+
+BOOK TWO
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+THE RADIANT HOUR
+
+After a fortnight Anthony and Gloria began to indulge in "practical
+discussions," as they called those sessions when under the guise of
+severe realism they walked in an eternal moonlight.
+
+"Not as much as I do you," the critic of belles-lettres would insist.
+"If you really loved me you'd want every one to know it."
+
+"I do," she protested; "I want to stand on the street corner like a
+sandwich man, informing all the passers-by."
+
+"Then tell me all the reasons why you're going to marry me in June."
+
+"Well, because you're so clean. You're sort of blowy clean, like I am.
+There's two sorts, you know. One's like Dick: he's clean like polished
+pans. You and I are clean like streams and winds. I can tell whenever I
+see a person whether he is clean, and if so, which kind of clean he is."
+
+"We're twins."
+
+Ecstatic thought!
+
+"Mother says"--she hesitated uncertainly--"mother says that two souls
+are sometimes created together and--and in love before they're born."
+
+Bilphism gained its easiest convert.... After a while he lifted up his
+head and laughed soundlessly toward the ceiling. When his eyes came back
+to her he saw that she was angry.
+
+"Why did you laugh?" she cried, "you've done that twice before. There's
+nothing funny about our relation to each other. I don't mind playing the
+fool, and I don't mind having you do it, but I can't stand it when we're
+together."
+
+"I'm sorry."
+
+"Oh, don't say you're sorry! If you can't think of anything better than
+that, just keep quiet!"
+
+"I love you."
+
+"I don't care."
+
+There was a pause. Anthony was depressed.... At length Gloria murmured:
+
+"I'm sorry I was mean."
+
+"You weren't. I was the one."
+
+Peace was restored--the ensuing moments were so much more sweet and
+sharp and poignant. They were stars on this stage, each playing to an
+audience of two: the passion of their pretense created the actuality.
+Here, finally, was the quintessence of self-expression--yet it was
+probable that for the most part their love expressed Gloria rather than
+Anthony. He felt often like a scarcely tolerated guest at a party she
+was giving.
+
+Telling Mrs. Gilbert had been an embarrassed matter. She sat stuffed
+into a small chair and listened with an intense and very blinky sort of
+concentration. She must have known it--for three weeks Gloria had seen
+no one else--and she must have noticed that this time there was an
+authentic difference in her daughter's attitude. She had been given
+special deliveries to post; she had heeded, as all mothers seem to heed,
+the hither end of telephone conversations, disguised but still
+rather warm--
+
+--Yet she had delicately professed surprise and declared herself
+immensely pleased; she doubtless was; so were the geranium plants
+blossoming in the window-boxes, and so were the cabbies when the lovers
+sought the romantic privacy of hansom cabs--quaint device--and the staid
+bill of fares on which they scribbled "you know I do," pushing it over
+for the other to see.
+
+But between kisses Anthony and this golden girl quarrelled incessantly.
+
+"Now, Gloria," he would cry, "please let me explain!"
+
+"Don't explain. Kiss me."
+
+"I don't think that's right. If I hurt your feelings we ought to discuss
+it. I don't like this kiss-and-forget."
+
+"But I don't want to argue. I think it's wonderful that we _can_ kiss
+and forget, and when we can't it'll be time to argue."
+
+At one time some gossamer difference attained such bulk that Anthony
+arose and punched himself into his overcoat--for a moment it appeared
+that the scene of the preceding February was to be repeated, but knowing
+how deeply she was moved he retained his dignity with his pride, and in
+a moment Gloria was sobbing in his arms, her lovely face miserable as a
+frightened little girl's.
+
+Meanwhile they kept unfolding to each other, unwillingly, by curious
+reactions and evasions, by distastes and prejudices and unintended hints
+of the past. The girl was proudly incapable of jealousy and, because he
+was extremely jealous, this virtue piqued him. He told her recondite
+incidents of his own life on purpose to arouse some spark of it, but to
+no avail. She possessed him now--nor did she desire the dead years.
+
+"Oh, Anthony," she would say, "always when I'm mean to you I'm sorry
+afterward. I'd give my right hand to save you one little moment's pain."
+
+And in that instant her eyes were brimming and she was not aware that
+she was voicing an illusion. Yet Anthony knew that there were days when
+they hurt each other purposely--taking almost a delight in the thrust.
+Incessantly she puzzled him: one hour so intimate and charming, striving
+desperately toward an unguessed, transcendent union; the next, silent
+and cold, apparently unmoved by any consideration of their love or
+anything he could say. Often he would eventually trace these portentous
+reticences to some physical discomfort--of these she never complained
+until they were over--or to some carelessness or presumption in him, or
+to an unsatisfactory dish at dinner, but even then the means by which
+she created the infinite distances she spread about herself were a
+mystery, buried somewhere back in those twenty-two years of
+unwavering pride.
+
+"Why do you like Muriel?" he demanded one day.
+
+"I don't very much."
+
+"Then why do you go with her?"
+
+"Just for some one to go with. They're no exertion, those girls. They
+sort of believe everything I tell them--but I rather like Rachael. I
+think she's cute--and so clean and slick, don't you? I used to have
+other friends--in Kansas City and at school--casual, all of them, girls
+who just flitted into my range and out of it for no more reason than
+that boys took us places together. They didn't interest me after
+environment stopped throwing us together. Now they're mostly married.
+What does it matter--they were all just people."
+
+"You like men better, don't you?"
+
+"Oh, much better. I've got a man's mind."
+
+"You've got a mind like mine. Not strongly gendered either way."
+
+Later she told him about the beginnings of her friendship with
+Bloeckman. One day in Delmonico's, Gloria and Rachael had come upon
+Bloeckman and Mr. Gilbert having luncheon and curiosity had impelled her
+to make it a party of four. She had liked him--rather. He was a relief
+from younger men, satisfied as he was with so little. He humored her and
+he laughed, whether he understood her or not. She met him several times,
+despite the open disapproval of her parents, and within a month he had
+asked her to marry him, tendering her everything from a villa in Italy
+to a brilliant career on the screen. She had laughed in his face--and he
+had laughed too.
+
+But he had not given up. To the time of Anthony's arrival in the arena
+he had been making steady progress. She treated him rather well--except
+that she had called him always by an invidious nickname--perceiving,
+meanwhile, that he was figuratively following along beside her as she
+walked the fence, ready to catch her if she should fall.
+
+The night before the engagement was announced she told Bloeckman. It was
+a heavy blow. She did not enlighten Anthony as to the details, but she
+implied that he had not hesitated to argue with her. Anthony gathered
+that the interview had terminated on a stormy note, with Gloria very
+cool and unmoved lying in her corner of the sofa and Joseph Bloeckman of
+"Films Par Excellence" pacing the carpet with eyes narrowed and head
+bowed. Gloria had been sorry for him but she had judged it best not to
+show it. In a final burst of kindness she had tried to make him hate
+her, there at the last. But Anthony, understanding that Gloria's
+indifference was her strongest appeal, judged how futile this must have
+been. He wondered, often but quite casually, about Bloeckman--finally he
+forgot him entirely.
+
+
+HEYDAY
+
+One afternoon they found front seats on the sunny roof of a bus and rode
+for hours from the fading Square up along the sullied river, and then,
+as the stray beams fled the westward streets, sailed down the turgid
+Avenue, darkening with ominous bees from the department stores. The
+traffic was clotted and gripped in a patternless jam; the busses were
+packed four deep like platforms above the crowd as they waited for the
+moan of the traffic whistle.
+
+"Isn't it good!" cried Gloria. "Look!"
+
+A miller's wagon, stark white with flour, driven by a powdery clown,
+passed in front of them behind a white horse and his black team-mate.
+
+"What a pity!" she complained; "they'd look so beautiful in the dusk, if
+only both horses were white. I'm mighty happy just this minute, in
+this city."
+
+Anthony shook his head in disagreement.
+
+"I think the city's a mountebank. Always struggling to approach the
+tremendous and impressive urbanity ascribed to it. Trying to be
+romantically metropolitan."
+
+"I don't. I think it is impressive."
+
+"Momentarily. But it's really a transparent, artificial sort of
+spectacle. It's got its press-agented stars and its flimsy, unenduring
+stage settings and, I'll admit, the greatest army of supers ever
+assembled--" He paused, laughed shortly, and added: "Technically
+excellent, perhaps, but not convincing."
+
+"I'll bet policemen think people are fools," said Gloria thoughtfully,
+as she watched a large but cowardly lady being helped across the street.
+"He always sees them frightened and inefficient and old--they are," she
+added. And then: "We'd better get off. I told mother I'd have an early
+supper and go to bed. She says I look tired, damn it."
+
+"I wish we were married," he muttered soberly; "there'll be no good
+night then and we can do just as we want."
+
+"Won't it be good! I think we ought to travel a lot. I want to go to the
+Mediterranean and Italy. And I'd like to go on the stage some time--say
+for about a year."
+
+"You bet. I'll write a play for you."
+
+"Won't that be good! And I'll act in it. And then some time when we have
+more money"--old Adam's death was always thus tactfully alluded
+to--"we'll build a magnificent estate, won't we?"
+
+"Oh, yes, with private swimming pools."
+
+"Dozens of them. And private rivers. Oh, I wish it were now."
+
+Odd coincidence--he had just been wishing that very thing. They plunged
+like divers into the dark eddying crowd and emerging in the cool fifties
+sauntered indolently homeward, infinitely romantic to each other ...
+both were walking alone in a dispassionate garden with a ghost found
+in a dream.
+
+Halcyon days like boats drifting along slow-moving rivers; spring
+evenings full of a plaintive melancholy that made the past beautiful and
+bitter, bidding them look back and see that the loves of other summers
+long gone were dead with the forgotten waltzes of their years. Always
+the most poignant moments were when some artificial barrier kept them
+apart: in the theatre their hands would steal together, join, give and
+return gentle pressures through the long dark; in crowded rooms they
+would form words with their lips for each other's eyes--not knowing that
+they were but following in the footsteps of dusty generations but
+comprehending dimly that if truth is the end of life happiness is a mode
+of it, to be cherished in its brief and tremulous moment. And then, one
+fairy night, May became June. Sixteen days now--fifteen--fourteen----
+
+
+THREE DIGRESSIONS
+
+Just before the engagement was announced Anthony had gone up to
+Tarrytown to see his grandfather, who, a little more wizened and grizzly
+as time played its ultimate chuckling tricks, greeted the news with
+profound cynicism.
+
+"Oh, you're going to get married, are you?" He said this with such a
+dubious mildness and shook his head up and down so many times that
+Anthony was not a little depressed. While he was unaware of his
+grandfather's intentions he presumed that a large part of the money
+would come to him. A good deal would go in charities, of course; a good
+deal to carry on the business of reform.
+
+"Are you going to work?"
+
+"Why--" temporized Anthony, somewhat disconcerted. "I _am_ working. You
+know--"
+
+"Ah, I mean work," said Adam Patch dispassionately.
+
+"I'm not quite sure yet what I'll do. I'm not exactly a beggar, grampa,"
+he asserted with some spirit.
+
+The old man considered this with eyes half closed. Then almost
+apologetically he asked:
+
+"How much do you save a year?"
+
+"Nothing so far--"
+
+"And so after just managing to get along on your money you've decided
+that by some miracle two of you can get along on it."
+
+"Gloria has some money of her own. Enough to buy clothes."
+
+"How much?"
+
+Without considering this question impertinent, Anthony answered it.
+
+"About a hundred a month."
+
+"That's altogether about seventy-five hundred a year." Then he added
+softly: "It ought to be plenty. If you have any sense it ought to be
+plenty. But the question is whether you have any or not."
+
+"I suppose it is." It was shameful to be compelled to endure this pious
+browbeating from the old man, and his next words were stiffened with
+vanity. "I can manage very well. You seem convinced that I'm utterly
+worthless. At any rate I came up here simply to tell you that I'm
+getting married in June. Good-by, sir." With this he turned away and
+headed for the door, unaware that in that instant his grandfather, for
+the first time, rather liked him.
+
+"Wait!" called Adam Patch, "I want to talk to you."
+
+Anthony faced about.
+
+"Well, sir?"
+
+"Sit down. Stay all night."
+
+Somewhat mollified, Anthony resumed his seat.
+
+"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to see Gloria to-night."
+
+"What's her name?"
+
+"Gloria Gilbert."
+
+"New York girl? Someone you know?"
+
+"She's from the Middle West."
+
+"What business her father in?"
+
+"In a celluloid corporation or trust or something. They're from Kansas
+City."
+
+"You going to be married out there?"
+
+"Why, no, sir. We thought we'd be married in New York--rather quietly."
+
+"Like to have the wedding out here?"
+
+Anthony hesitated. The suggestion made no appeal to him, but it was
+certainly the part of wisdom to give the old man, if possible, a
+proprietary interest in his married life. In addition Anthony was a
+little touched.
+
+"That's very kind of you, grampa, but wouldn't it be a lot of trouble?"
+
+"Everything's a lot of trouble. Your father was married here--but in the
+old house."
+
+"Why--I thought he was married in Boston."
+
+Adam Patch considered.
+
+"That's true. He _was_ married in Boston."
+
+Anthony felt a moment's embarrassment at having made the correction, and
+he covered it up with words.
+
+"Well, I'll speak to Gloria about it. Personally I'd like to, but of
+course it's up to the Gilberts, you see."
+
+His grandfather drew a long sigh, half closed his eyes, and sank back in
+his chair.
+
+"In a hurry?" he asked in a different tone.
+
+"Not especially."
+
+"I wonder," began Adam Patch, looking out with a mild, kindly glance at
+the lilac bushes that rustled against the windows, "I wonder if you ever
+think about the after-life."
+
+"Why--sometimes."
+
+"I think a great deal about the after-life." His eyes were dim but his
+voice was confident and clear. "I was sitting here to-day thinking about
+what's lying in wait for us, and somehow I began to remember an
+afternoon nearly sixty-five years ago, when I was playing with my little
+sister Annie, down where that summer-house is now." He pointed out into
+the long flower-garden, his eyes trembling of tears, his voice shaking.
+
+"I began thinking--and it seemed to me that _you_ ought to think a
+little more about the after-life. You ought to be--steadier"--he paused
+and seemed to grope about for the right word--"more industrious--why--"
+
+Then his expression altered, his entire personality seemed to snap
+together like a trap, and when he continued the softness had gone from
+his voice.
+
+"--Why, when I was just two years older than you," he rasped with a
+cunning chuckle, "I sent three members of the firm of Wrenn and Hunt to
+the poorhouse."
+
+Anthony started with embarrassment.
+
+"Well, good-by," added his grandfather suddenly, "you'll miss your
+train."
+
+Anthony left the house unusually elated, and strangely sorry for the old
+man; not because his wealth could buy him "neither youth nor digestion"
+but because he had asked Anthony to be married there, and because he had
+forgotten something about his son's wedding that he should have
+remembered.
+
+Richard Caramel, who was one of the ushers, caused Anthony and Gloria
+much distress in the last few weeks by continually stealing the rays of
+their spot-light. "The Demon Lover" had been published in April, and it
+interrupted the love affair as it may be said to have interrupted
+everything its author came in contact with. It was a highly original,
+rather overwritten piece of sustained description concerned with a Don
+Juan of the New York slums. As Maury and Anthony had said before, as the
+more hospitable critics were saying then, there was no writer in America
+with such power to describe the atavistic and unsubtle reactions of that
+section of society.
+
+The book hesitated and then suddenly "went." Editions, small at first,
+then larger, crowded each other week by week. A spokesman of the
+Salvation Army denounced it as a cynical misrepresentation of all the
+uplift taking place in the underworld. Clever press-agenting spread the
+unfounded rumor that "Gypsy" Smith was beginning a libel suit because
+one of the principal characters was a burlesque of himself. It was
+barred from the public library of Burlington, Iowa, and a Mid-Western
+columnist announced by innuendo that Richard Caramel was in a sanitarium
+with delirium tremens.
+
+The author, indeed, spent his days in a state of pleasant madness. The
+book was in his conversation three-fourths of the time--he wanted to
+know if one had heard "the latest"; he would go into a store and in a
+loud voice order books to be charged to him, in order to catch a chance
+morsel of recognition from clerk or customer. He knew to a town in what
+sections of the country it was selling best; he knew exactly what he
+cleared on each edition, and when he met any one who had not read it,
+or, as it happened only too often, had not heard of it, he succumbed to
+moody depression.
+
+So it was natural for Anthony and Gloria to decide, in their jealousy,
+that he was so swollen with conceit as to be a bore. To Dick's great
+annoyance Gloria publicly boasted that she had never read "The Demon
+Lover," and didn't intend to until every one stopped talking about it.
+As a matter of fact, she had no time to read now, for the presents were
+pouring in--first a scattering, then an avalanche, varying from the
+bric-�-brac of forgotten family friends to the photographs of forgotten
+poor relations.
+
+Maury gave them an elaborate "drinking set," which included silver
+goblets, cocktail shaker, and bottle-openers. The extortion from Dick
+was more conventional--a tea set from Tiffany's. From Joseph Bloeckman
+came a simple and exquisite travelling clock, with his card. There was
+even a cigarette-holder from Bounds; this touched Anthony and made him
+want to weep--indeed, any emotion short of hysteria seemed natural in
+the half-dozen people who were swept up by this tremendous sacrifice to
+convention. The room set aside in the Plaza bulged with offerings sent
+by Harvard friends and by associates of his grandfather, with
+remembrances of Gloria's Farmover days, and with rather pathetic
+trophies from her former beaux, which last arrived with esoteric,
+melancholy messages, written on cards tucked carefully inside, beginning
+"I little thought when--" or "I'm sure I wish you all the happiness--"
+or even "When you get this I shall be on my way to--"
+
+The most munificent gift was simultaneously the most disappointing. It
+was a concession of Adam Patch's--a check for five thousand dollars.
+
+To most of the presents Anthony was cold. It seemed to him that they
+would necessitate keeping a chart of the marital status of all their
+acquaintances during the next half-century. But Gloria exulted in each
+one, tearing at the tissue-paper and excelsior with the rapaciousness of
+a dog digging for a bone, breathlessly seizing a ribbon or an edge of
+metal and finally bringing to light the whole article and holding it up
+critically, no emotion except rapt interest in her unsmiling face.
+
+"Look, Anthony!"
+
+"Darn nice, isn't it!"
+
+No answer until an hour later when she would give him a careful account
+of her precise reaction to the gift, whether it would have been improved
+by being smaller or larger, whether she was surprised at getting it,
+and, if so, just how much surprised.
+
+Mrs. Gilbert arranged and rearranged a hypothetical house, distributing
+the gifts among the different rooms, tabulating articles as "second-best
+clock" or "silver to use _every_ day," and embarrassing Anthony and
+Gloria by semi-facetious references to a room she called the nursery.
+She was pleased by old Adam's gift and thereafter had it that he was a
+very ancient soul, "as much as anything else." As Adam Patch never quite
+decided whether she referred to the advancing senility of his mind or to
+some private and psychic schema of her own, it cannot be said to have
+pleased him. Indeed he always spoke of her to Anthony as "that old
+woman, the mother," as though she were a character in a comedy he had
+seen staged many times before. Concerning Gloria he was unable to make
+up his mind. She attracted him but, as she herself told Anthony, he had
+decided that she was frivolous and was afraid to approve of her.
+
+Five days!--A dancing platform was being erected on the lawn at
+Tarrytown. Four days!--A special train was chartered to convey the
+guests to and from New York. Three days!----
+
+
+THE DIARY
+
+She was dressed in blue silk pajamas and standing by her bed with her
+hand on the light to put the room in darkness, when she changed her mind
+and opening a table drawer brought out a little black book--a
+"Line-a-day" diary. This she had kept for seven years. Many of the
+pencil entries were almost illegible and there were notes and references
+to nights and afternoons long since forgotten, for it was not an
+intimate diary, even though it began with the immemorial "I am going to
+keep a diary for my children." Yet as she thumbed over the pages the
+eyes of many men seemed to look out at her from their half-obliterated
+names. With one she had gone to New Haven for the first time--in 1908,
+when she was sixteen and padded shoulders were fashionable at Yale--she
+had been flattered because "Touch down" Michaud had "rushed" her all
+evening. She sighed, remembering the grown-up satin dress she had been
+so proud of and the orchestra playing "Yama-yama, My Yama Man" and
+"Jungle-Town." So long ago!--the names: Eltynge Reardon, Jim Parsons,
+"Curly" McGregor, Kenneth Cowan, "Fish-eye" Fry (whom she had liked for
+being so ugly), Carter Kirby--he had sent her a present; so had Tudor
+Baird;--Marty Reffer, the first man she had been in love with for more
+than a day, and Stuart Holcome, who had run away with her in his
+automobile and tried to make her marry him by force. And Larry Fenwick,
+whom she had always admired because he had told her one night that if
+she wouldn't kiss him she could get out of his car and walk home. What
+a list!
+
+... And, after all, an obsolete list. She was in love now, set for the
+eternal romance that was to be the synthesis of all romance, yet sad for
+these men and these moonlights and for the "thrills" she had had--and
+the kisses. The past--her past, oh, what a joy! She had been
+exuberantly happy.
+
+Turning over the pages her eyes rested idly on the scattered entries of
+the past four months. She read the last few carefully.
+
+"_April 1st_.--I know Bill Carstairs hates me because I was so
+disagreeable, but I hate to be sentimentalized over sometimes. We drove
+out to the Rockyear Country Club and the most wonderful moon kept
+shining through the trees. My silver dress is getting tarnished. Funny
+how one forgets the other nights at Rockyear--with Kenneth Cowan when I
+loved him so!
+
+"_April 3rd_.--After two hours of Schroeder who, they inform me, has
+millions, I've decided that this matter of sticking to things wears one
+out, particularly when the things concerned are men. There's nothing so
+often overdone and from to-day I swear to be amused. We talked about
+'love'--how banal! With how many men have I talked about love?
+
+"_April 11th_.--Patch actually called up to-day! and when he forswore me
+about a month ago he fairly raged out the door. I'm gradually losing
+faith in any man being susceptible to fatal injuries.
+
+"_April 20th_.--Spent the day with Anthony. Maybe I'll marry him some
+time. I kind of like his ideas--he stimulates all the originality in me.
+Blockhead came around about ten in his new car and took me out Riverside
+Drive. I liked him to-night: he's so considerate. He knew I didn't want
+to talk so he was quiet all during the ride.
+
+"_April 21st_.--Woke up thinking of Anthony and sure enough he called
+and sounded sweet on the phone--so I broke a date for him. To-day I feel
+I'd break anything for him, including the ten commandments and my neck.
+He's coming at eight and I shall wear pink and look very fresh and
+starched----"
+
+She paused here, remembering that after he had gone that night she had
+undressed with the shivering April air streaming in the windows. Yet it
+seemed she had not felt the cold, warmed by the profound banalities
+burning in her heart.
+
+The next entry occurred a few days later:
+
+"_April 24th_.--I want to marry Anthony, because husbands are so often
+'husbands' and I must marry a lover.
+
+"There are four general types of husbands.
+
+"(1) The husband who always wants to stay in in the evening, has no vices
+and works for a salary. Totally undesirable!
+
+"(2) The atavistic master whose mistress one is, to wait on his pleasure.
+This sort always considers every pretty woman 'shallow,' a sort of
+peacock with arrested development.
+
+"(3) Next comes the worshipper, the idolater of his wife and all that is
+his, to the utter oblivion of everything else. This sort demands an
+emotional actress for a wife. God! it must be an exertion to be thought
+righteous.
+
+"(4) And Anthony--a temporarily passionate lover with wisdom enough to
+realize when it has flown and that it must fly. And I want to get
+married to Anthony.
+
+"What grubworms women are to crawl on their bellies through colorless
+marriages! Marriage was created not to be a background but to need one.
+Mine is going to be outstanding. It can't, shan't be the setting--it's
+going to be the performance, the live, lovely, glamourous performance,
+and the world shall be the scenery. I refuse to dedicate my life to
+posterity. Surely one owes as much to the current generation as to one's
+unwanted children. What a fate--to grow rotund and unseemly, to lose my
+self-love, to think in terms of milk, oatmeal, nurse, diapers.... Dear
+dream children, how much more beautiful you are, dazzling little
+creatures who flutter (all dream children must flutter) on golden,
+golden wings----
+
+"Such children, however, poor dear babies, have little in common with the
+wedded state.
+
+"_June 7th_.--Moral question: Was it wrong to make Bloeckman love me?
+Because I did really make him. He was almost sweetly sad to-night. How
+opportune it was that my throat is swollen plunk together and tears were
+easy to muster. But he's just the past--buried already in my
+plentiful lavender.
+
+"_June 8th_.--And to-day I've promised not to chew my mouth. Well, I
+won't, I suppose--but if he'd only asked me not to eat!
+
+"Blowing bubbles--that's what we're doing, Anthony and me. And we blew
+such beautiful ones to-day, and they'll explode and then we'll blow more
+and more, I guess--bubbles just as big and just as beautiful, until all
+the soap and water is used up."
+
+On this note the diary ended. Her eyes wandered up the page, over the
+June 8th's of 1912, 1910, 1907. The earliest entry was scrawled in the
+plump, bulbous hand of a sixteen-year-old girl--it was the name, Bob
+Lamar, and a word she could not decipher. Then she knew what it
+was--and, knowing, she found her eyes misty with tears. There in a
+graying blur was the record of her first kiss, faded as its intimate
+afternoon, on a rainy veranda seven years before. She seemed to remember
+something one of them had said that day and yet she could not remember.
+Her tears came faster, until she could scarcely see the page. She was
+crying, she told herself, because she could remember only the rain and
+the wet flowers in the yard and the smell of the damp grass.
+
+... After a moment she found a pencil and holding it unsteadily drew
+three parallel lines beneath the last entry. Then she printed FINIS in
+large capitals, put the book back in the drawer, and crept into bed.
+
+
+BREATH OF THE CAVE
+
+Back in his apartment after the bridal dinner, Anthony snapped out his
+lights and, feeling impersonal and fragile as a piece of china waiting
+on a serving table, got into bed. It was a warm night--a sheet was
+enough for comfort--and through his wide-open windows came sound,
+evanescent and summery, alive with remote anticipation. He was thinking
+that the young years behind him, hollow and colorful, had been lived in
+facile and vacillating cynicism upon the recorded emotions of men long
+dust. And there was something beyond that; he knew now. There was the
+union of his soul with Gloria's, whose radiant fire and freshness was
+the living material of which the dead beauty of books was made.
+
+From the night into his high-walled room there came, persistently, that
+evanescent and dissolving sound--something the city was tossing up and
+calling back again, like a child playing with a ball. In Harlem, the
+Bronx, Gramercy Park, and along the water-fronts, in little parlors or
+on pebble-strewn, moon-flooded roofs, a thousand lovers were making this
+sound, crying little fragments of it into the air. All the city was
+playing with this sound out there in the blue summer dark, throwing it
+up and calling it back, promising that, in a little while, life would be
+beautiful as a story, promising happiness--and by that promise giving
+it. It gave love hope in its own survival. It could do no more.
+
+It was then that a new note separated itself jarringly from the soft
+crying of the night. It was a noise from an areaway within a hundred
+feet from his rear window, the noise of a woman's laughter. It began
+low, incessant and whining--some servant-maid with her fellow, he
+thought--and then it grew in volume and became hysterical, until it
+reminded him of a girl he had seen overcome with nervous laughter at a
+vaudeville performance. Then it sank, receded, only to rise again and
+include words--a coarse joke, some bit of obscure horseplay he could not
+distinguish. It would break off for a moment and he would just catch the
+low rumble of a man's voice, then begin again--interminably; at first
+annoying, then strangely terrible. He shivered, and getting up out of
+bed went to the window. It had reached a high point, tensed and stifled,
+almost the quality of a scream--then it ceased and left behind it a
+silence empty and menacing as the greater silence overhead. Anthony
+stood by the window a moment longer before he returned to his bed. He
+found himself upset and shaken. Try as he might to strangle his
+reaction, some animal quality in that unrestrained laughter had grasped
+at his imagination, and for the first time in four months aroused his
+old aversion and horror toward all the business of life. The room had
+grown smothery. He wanted to be out in some cool and bitter breeze,
+miles above the cities, and to live serene and detached back in the
+corners of his mind. Life was that sound out there, that ghastly
+reiterated female sound.
+
+"Oh, my _God_!" he cried, drawing in his breath sharply.
+
+Burying his face in the pillows he tried in vain to concentrate upon the
+details of the next day.
+
+
+MORNING
+
+In the gray light he found that it was only five o'clock. He regretted
+nervously that he had awakened so early--he would appear fagged at the
+wedding. He envied Gloria who could hide her fatigue with careful
+pigmentation.
+
+In his bathroom he contemplated himself in the mirror and saw that he
+was unusually white--half a dozen small imperfections stood out against
+the morning pallor of his complexion, and overnight he had grown the
+faint stubble of a beard--the general effect, he fancied, was
+unprepossessing, haggard, half unwell.
+
+On his dressing table were spread a number of articles which he told
+over carefully with suddenly fumbling fingers--their tickets to
+California, the book of traveller's checks, his watch, set to the half
+minute, the key to his apartment, which he must not forget to give to
+Maury, and, most important of all, the ring. It was of platinum set
+around with small emeralds; Gloria had insisted on this; she had always
+wanted an emerald wedding ring, she said.
+
+It was the third present he had given her; first had come the engagement
+ring, and then a little gold cigarette-case. He would be giving her many
+things now--clothes and jewels and friends and excitement. It seemed
+absurd that from now on he would pay for all her meals. It was going to
+cost: he wondered if he had not underestimated for this trip, and if he
+had not better cash a larger check. The question worried him.
+
+Then the breathless impendency of the event swept his mind clear of
+details. This was the day--unsought, unsuspected six months before, but
+now breaking in yellow light through his east window, dancing along the
+carpet as though the sun were smiling at some ancient and reiterated gag
+of his own.
+
+Anthony laughed in a nervous one-syllable snort.
+
+"By God!" he muttered to himself, "I'm as good as married!"
+
+
+THE USHERS
+
+_Six young men in_ CROSS PATCH'S _library growing more and more cheery
+under the influence of Mumm's Extra Dry, set surreptitiously in cold
+pails by the bookcases._
+
+THE FIRST YOUNG MAN: By golly! Believe me, in my next book I'm going to
+do a wedding scene that'll knock 'em cold!
+
+THE SECOND YOUNG MAN: Met a d�butante th'other day said she thought your
+book was powerful. As a rule young girls cry for this primitive business.
+
+THE THIRD YOUNG MAN: Where's Anthony?
+
+THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Walking up and down outside talking to himself.
+
+SECOND YOUNG MAN: Lord! Did you see the minister? Most peculiar looking
+teeth.
+
+FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Think they're natural. Funny thing people having gold
+teeth.
+
+SIXTH YOUNG MAN: They say they love 'em. My dentist told me once a woman
+came to him and insisted on having two of her teeth covered with gold.
+No reason at all. All right the way they were.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Hear you got out a book, Dicky. 'Gratulations!
+
+DICK: (_Stiffly_) Thanks.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (_Innocently_) What is it? College stories?
+
+DICK: (_More stiffly_) No. Not college stories.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Pity! Hasn't been a good book about Harvard for years.
+
+DICK: (_Touchily_) Why don't you supply the lack?
+
+THIRD YOUNG MAN: I think I saw a squad of guests turn the drive in a
+Packard just now.
+
+SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Might open a couple more bottles on the strength of
+that.
+
+THIRD YOUNG MAN: It was the shock of my life when I heard the old man
+was going to have a wet wedding. Rabid prohibitionist, you know.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (_Snapping his fingers excitedly_) By gad! I knew I'd
+forgotten something. Kept thinking it was my vest.
+
+DICK: What was it?
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! By gad!
+
+SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Here! Here! Why the tragedy?
+
+SECOND YOUNG MAN: What'd you forget? The way home?
+
+DICK: (_Maliciously_) He forgot the plot for his book of Harvard
+stories.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: No, sir, I forgot the present, by George! I forgot to
+buy old Anthony a present. I kept putting it off and putting it off, and
+by gad I've forgotten it! What'll they think?
+
+SIXTH YOUNG MAN: (_Facetiously_) That's probably what's been holding up
+the wedding.
+
+(THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN _looks nervously at his watch. Laughter._)
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! What an ass I am!
+
+SECOND YOUNG MAN: What d'you make of the bridesmaid who thinks she's
+Nora Bayes? Kept telling me she wished this was a ragtime wedding.
+Name's Haines or Hampton.
+
+DICK: (_Hurriedly spurring his imagination_) Kane, you mean, Muriel
+Kane. She's a sort of debt of honor, I believe. Once saved Gloria from
+drowning, or something of the sort.
+
+SECOND YOUNG MAN: I didn't think she could stop that perpetual swaying
+long enough to swim. Fill up my glass, will you? Old man and I had a
+long talk about the weather just now.
+
+MAURY: Who? Old Adam?
+
+SECOND YOUNG MAN: No, the bride's father. He must be with a weather
+bureau.
+
+DICK: He's my uncle, Otis.
+
+OTIS: Well, it's an honorable profession. (_Laughter._)
+
+SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Bride your cousin, isn't she?
+
+DICK: Yes, Cable, she is.
+
+CABLE: She certainly is a beauty. Not like you, Dicky. Bet she brings
+old Anthony to terms.
+
+MAURY: Why are all grooms given the title of "old"? I think marriage is
+an error of youth.
+
+DICK: Maury, the professional cynic.
+
+MAURY: Why, you intellectual faker!
+
+FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Battle of the highbrows here, Otis. Pick up what crumbs
+you can.
+
+DICK: Faker yourself! What do _you_ know?
+
+MAURY: What do _you_ know?
+
+LICK: Ask me anything. Any branch of knowledge.
+
+MAURY: All right. What's the fundamental principle of biology?
+
+DICK: You don't know yourself.
+
+MAURY: Don't hedge!
+
+DICK: Well, natural selection?
+
+MAURY: Wrong.
+
+DICK: I give it up.
+
+MAURY: Ontogony recapitulates phyllogony.
+
+FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Take your base!
+
+MAURY: Ask you another. What's the influence of mice on the clover crop?
+(_Laughter._)
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: What's the influence of rats on the Decalogue?
+
+MAURY: Shut up, you saphead. There _is_ a connection.
+
+DICK: What is it then?
+
+MAURY: (_Pausing a moment in growing disconcertion_) Why, let's see. I
+seem to have forgotten exactly. Something about the bees eating
+the clover.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: And the clover eating the mice! Haw! Haw!
+
+MAURY: (_Frowning_) Let me just think a minute.
+
+DICK: (_Sitting up suddenly_) Listen!
+
+(_A volley of chatter explodes in the adjoining room. The six young men
+arise, feeling at their neckties._)
+
+DICK: (_Weightily_) We'd better join the firing squad. They're going to
+take the picture, I guess. No, that's afterward.
+
+OTIS: Cable, you take the ragtime bridesmaid.
+
+FOURTH YOUNG MAN: I wish to God I'd sent that present.
+
+MAURY: If you'll give me another minute I'll think of that about the
+mice.
+
+OTIS: I was usher last month for old Charlie McIntyre and----
+
+(_They move slowly toward the door as the chatter becomes a babel and
+the practising preliminary to the overture issues in long pious groans
+from ADAM PATCH'S organ_.)
+
+
+ANTHONY
+
+There were five hundred eyes boring through the back of his cutaway and
+the sun glinting on the clergyman's inappropriately bourgeois teeth.
+With difficulty he restrained a laugh. Gloria was saying something in a
+clear proud voice and he tried to think that the affair was irrevocable,
+that every second was significant, that his life was being slashed into
+two periods and that the face of the world was changing before him. He
+tried to recapture that ecstatic sensation of ten weeks before. All
+these emotions eluded him, he did not even feel the physical nervousness
+of that very morning--it was all one gigantic aftermath. And those gold
+teeth! He wondered if the clergyman were married; he wondered perversely
+if a clergyman could perform his own marriage service....
+
+But as he took Gloria into his arms he was conscious of a strong
+reaction. The blood was moving in his veins now. A languorous and
+pleasant content settled like a weight upon him, bringing responsibility
+and possession. He was married.
+
+
+GLORIA
+
+So many, such mingled emotions, that no one of them was separable from
+the others! She could have wept for her mother, who was crying quietly
+back there ten feet and for the loveliness of the June sunlight flooding
+in at the windows. She was beyond all conscious perceptions. Only a
+sense, colored with delirious wild excitement, that the ultimately
+important was happening--and a trust, fierce and passionate, burning in
+her like a prayer, that in a moment she would be forever and
+securely safe.
+
+Late one night they arrived in Santa Barbara, where the night clerk at
+the Hotel Lafcadio refused to admit them, on the grounds that they were
+not married.
+
+The clerk thought that Gloria was beautiful. He did not think that
+anything so beautiful as Gloria could be moral.
+
+
+"CON AMORE"
+
+That first half-year--the trip West, the long months' loiter along the
+California coast, and the gray house near Greenwich where they lived
+until late autumn made the country dreary--those days, those places, saw
+the enraptured hours. The breathless idyl of their engagement gave way,
+first, to the intense romance of the more passionate relationship. The
+breathless idyl left them, fled on to other lovers; they looked around
+one day and it was gone, how they scarcely knew. Had either of them lost
+the other in the days of the idyl, the love lost would have been ever to
+the loser that dim desire without fulfilment which stands back of all
+life. But magic must hurry on, and the lovers remain....
+
+The idyl passed, bearing with it its extortion of youth. Came a day when
+Gloria found that other men no longer bored her; came a day when Anthony
+discovered that he could sit again late into the evening, talking with
+Dick of those tremendous abstractions that had once occupied his world.
+But, knowing they had had the best of love, they clung to what remained.
+Love lingered--by way of long conversations at night into those stark
+hours when the mind thins and sharpens and the borrowings from dreams
+become the stuff of all life, by way of deep and intimate kindnesses
+they developed toward each other, by way of their laughing at the same
+absurdities and thinking the same things noble and the same things sad.
+
+It was, first of all, a time of discovery. The things they found in each
+other were so diverse, so intermixed and, moreover, so sugared with love
+as to seem at the time not so much discoveries as isolated phenomena--to
+be allowed for, and to be forgotten. Anthony found that he was living
+with a girl of tremendous nervous tension and of the most high-handed
+selfishness. Gloria knew within a month that her husband was an utter
+coward toward any one of a million phantasms created by his imagination.
+Her perception was intermittent, for this cowardice sprang out, became
+almost obscenely evident, then faded and vanished as though it had been
+only a creation of her own mind. Her reactions to it were not those
+attributed to her sex--it roused her neither to disgust nor to a
+premature feeling of motherhood. Herself almost completely without
+physical fear, she was unable to understand, and so she made the most of
+what she felt to be his fear's redeeming feature, which was that though
+he was a coward under a shock and a coward under a strain--when his
+imagination was given play--he had yet a sort of dashing recklessness
+that moved her on its brief occasions almost to admiration, and a pride
+that usually steadied him when he thought he was observed.
+
+The trait first showed itself in a dozen incidents of little more than
+nervousness--his warning to a taxi-driver against fast driving, in
+Chicago; his refusal to take her to a certain tough caf� she had always
+wished to visit; these of course admitted the conventional
+interpretation--that it was of her he had been thinking; nevertheless,
+their culminative weight disturbed her. But something that occurred in a
+San Francisco hotel, when they had been married a week, gave the matter
+certainty.
+
+It was after midnight and pitch dark in their room. Gloria was dozing
+off and Anthony's even breathing beside her made her suppose that he was
+asleep, when suddenly she saw him raise himself on his elbow and stare
+at the window.
+
+"What is it, dearest?" she murmured.
+
+"Nothing"--he had relaxed to his pillow and turned toward her--"nothing,
+my darling wife."
+
+"Don't say 'wife.' I'm your mistress. Wife's such an ugly word. Your
+'permanent mistress' is so much more tangible and desirable.... Come
+into my arms," she added in a rush of tenderness; "I can sleep so well,
+so well with you in my arms."
+
+Coming into Gloria's arms had a quite definite meaning. It required that
+he should slide one arm under her shoulder, lock both arms about her,
+and arrange himself as nearly as possible as a sort of three-sided crib
+for her luxurious ease. Anthony, who tossed, whose arms went tinglingly
+to sleep after half an hour of that position, would wait until she was
+asleep and roll her gently over to her side of the bed--then, left to
+his own devices, he would curl himself into his usual knots.
+
+Gloria, having attained sentimental comfort, retired into her doze. Five
+minutes ticked away on Bloeckman's travelling clock; silence lay all
+about the room, over the unfamiliar, impersonal furniture and the
+half-oppressive ceiling that melted imperceptibly into invisible walls
+on both sides. Then there was suddenly a rattling flutter at the window,
+staccato and loud upon the hushed, pent air.
+
+With a leap Anthony was out of the bed and standing tense beside it.
+
+"Who's there?" he cried in an awful voice.
+
+Gloria lay very still, wide awake now and engrossed not so much in the
+rattling as in the rigid breathless figure whose voice had reached from
+the bedside into that ominous dark.
+
+The sound stopped; the room was quiet as before--then Anthony pouring
+words in at the telephone.
+
+"Some one just tried to get into the room! ...
+
+"There's some one at the window!" His voice was emphatic now, faintly
+terrified.
+
+"All right! Hurry!" He hung up the receiver; stood motionless.
+
+... There was a rush and commotion at the door, a knocking--Anthony went
+to open it upon an excited night clerk with three bell-boys grouped
+staring behind him. Between thumb and finger the night clerk held a wet
+pen with the threat of a weapon; one of the bell-boys had seized a
+telephone directory and was looking at it sheepishly. Simultaneously the
+group was joined by the hastily summoned house-detective, and as one man
+they surged into the room.
+
+Lights sprang on with a click. Gathering a piece of sheet about her
+Gloria dove away from sight, shutting her eyes to keep out the horror of
+this unpremeditated visitation. There was no vestige of an idea in her
+stricken sensibilities save that her Anthony was at grievous fault.
+
+... The night clerk was speaking from the window, his tone half of the
+servant, half of the teacher reproving a schoolboy.
+
+"Nobody out there," he declared conclusively; "my golly, nobody _could_
+be out there. This here's a sheer fall to the street of fifty feet. It
+was the wind you heard, tugging at the blind."
+
+"Oh."
+
+Then she was sorry for him. She wanted only to comfort him and draw him
+back tenderly into her arms, to tell them to go away because the thing
+their presence connotated was odious. Yet she could not raise her head
+for shame. She heard a broken sentence, apologies, conventions of the
+employee and one unrestrained snicker from a bell-boy.
+
+"I've been nervous as the devil all evening," Anthony was saying;
+"somehow that noise just shook me--I was only about half awake."
+
+"Sure, I understand," said the night clerk with comfortable tact; "been
+that way myself."
+
+The door closed; the lights snapped out; Anthony crossed the floor
+quietly and crept into bed. Gloria, feigning to be heavy with sleep,
+gave a quiet little sigh and slipped into his arms.
+
+"What was it, dear?"
+
+"Nothing," he answered, his voice still shaken; "I thought there was
+somebody at the window, so I looked out, but I couldn't see any one and
+the noise kept up, so I phoned down-stairs. Sorry if I disturbed you,
+but I'm awfully darn nervous to-night."
+
+Catching the lie, she gave an interior start--he had not gone to the
+window, nor near the window. He had stood by the bed and then sent in
+his call of fear.
+
+"Oh," she said--and then: "I'm so sleepy."
+
+For an hour they lay awake side by side, Gloria with her eyes shut so
+tight that blue moons formed and revolved against backgrounds of deepest
+mauve, Anthony staring blindly into the darkness overhead.
+
+After many weeks it came gradually out into the light, to be laughed and
+joked at. They made a tradition to fit over it--whenever that
+overpowering terror of the night attacked Anthony, she would put her
+arms about him and croon, soft as a song:
+
+"I'll protect my Anthony. Oh, nobody's ever going to harm my Anthony!"
+
+He would laugh as though it were a jest they played for their mutual
+amusement, but to Gloria it was never quite a jest. It was, at first, a
+keen disappointment; later, it was one of the times when she controlled
+her temper.
+
+The management of Gloria's temper, whether it was aroused by a lack of
+hot water for her bath or by a skirmish with her husband, became almost
+the primary duty of Anthony's day. It must be done just so--by this much
+silence, by that much pressure, by this much yielding, by that much
+force. It was in her angers with their attendant cruelties that her
+inordinate egotism chiefly displayed itself. Because she was brave,
+because she was "spoiled," because of her outrageous and commendable
+independence of judgment, and finally because of her arrogant
+consciousness that she had never seen a girl as beautiful as herself,
+Gloria had developed into a consistent, practising Nietzschean. This, of
+course, with overtones of profound sentiment.
+
+There was, for example, her stomach. She was used to certain dishes, and
+she had a strong conviction that she could not possibly eat anything
+else. There must be a lemonade and a tomato sandwich late in the
+morning, then a light lunch with a stuffed tomato. Not only did she
+require food from a selection of a dozen dishes, but in addition this
+food must be prepared in just a certain way. One of the most annoying
+half hours of the first fortnight occurred in Los Angeles, when an
+unhappy waiter brought her a tomato stuffed with chicken salad instead
+of celery.
+
+"We always serve it that way, madame," he quavered to the gray eyes that
+regarded him wrathfully.
+
+Gloria made no answer, but when the waiter had turned discreetly away
+she banged both fists upon the table until the china and silver rattled.
+
+"Poor Gloria!" laughed Anthony unwittingly, "you can't get what you want
+ever, can you?"
+
+"I can't eat _stuff_!" she flared up.
+
+"I'll call back the waiter."
+
+"I don't want you to! He doesn't know anything, the darn _fool_!"
+
+"Well, it isn't the hotel's fault. Either send it back, forget it, or be
+a sport and eat it."
+
+"Shut up!" she said succinctly.
+
+"Why take it out on me?"
+
+"Oh, I'm _not_," she wailed, "but I simply _can't_ eat it."
+
+Anthony subsided helplessly.
+
+"We'll go somewhere else," he suggested.
+
+"I don't _want_ to go anywhere else. I'm tired of being trotted around
+to a dozen caf�s and not getting _one thing_ fit to eat."
+
+"When did we go around to a dozen caf�s?"
+
+"You'd _have_ to in _this_ town," insisted Gloria with ready sophistry.
+
+Anthony, bewildered, tried another tack.
+
+"Why don't you try to eat it? It can't be as bad as you think."
+
+"Just--because--I--don't--like--chicken!"
+
+She picked up her fork and began poking contemptuously at the tomato,
+and Anthony expected her to begin flinging the stuffings in all
+directions. He was sure that she was approximately as angry as she had
+ever been--for an instant he had detected a spark of hate directed as
+much toward him as toward any one else--and Gloria angry was, for the
+present, unapproachable.
+
+Then, surprisingly, he saw that she had tentatively raised the fork to
+her lips and tasted the chicken salad. Her frown had not abated and he
+stared at her anxiously, making no comment and daring scarcely to
+breathe. She tasted another forkful--in another moment she was eating.
+With difficulty Anthony restrained a chuckle; when at length he spoke
+his words had no possible connection with chicken salad.
+
+This incident, with variations, ran like a lugubrious fugue through the
+first year of marriage; always it left Anthony baffled, irritated, and
+depressed. But another rough brushing of temperaments, a question of
+laundry-bags, he found even more annoying as it ended inevitably in a
+decisive defeat for him.
+
+One afternoon in Coronado, where they made the longest stay of their
+trip, more than three weeks, Gloria was arraying herself brilliantly for
+tea. Anthony, who had been down-stairs listening to the latest rumor
+bulletins of war in Europe, entered the room, kissed the back of her
+powdered neck, and went to his dresser. After a great pulling out and
+pushing in of drawers, evidently unsatisfactory, he turned around to the
+Unfinished Masterpiece.
+
+"Got any handkerchiefs, Gloria?" he asked. Gloria shook her golden head.
+
+"Not a one. I'm using one of yours."
+
+"The last one, I deduce." He laughed dryly.
+
+"Is it?" She applied an emphatic though very delicate contour to her
+lips.
+
+"Isn't the laundry back?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+Anthony hesitated--then, with sudden discernment, opened the closet
+door. His suspicions were verified. On the hook provided hung the blue
+bag furnished by the hotel. This was full of his clothes--he had put
+them there himself. The floor beneath it was littered with an
+astonishing mass of finery--lingerie, stockings, dresses, nightgowns,
+and pajamas--most of it scarcely worn but all of it coming indubitably
+under the general heading of Gloria's laundry.
+
+He stood holding the closet door open.
+
+"Why, Gloria!"
+
+"What?"
+
+The lip line was being erased and corrected according to some mysterious
+perspective; not a finger trembled as she manipulated the lip-stick, not
+a glance wavered in his direction. It was a triumph of concentration.
+
+"Haven't you ever sent out the laundry?"
+
+"Is it there?"
+
+"It most certainly is."
+
+"Well, I guess I haven't, then."
+
+"Gloria," began Anthony, sitting down on the bed and trying to catch her
+mirrored eyes, "you're a nice fellow, you are! I've sent it out every
+time it's been sent since we left New York, and over a week ago you
+promised you'd do it for a change. All you'd have to do would be to cram
+your own junk into that bag and ring for the chambermaid."
+
+"Oh, why fuss about the laundry?" exclaimed Gloria petulantly, "I'll
+take care of it."
+
+"I haven't fussed about it. I'd just as soon divide the bother with you,
+but when we run out of handkerchiefs it's darn near time
+something's done."
+
+Anthony considered that he was being extraordinarily logical. But
+Gloria, unimpressed, put away her cosmetics and casually offered him
+her back.
+
+"Hook me up," she suggested; "Anthony, dearest, I forgot all about it. I
+meant to, honestly, and I will to-day. Don't be cross with your
+sweetheart."
+
+What could Anthony do then but draw her down upon his knee and kiss a
+shade of color from her lips.
+
+"But I don't mind," she murmured with a smile, radiant and magnanimous.
+"You can kiss all the paint off my lips any time you want."
+
+They went down to tea. They bought some handkerchiefs in a notion store
+near by. All was forgotten.
+
+But two days later Anthony looked in the closet and saw the bag still
+hung limp upon its hook and that the gay and vivid pile on the floor had
+increased surprisingly in height.
+
+"Gloria!" he cried.
+
+"Oh--" Her voice was full of real distress. Despairingly Anthony went to
+the phone and called the chambermaid.
+
+"It seems to me," he said impatiently, "that you expect me to be some
+sort of French valet to you."
+
+Gloria laughed, so infectiously that Anthony was unwise enough to smile.
+Unfortunate man! In some intangible manner his smile made her mistress
+of the situation--with an air of injured righteousness she went
+emphatically to the closet and began pushing her laundry violently into
+the bag. Anthony watched her--ashamed of himself.
+
+"There!" she said, implying that her fingers had been worked to the bone
+by a brutal taskmaster.
+
+He considered, nevertheless, that he had given her an object-lesson and
+that the matter was closed, but on the contrary it was merely beginning.
+Laundry pile followed laundry pile--at long intervals; dearth of
+handkerchief followed dearth of handkerchief--at short ones; not to
+mention dearth of sock, of shirt, of everything. And Anthony found at
+length that either he must send it out himself or go through the
+increasingly unpleasant ordeal of a verbal battle with Gloria.
+
+
+GLORIA AND GENERAL LEE
+
+On their way East they stopped two days in Washington, strolling about
+with some hostility in its atmosphere of harsh repellent light, of
+distance without freedom, of pomp without splendor--it seemed a
+pasty-pale and self-conscious city. The second day they made an
+ill-advised trip to General Lee's old home at Arlington.
+
+The bus which bore them was crowded with hot, unprosperous people, and
+Anthony, intimate to Gloria, felt a storm brewing. It broke at the Zoo,
+where the party stopped for ten minutes. The Zoo, it seemed, smelt of
+monkeys. Anthony laughed; Gloria called down the curse of Heaven upon
+monkeys, including in her malevolence all the passengers of the bus and
+their perspiring offspring who had hied themselves monkey-ward.
+
+Eventually the bus moved on to Arlington. There it met other busses and
+immediately a swarm of women and children were leaving a trail of
+peanut-shells through the halls of General Lee and crowding at length
+into the room where he was married. On the wall of this room a pleasing
+sign announced in large red letters "Ladies' Toilet." At this final blow
+Gloria broke down.
+
+"I think it's perfectly terrible!" she said furiously, "the idea of
+letting these people come here! And of encouraging them by making these
+houses show-places."
+
+"Well," objected Anthony, "if they weren't kept up they'd go to pieces."
+
+"What if they did!" she exclaimed as they sought the wide pillared
+porch. "Do you think they've left a breath of 1860 here? This has become
+a thing of 1914."
+
+"Don't you want to preserve old things?"
+
+"But you _can't_, Anthony. Beautiful things grow to a certain height and
+then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And
+just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should
+decay too, and in that way they're preserved for a while in the few
+hearts like mine that react to them. That graveyard at Tarrytown, for
+instance. The asses who give money to preserve things have spoiled that
+too. Sleepy Hollow's gone; Washington Irving's dead and his books are
+rotting in our estimation year by year--then let the graveyard rot too,
+as it should, as all things should. Trying to preserve a century by
+keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by
+stimulants."
+
+"So you think that just as a time goes to pieces its houses ought to go
+too?"
+
+"Of course! Would you value your Keats letter if the signature was
+traced over to make it last longer? It's just because I love the past
+that I want this house to look back on its glamourous moment of youth
+and beauty, and I want its stairs to creak as if to the footsteps of
+women with hoop skirts and men in boots and spurs. But they've made it
+into a blondined, rouged-up old woman of sixty. It hasn't any right to
+look so prosperous. It might care enough for Lee to drop a brick now and
+then. How many of these--these _animals_"--she waved her hand
+around--"get anything from this, for all the histories and guide-books
+and restorations in existence? How many of them who think that, at best,
+appreciation is talking in undertones and walking on tiptoes would even
+come here if it was any trouble? I want it to smell of magnolias instead
+of peanuts and I want my shoes to crunch on the same gravel that Lee's
+boots crunched on. There's no beauty without poignancy and there's no
+poignancy without the feeling that it's going, men, names, books,
+houses--bound for dust--mortal--"
+
+A small boy appeared beside them and, swinging a handful of
+banana-peels, flung them valiantly in the direction of the Potomac.
+
+
+SENTIMENT
+
+Simultaneously with the fall of Li�ge, Anthony and Gloria arrived in New
+York. In retrospect the six weeks seemed miraculously happy. They had
+found to a great extent, as most young couples find in some measure,
+that they possessed in common many fixed ideas and curiosities and odd
+quirks of mind; they were essentially companionable.
+
+But it had been a struggle to keep many of their conversations on the
+level of discussions. Arguments were fatal to Gloria's disposition. She
+had all her life been associated either with her mental inferiors or
+with men who, under the almost hostile intimidation of her beauty, had
+not dared to contradict her; naturally, then, it irritated her when
+Anthony emerged from the state in which her pronouncements were an
+infallible and ultimate decision.
+
+He failed to realize, at first, that this was the result partly of her
+"female" education and partly of her beauty, and he was inclined to
+include her with her entire sex as curiously and definitely limited. It
+maddened him to find she had no sense of justice. But he discovered
+that, when a subject did interest her, her brain tired less quickly than
+his. What he chiefly missed in her mind was the pedantic teleology--the
+sense of order and accuracy, the sense of life as a mysteriously
+correlated piece of patchwork, but he understood after a while that such
+a quality in her would have been incongruous.
+
+Of the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost
+uncanny pull at each other's hearts. The day they left the hotel in
+Coronado she sat down on one of the beds while they were packing, and
+began to weep bitterly.
+
+"Dearest--" His arms were around her; he pulled her head down upon his
+shoulder. "What is it, my own Gloria? Tell me."
+
+"We're going away," she sobbed. "Oh, Anthony, it's sort of the first
+place we've lived together. Our two little beds here--side by
+side--they'll be always waiting for us, and we're never coming back to
+'em any more."
+
+She was tearing at his heart as she always could. Sentiment came over
+him, rushed into his eyes.
+
+"Gloria, why, we're going on to another room. And two other little beds.
+We're going to be together all our lives."
+
+Words flooded from her in a low husky voice.
+
+"But it won't be--like our two beds--ever again. Everywhere we go and
+move on and change, something's lost--something's left behind. You can't
+ever quite repeat anything, and I've been so yours, here--"
+
+He held her passionately near, discerning far beyond any criticism of
+her sentiment, a wise grasping of the minute, if only an indulgence of
+her desire to cry--Gloria the idler, caresser of her own dreams,
+extracting poignancy from the memorable things of life and youth.
+
+Later in the afternoon when he returned from the station with the
+tickets he found her asleep on one of the beds, her arm curled about a
+black object which he could not at first identify. Coming closer he
+found it was one of his shoes, not a particularly new one, nor clean
+one, but her face, tear-stained, was pressed against it, and he
+understood her ancient and most honorable message. There was almost
+ecstasy in waking her and seeing her smile at him, shy but well aware of
+her own nicety of imagination.
+
+With no appraisal of the worth or dross of these two things, it seemed
+to Anthony that they lay somewhere near the heart of love.
+
+
+THE GRAY HOUSE
+
+It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to
+slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are
+significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty
+an organ-grinder is a more or less moth-eaten man who grinds an
+organ--and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma of
+humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only
+youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory. A brilliant ball, gay with
+light romantic laughter, wears through its own silks and satins to show
+the bare framework of a man-made thing--oh, that eternal hand!--a play,
+most tragic and most divine, becomes merely a succession of speeches,
+sweated over by the eternal plagiarist in the clammy hours and acted by
+men subject to cramps, cowardice, and manly sentiment.
+
+And this time with Gloria and Anthony, this first year of marriage, and
+the gray house caught them in that stage when the organ-grinder was
+slowly undergoing his inevitable metamorphosis. She was twenty-three; he
+was twenty-six.
+
+The gray house was, at first, of sheerly pastoral intent. They lived
+impatiently in Anthony's apartment for the first fortnight after the
+return from California, in a stifled atmosphere of open trunks, too many
+callers, and the eternal laundry-bags. They discussed with their friends
+the stupendous problem of their future. Dick and Maury would sit with
+them agreeing solemnly, almost thoughtfully, as Anthony ran through his
+list of what they "ought" to do, and where they "ought" to live.
+
+"I'd like to take Gloria abroad," he complained, "except for this damn
+war--and next to that I'd sort of like to have a place in the country,
+somewhere near New York, of course, where I could write--or whatever I
+decide to do."
+
+Gloria laughed.
+
+"Isn't he cute?" she required of Maury. "'Whatever he decides to do!'
+But what am _I_ going to do if he works? Maury, will you take me around
+if Anthony works?"
+
+"Anyway, I'm not going to work yet," said Anthony quickly.
+
+It was vaguely understood between them that on some misty day he would
+enter a sort of glorified diplomatic service and be envied by princes
+and prime ministers for his beautiful wife.
+
+"Well," said Gloria helplessly, "I'm sure I don't know. We talk and talk
+and never get anywhere, and we ask all our friends and they just answer
+the way we want 'em to. I wish somebody'd take care of us."
+
+"Why don't you go out to--out to Greenwich or something?" suggested
+Richard Caramel.
+
+"I'd like that," said Gloria, brightening. "Do you think we could get a
+house there?"
+
+Dick shrugged his shoulders and Maury laughed.
+
+"You two amuse me," he said. "Of all the unpractical people! As soon as
+a place is mentioned you expect us to pull great piles of photographs
+out of our pockets showing the different styles of architecture
+available in bungalows."
+
+"That's just what I don't want," wailed Gloria, "a hot stuffy bungalow,
+with a lot of babies next door and their father cutting the grass in his
+shirt sleeves--"
+
+"For Heaven's sake, Gloria," interrupted Maury, "nobody wants to lock
+you up in a bungalow. Who in God's name brought bungalows into the
+conversation? But you'll never get a place anywhere unless you go out
+and hunt for it."
+
+"Go where? You say 'go out and hunt for it,' but where?"
+
+With dignity Maury waved his hand paw-like about the room.
+
+"Out anywhere. Out in the country. There're lots of places."
+
+"Thanks."
+
+"Look here!" Richard Caramel brought his yellow eye rakishly into play.
+"The trouble with you two is that you're all disorganized. Do you know
+anything about New York State? Shut up, Anthony, I'm talking to Gloria."
+
+"Well," she admitted finally, "I've been to two or three house parties
+in Portchester and around in Connecticut--but, of course, that isn't in
+New York State, is it? And neither is Morristown," she finished with
+drowsy irrelevance.
+
+There was a shout of laughter.
+
+"Oh, Lord!" cried Dick, "neither is Morristown!' No, and neither is
+Santa Barbara, Gloria. Now listen. To begin with, unless you have a
+fortune there's no use considering any place like Newport or
+Southhampton or Tuxedo. They're out of the question."
+
+They all agreed to this solemnly.
+
+"And personally I hate New Jersey. Then, of course, there's upper New
+York, above Tuxedo."
+
+"Too cold," said Gloria briefly. "I was there once in an automobile."
+
+"Well, it seems to me there're a lot of towns like Rye between New York
+and Greenwich where you could buy a little gray house of some--"
+
+Gloria leaped at the phrase triumphantly. For the first time since their
+return East she knew what she wanted.
+
+"Oh, _yes_!" she cried. "Oh, _yes_! that's it: a little gray house with
+sort of white around and a whole lot of swamp maples just as brown and
+gold as an October picture in a gallery. Where can we find one?"
+
+"Unfortunately, I've mislaid my list of little gray houses with swamp
+maples around them--but I'll try to find it. Meanwhile you take a piece
+of paper and write down the names of seven possible towns. And every day
+this week you take a trip to one of those towns."
+
+"Oh, gosh!" protested Gloria, collapsing mentally, "why won't you do it
+for us? I hate trains."
+
+"Well, hire a car, and--"
+
+Gloria yawned.
+
+"I'm tired of discussing it. Seems to me all we do is talk about where
+to live."
+
+"My exquisite wife wearies of thought," remarked Anthony ironically.
+"She must have a tomato sandwich to stimulate her jaded nerves. Let's go
+out to tea."
+
+As the unfortunate upshot of this conversation, they took Dick's advice
+literally, and two days later went out to Rye, where they wandered
+around with an irritated real estate agent, like bewildered babes in the
+wood. They were shown houses at a hundred a month which closely adjoined
+other houses at a hundred a month; they were shown isolated houses to
+which they invariably took violent dislikes, though they submitted
+weakly to the agent's desire that they "look at that stove--some stove!"
+and to a great shaking of doorposts and tapping of walls, intended
+evidently to show that the house would not immediately collapse, no
+matter how convincingly it gave that impression. They gazed through
+windows into interiors furnished either "commercially" with slab-like
+chairs and unyielding settees, or "home-like" with the melancholy
+bric-�-brac of other summers--crossed tennis rackets, fit-form couches,
+and depressing Gibson girls. With a feeling of guilt they looked at a
+few really nice houses, aloof, dignified, and cool--at three hundred a
+month. They went away from Rye thanking the real estate agent very
+much indeed.
+
+On the crowded train back to New York the seat behind was occupied by a
+super-respirating Latin whose last few meals had obviously been composed
+entirely of garlic. They reached the apartment gratefully, almost
+hysterically, and Gloria rushed for a hot bath in the reproachless
+bathroom. So far as the question of a future abode was concerned both of
+them were incapacitated for a week.
+
+The matter eventually worked itself out with unhoped-for romance.
+Anthony ran into the living room one afternoon fairly radiating
+"the idea."
+
+"I've got it," he was exclaiming as though he had just caught a mouse.
+"We'll get a car."
+
+"Gee whiz! Haven't we got troubles enough taking care of ourselves?"
+
+"Give me a second to explain, can't you? just let's leave our stuff with
+Dick and just pile a couple of suitcases in our car, the one we're going
+to buy--we'll have to have one in the country anyway--and just start out
+in the direction of New Haven. You see, as we get out of commuting
+distance from New York, the rents'll get cheaper, and as soon as we find
+a house we want we'll just settle down."
+
+By his frequent and soothing interpolation of the word "just" he aroused
+her lethargic enthusiasm. Strutting violently about the room, he
+simulated a dynamic and irresistible efficiency. "We'll buy a car
+to-morrow."
+
+Life, limping after imagination's ten-league boots, saw them out of town
+a week later in a cheap but sparkling new roadster, saw them through the
+chaotic unintelligible Bronx, then over a wide murky district which
+alternated cheerless blue-green wastes with suburbs of tremendous and
+sordid activity. They left New York at eleven and it was well past a hot
+and beatific noon when they moved rakishly through Pelham.
+
+"These aren't towns," said Gloria scornfully, "these are just city
+blocks plumped down coldly into waste acres. I imagine all the men here
+have their mustaches stained from drinking their coffee too quickly in
+the morning."
+
+"And play pinochle on the commuting trains."
+
+"What's pinochle?"
+
+"Don't be so literal. How should I know? But it sounds as though they
+ought to play it."
+
+"I like it. It sounds as if it were something where you sort of cracked
+your knuckles or something.... Let me drive."
+
+Anthony looked at her suspiciously.
+
+"You swear you're a good driver?"
+
+"Since I was fourteen."
+
+He stopped the car cautiously at the side of the road and they changed
+seats. Then with a horrible grinding noise the car was put in gear,
+Gloria adding an accompaniment of laughter which seemed to Anthony
+disquieting and in the worst possible taste.
+
+"Here we go!" she yelled. "Whoo-oop!"
+
+Their heads snapped back like marionettes on a single wire as the car
+leaped ahead and curved retchingly about a standing milk-wagon, whose
+driver stood up on his seat and bellowed after them. In the immemorial
+tradition of the road Anthony retorted with a few brief epigrams as to
+the grossness of the milk-delivering profession. He cut his remarks
+short, however, and turned to Gloria with the growing conviction that he
+had made a grave mistake in relinquishing control and that Gloria was a
+driver of many eccentricities and of infinite carelessness.
+
+"Remember now!" he warned her nervously, "the man said we oughtn't to go
+over twenty miles an hour for the first five thousand miles."
+
+She nodded briefly, but evidently intending to accomplish the
+prohibitive distance as quickly as possible, slightly increased her
+speed. A moment later he made another attempt.
+
+"See that sign? Do you want to get us pinched?"
+
+"Oh, for Heaven's sake," cried Gloria in exasperation, "you _always_
+exaggerate things so!"
+
+"Well, I don't want to get arrested."
+
+"Who's arresting you? You're so persistent--just like you were about my
+cough medicine last night."
+
+"It was for your own good."
+
+"Ha! I might as well be living with mama."
+
+"What a thing to say to me!"
+
+A standing policeman swerved into view, was hastily passed.
+
+"See him?" demanded Anthony.
+
+"Oh, you drive me crazy! He didn't arrest us, did he?"
+
+"When he does it'll be too late," countered Anthony brilliantly.
+
+Her reply was scornful, almost injured.
+
+"Why, this old thing won't _go_ over thirty-five."
+
+"It isn't old."
+
+"It is in spirit."
+
+That afternoon the car joined the laundry-bags and Gloria's appetite as
+one of the trinity of contention. He warned her of railroad tracks; he
+pointed out approaching automobiles; finally he insisted on taking the
+wheel and a furious, insulted Gloria sat silently beside him between the
+towns of Larchmont and Rye.
+
+But it was due to this furious silence of hers that the gray house
+materialized from its abstraction, for just beyond Rye he surrendered
+gloomily to it and re-relinquished the wheel. Mutely he beseeched her
+and Gloria, instantly cheered, vowed to be more careful. But because a
+discourteous street-car persisted callously in remaining upon its track
+Gloria ducked down a side-street--and thereafter that afternoon was
+never able to find her way back to the Post Road. The street they
+finally mistook for it lost its Post-Road aspect when it had gone five
+miles from Cos Cob. Its macadam became gravel, then dirt--moreover, it
+narrowed and developed a border of maple trees, through which filtered
+the weltering sun, making its endless experiments with shadow designs
+upon the long grass.
+
+"We're lost now," complained Anthony.
+
+"Read that sign!"
+
+"Marietta--Five Miles. What's Marietta?"
+
+"Never heard of it, but let's go on. We can't turn here and there's
+probably a detour back to the Post Road."
+
+The way became scarred with deepening ruts and insidious shoulders of
+stone. Three farmhouses faced them momentarily, slid by. A town sprang
+up in a cluster of dull roofs around a white tall steeple.
+
+Then Gloria, hesitating between two approaches, and making her choice
+too late, drove over a fire-hydrant and ripped the transmission
+violently from the car.
+
+It was dark when the real-estate agent of Marietta showed them the gray
+house. They came upon it just west of the village, where it rested
+against a sky that was a warm blue cloak buttoned with tiny stars. The
+gray house had been there when women who kept cats were probably
+witches, when Paul Revere made false teeth in Boston preparatory to
+arousing the great commercial people, when our ancestors were gloriously
+deserting Washington in droves. Since those days the house had been
+bolstered up in a feeble corner, considerably repartitioned and newly
+plastered inside, amplified by a kitchen and added to by a
+side-porch--but, save for where some jovial oaf had roofed the new
+kitchen with red tin, Colonial it defiantly remained.
+
+"How did you happen to come to Marietta?" demanded the real-estate agent
+in a tone that was first cousin to suspicion. He was showing them
+through four spacious and airy bedrooms.
+
+"We broke down," explained Gloria. "I drove over a fire-hydrant and we
+had ourselves towed to the garage and then we saw your sign."
+
+The man nodded, unable to follow such a sally of spontaneity. There was
+something subtly immoral in doing anything without several months'
+consideration.
+
+They signed a lease that night and, in the agent's car, returned
+jubilantly to the somnolent and dilapidated Marietta Inn, which was too
+broken for even the chance immoralities and consequent gaieties of a
+country road-house. Half the night they lay awake planning the things
+they were to do there. Anthony was going to work at an astounding pace
+on his history and thus ingratiate himself with his cynical
+grandfather.... When the car was repaired they would explore the country
+and join the nearest "really nice" club, where Gloria would play golf
+"or something" while Anthony wrote. This, of course, was Anthony's
+idea--Gloria was sure she wanted but to read and dream and be fed tomato
+sandwiches and lemonades by some angelic servant still in a shadowy
+hinterland. Between paragraphs Anthony would come and kiss her as she
+lay indolently in the hammock.... The hammock! a host of new dreams in
+tune to its imagined rhythm, while the wind stirred it and waves of sun
+undulated over the shadows of blown wheat, or the dusty road freckled
+and darkened with quiet summer rain....
+
+And guests--here they had a long argument, both of them trying to be
+extraordinarily mature and far-sighted. Anthony claimed that they would
+need people at least every other week-end "as a sort of change." This
+provoked an involved and extremely sentimental conversation as to
+whether Anthony did not consider Gloria change enough. Though he assured
+her that he did, she insisted upon doubting him.... Eventually the
+conversation assumed its eternal monotone: "What then? Oh, what'll we
+do then?"
+
+"Well, we'll have a dog," suggested Anthony.
+
+"I don't want one. I want a kitty." She went thoroughly and with great
+enthusiasm into the history, habits, and tastes of a cat she had once
+possessed. Anthony considered that it must have been a horrible
+character with neither personal magnetism nor a loyal heart.
+
+Later they slept, to wake an hour before dawn with the gray house
+dancing in phantom glory before their dazzled eyes.
+
+
+THE SOUL OF GLORIA
+
+For that autumn the gray house welcomed them with a rush of sentiment
+that falsified its cynical old age. True, there were the laundry-bags,
+there was Gloria's appetite, there was Anthony's tendency to brood and
+his imaginative "nervousness," but there were intervals also of an
+unhoped-for serenity. Close together on the porch they would wait for
+the moon to stream across the silver acres of farmland, jump a thick
+wood and tumble waves of radiance at their feet. In such a moonlight
+Gloria's face was of a pervading, reminiscent white, and with a modicum
+of effort they would slip off the blinders of custom and each would find
+in the other almost the quintessential romance of the vanished June.
+
+One night while her head lay upon his heart and their cigarettes glowed
+in swerving buttons of light through the dome of darkness over the bed,
+she spoke for the first time and fragmentarily of the men who had hung
+for brief moments on her beauty.
+
+"Do you ever think of them?" he asked her.
+
+"Only occasionally--when something happens that recalls a particular
+man."
+
+"What do you remember--their kisses?"
+
+"All sorts of things.... Men are different with women."
+
+"Different in what way?"
+
+"Oh, entirely--and quite inexpressibly. Men who had the most firmly
+rooted reputation for being this way or that would sometimes be
+surprisingly inconsistent with me. Brutal men were tender, negligible
+men were astonishingly loyal and lovable, and, often, honorable men took
+attitudes that were anything but honorable."
+
+"For instance?"
+
+"Well, there was a boy named Percy Wolcott from Cornell who was quite a
+hero in college, a great athlete, and saved a lot of people from a fire
+or something like that. But I soon found he was stupid in a rather
+dangerous way."
+
+"What way?"
+
+"It seems he had some na�ve conception of a woman 'fit to be his wife,'
+a particular conception that I used to run into a lot and that always
+drove me wild. He demanded a girl who'd never been kissed and who liked
+to sew and sit home and pay tribute to his self-esteem. And I'll bet a
+hat if he's gotten an idiot to sit and be stupid with him he's tearing
+out on the side with some much speedier lady."
+
+"I'd be sorry for his wife."
+
+"I wouldn't. Think what an ass she'd be not to realize it before she
+married him. He's the sort whose idea of honoring and respecting a woman
+would be never to give her any excitement. With the best intentions, he
+was deep in the dark ages."
+
+"What was his attitude toward you?"
+
+"I'm coming to that. As I told you--or did I tell you?--he was mighty
+good-looking: big brown honest eyes and one of those smiles that
+guarantee the heart behind it is twenty-karat gold. Being young and
+credulous, I thought he had some discretion, so I kissed him fervently
+one night when we were riding around after a dance at the Homestead at
+Hot Springs. It had been a wonderful week, I remember--with the most
+luscious trees spread like green lather, sort of, all over the valley
+and a mist rising out of them on October mornings like bonfires lit to
+turn them brown--"
+
+"How about your friend with the ideals?" interrupted Anthony.
+
+"It seems that when he kissed me he began to think that perhaps he could
+get away with a little more, that I needn't be 'respected' like this
+Beatrice Fairfax glad-girl of his imagination."
+
+"What'd he do?"
+
+"Not much. I pushed him off a sixteen-foot embankment before he was well
+started."
+
+"Hurt him?" inquired Anthony with a laugh.
+
+"Broke his arm and sprained his ankle. He told the story all over Hot
+Springs, and when his arm healed a man named Barley who liked me fought
+him and broke it over again. Oh, it was all an awful mess. He threatened
+to sue Barley, and Barley--he was from Georgia--was seen buying a gun in
+town. But before that mama had dragged me North again, much against my
+will, so I never did find out all that happened--though I saw Barley
+once in the Vanderbilt lobby."
+
+Anthony laughed long and loud.
+
+"What a career! I suppose I ought to be furious because you've kissed so
+many men. I'm not, though."
+
+At this she sat up in bed.
+
+"It's funny, but I'm so sure that those kisses left no mark on me--no
+taint of promiscuity, I mean--even though a man once told me in all
+seriousness that he hated to think I'd been a public drinking glass."
+
+"He had his nerve."
+
+"I just laughed and told him to think of me rather as a loving-cup that
+goes from hand to hand but should be valued none the less."
+
+"Somehow it doesn't bother me--on the other hand it would, of course, if
+you'd done any more than kiss them. But I believe _you're_ absolutely
+incapable of jealousy except as hurt vanity. Why don't you care what
+I've done? Wouldn't you prefer it if I'd been absolutely innocent?"
+
+"It's all in the impression it might have made on you. _My_ kisses were
+because the man was good-looking, or because there was a slick moon, or
+even because I've felt vaguely sentimental and a little stirred. But
+that's all--it's had utterly no effect on me. But you'd remember and let
+memories haunt you and worry you."
+
+"Haven't you ever kissed any one like you've kissed me?"
+
+"No," she answered simply. "As I've told you, men have tried--oh, lots
+of things. Any pretty girl has that experience.... You see," she
+resumed, "it doesn't matter to me how many women you've stayed with in
+the past, so long as it was merely a physical satisfaction, but I don't
+believe I could endure the idea of your ever having lived with another
+woman for a protracted period or even having wanted to marry some
+possible girl. It's different somehow. There'd be all the little
+intimacies remembered--and they'd dull that freshness that after all is
+the most precious part of love."
+
+Rapturously he pulled her down beside him on the pillow.
+
+"Oh, my darling," he whispered, "as if I remembered anything but your
+dear kisses."
+
+Then Gloria, in a very mild voice:
+
+"Anthony, did I hear anybody say they were thirsty?"
+
+Anthony laughed abruptly and with a sheepish and amused grin got out of
+bed.
+
+"With just a _little_ piece of ice in the water," she added. "Do you
+suppose I could have that?"
+
+Gloria used the adjective "little" whenever she asked a favor--it made
+the favor sound less arduous. But Anthony laughed again--whether she
+wanted a cake of ice or a marble of it, he must go down-stairs to the
+kitchen.... Her voice followed him through the hall: "And just a
+_little_ cracker with just a _little_ marmalade on it...."
+
+"Oh, gosh!" sighed Anthony in rapturous slang, "she's wonderful, that
+girl! She _has_ it!"
+
+"When we have a baby," she began one day--this, it had already been
+decided, was to be after three years--"I want it to look like you."
+
+"Except its legs," he insinuated slyly.
+
+"Oh, yes, except his legs. He's got to have my legs. But the rest of him
+can be you."
+
+"My nose?"
+
+Gloria hesitated.
+
+"Well, perhaps my nose. But certainly your eyes--and my mouth, and I
+guess my shape of the face. I wonder; I think he'd be sort of cute if he
+had my hair."
+
+"My dear Gloria, you've appropriated the whole baby."
+
+"Well, I didn't mean to," she apologized cheerfully.
+
+"Let him have my neck at least," he urged, regarding himself gravely in
+the glass. "You've often said you liked my neck because the Adam's apple
+doesn't show, and, besides, your neck's too short."
+
+"Why, it is _not_!" she cried indignantly, turning to the mirror, "it's
+just right. I don't believe I've ever seen a better neck."
+
+"It's too short," he repeated teasingly.
+
+"Short?" Her tone expressed exasperated wonder.
+
+"Short? You're crazy!" She elongated and contracted it to convince
+herself of its reptilian sinuousness. "Do you call _that_ a short neck?"
+
+"One of the shortest I've ever seen."
+
+For the first time in weeks tears started from Gloria's eyes and the
+look she gave him had a quality of real pain.
+
+"Oh, Anthony--"
+
+"My Lord, Gloria!" He approached her in bewilderment and took her elbows
+in his hands. "Don't cry, _please_! Didn't you know I was only kidding?
+Gloria, look at me! Why, dearest, you've got the longest neck I've ever
+seen. Honestly."
+
+Her tears dissolved in a twisted smile.
+
+"Well--you shouldn't have said that, then. Let's talk about the b-baby."
+
+Anthony paced the floor and spoke as though rehearsing for a debate.
+
+"To put it briefly, there are two babies we could have, two distinct and
+logical babies, utterly differentiated. There's the baby that's the
+combination of the best of both of us. Your body, my eyes, my mind, your
+intelligence--and then there is the baby which is our worst--my body,
+your disposition, and my irresolution."
+
+"I like that second baby," she said.
+
+"What I'd really like," continued Anthony, "would be to have two sets of
+triplets one year apart and then experiment with the six boys--"
+
+"Poor me," she interjected.
+
+"--I'd educate them each in a different country and by a different
+system and when they were twenty-three I'd call them together and see
+what they were like."
+
+"Let's have 'em all with my neck," suggested Gloria.
+
+
+THE END OF A CHAPTER
+
+The car was at length repaired and with a deliberate vengeance took up
+where it left off the business of causing infinite dissension. Who
+should drive? How fast should Gloria go? These two questions and the
+eternal recriminations involved ran through the days. They motored to
+the Post-Road towns, Rye, Portchester, and Greenwich, and called on a
+dozen friends, mostly Gloria's, who all seemed to be in different stages
+of having babies and in this respect as well as in others bored her to a
+point of nervous distraction. For an hour after each visit she would
+bite her fingers furiously and be inclined to take out her rancor
+on Anthony.
+
+"I loathe women," she cried in a mild temper. "What on earth can you say
+to them--except talk 'lady-lady'? I've enthused over a dozen babies that
+I've wanted only to choke. And every one of those girls is either
+incipiently jealous and suspicious of her husband if he's charming or
+beginning to be bored with him if he isn't."
+
+"Don't you ever intend to see any women?"
+
+"I don't know. They never seem clean to me--never--never. Except just a
+few. Constance Shaw--you know, the Mrs. Merriam who came over to see us
+last Tuesday--is almost the only one. She's so tall and fresh-looking
+and stately."
+
+"I don't like them so tall."
+
+Though they went to several dinner dances at various country clubs, they
+decided that the autumn was too nearly over for them to "go out" on any
+scale, even had they been so inclined. He hated golf; Gloria liked it
+only mildly, and though she enjoyed a violent rush that some
+undergraduates gave her one night and was glad that Anthony should be
+proud of her beauty, she also perceived that their hostess for the
+evening, a Mrs. Granby, was somewhat disquieted by the fact that
+Anthony's classmate, Alec Granby, joined with enthusiasm in the rush.
+The Granbys never phoned again, and though Gloria laughed, it piqued her
+not a little.
+
+"You see," she explained to Anthony, "if I wasn't married it wouldn't
+worry her--but she's been to the movies in her day and she thinks I may
+be a vampire. But the point is that placating such people requires an
+effort that I'm simply unwilling to make.... And those cute little
+freshmen making eyes at me and paying me idiotic compliments! I've grown
+up, Anthony."
+
+Marietta itself offered little social life. Half a dozen farm-estates
+formed a hectagon around it, but these belonged to ancient men who
+displayed themselves only as inert, gray-thatched lumps in the back of
+limousines on their way to the station, whither they were sometimes
+accompanied by equally ancient and doubly massive wives. The townspeople
+were a particularly uninteresting type--unmarried females were
+predominant for the most part--with school-festival horizons and souls
+bleak as the forbidding white architecture of the three churches. The
+only native with whom they came into close contact was the broad-hipped,
+broad-shouldered Swedish girl who came every day to do their work. She
+was silent and efficient, and Gloria, after finding her weeping
+violently into her bowed arms upon the kitchen table, developed an
+uncanny fear of her and stopped complaining about the food. Because of
+her untold and esoteric grief the girl stayed on.
+
+Gloria's penchant for premonitions and her bursts of vague
+supernaturalism were a surprise to Anthony. Either some complex,
+properly and scientifically inhibited in the early years with her
+Bilphistic mother, or some inherited hypersensitiveness, made her
+susceptible to any suggestion of the psychic, and, far from gullible
+about the motives of people, she was inclined to credit any
+extraordinary happening attributed to the whimsical perambulations of
+the buried. The desperate squeakings about the old house on windy nights
+that to Anthony were burglars with revolvers ready in hand represented
+to Gloria the auras, evil and restive, of dead generations, expiating
+the inexpiable upon the ancient and romantic hearth. One night, because
+of two swift bangs down-stairs, which Anthony fearfully but unavailingly
+investigated, they lay awake nearly until dawn asking each other
+examination-paper questions about the history of the world.
+
+In October Muriel came out for a two weeks' visit. Gloria had
+called her on long-distance, and Miss Kane ended the conversation
+characteristically by saying "All-ll-ll righty. I'll be there with
+bells!" She arrived with a dozen popular songs under her arm.
+
+"You ought to have a phonograph out here in the country," she said,
+"just a little Vic--they don't cost much. Then whenever you're lonesome
+you can have Caruso or Al Jolson right at your door."
+
+She worried Anthony to distraction by telling him that "he was the first
+clever man she had ever known and she got so tired of shallow people."
+He wondered that people fell in love with such women. Yet he supposed
+that under a certain impassioned glance even she might take on a
+softness and promise.
+
+But Gloria, violently showing off her love for Anthony, was diverted
+into a state of purring content.
+
+Finally Richard Caramel arrived for a garrulous and to Gloria painfully
+literary week-end, during which he discussed himself with Anthony long
+after she lay in childlike sleep up-stairs.
+
+"It's been mighty funny, this success and all," said Dick. "Just before
+the novel appeared I'd been trying, without success, to sell some short
+stories. Then, after my book came out, I polished up three and had them
+accepted by one of the magazines that had rejected them before. I've
+done a lot of them since; publishers don't pay me for my book till
+this winter."
+
+"Don't let the victor belong to the spoils."
+
+"You mean write trash?" He considered. "If you mean deliberately
+injecting a slushy fade-out into each one, I'm not. But I don't suppose
+I'm being so careful. I'm certainly writing faster and I don't seem to
+be thinking as much as I used to. Perhaps it's because I don't get any
+conversation, now that you're married and Maury's gone to Philadelphia.
+Haven't the old urge and ambition. Early success and all that."
+
+"Doesn't it worry you?"
+
+"Frantically. I get a thing I call sentence-fever that must be like
+buck-fever--it's a sort of intense literary self-consciousness that
+comes when I try to force myself. But the really awful days aren't when
+I think I can't write. They're when I wonder whether any writing is
+worth while at all--I mean whether I'm not a sort of glorified buffoon."
+
+"I like to hear you talk that way," said Anthony with a touch of his old
+patronizing insolence. "I was afraid you'd gotten a bit idiotic over
+your work. Read the damnedest interview you gave out----"
+
+Dick interrupted with an agonized expression.
+
+"Good Lord! Don't mention it. Young lady wrote it--most admiring young
+lady. Kept telling me my work was 'strong,' and I sort of lost my head
+and made a lot of strange pronouncements. Some of it was good, though,
+don't you think?"
+
+"Oh, yes; that part about the wise writer writing for the youth of his
+generation, the critic of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever
+afterward."
+
+"Oh, I believe a lot of it," admitted Richard Caramel with a faint beam.
+"It simply was a mistake to give it out."
+
+In November they moved into Anthony's apartment, from which they sallied
+triumphantly to the Yale-Harvard and Harvard-Princeton football games,
+to the St. Nicholas ice-skating rink, to a thorough round of the
+theatres and to a miscellany of entertainments--from small, staid dances
+to the great affairs that Gloria loved, held in those few houses where
+lackeys with powdered wigs scurried around in magnificent Anglomania
+under the direction of gigantic majordomos. Their intention was to go
+abroad the first of the year or, at any rate, when the war was over.
+Anthony had actually completed a Chestertonian essay on the twelfth
+century by way of introduction to his proposed book and Gloria had done
+some extensive research work on the question of Russian sable coats--in
+fact the winter was approaching quite comfortably, when the Bilphistic
+demiurge decided suddenly in mid-December that Mrs. Gilbert's soul had
+aged sufficiently in its present incarnation. In consequence Anthony
+took a miserable and hysterical Gloria out to Kansas City, where, in the
+fashion of mankind, they paid the terrible and mind-shaking deference
+to the dead.
+
+Mr. Gilbert became, for the first and last time in his life, a truly
+pathetic figure. That woman he had broken to wait upon his body and play
+congregation to his mind had ironically deserted him--just when he could
+not much longer have supported her. Never again would he be able so
+satisfactorily to bore and bully a human soul.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+SYMPOSIUM
+
+Gloria had lulled Anthony's mind to sleep. She, who seemed of all women
+the wisest and the finest, hung like a brilliant curtain across his
+doorways, shutting out the light of the sun. In those first years what
+he believed bore invariably the stamp of Gloria; he saw the sun always
+through the pattern of the curtain.
+
+It was a sort of lassitude that brought them back to Marietta for
+another summer. Through a golden enervating spring they had loitered,
+restive and lazily extravagant, along the California coast, joining
+other parties intermittently and drifting from Pasadena to Coronado,
+from Coronado to Santa Barbara, with no purpose more apparent than
+Gloria's desire to dance by different music or catch some infinitesimal
+variant among the changing colors of the sea. Out of the Pacific there
+rose to greet them savage rocklands and equally barbaric hostelries
+built that at tea-time one might drowse into a languid wicker bazaar
+glorified by the polo costumes of Southhampton and Lake Forest and
+Newport and Palm Beach. And, as the waves met and splashed and glittered
+in the most placid of the bays, so they joined this group and that, and
+with them shifted stations, murmuring ever of those strange
+unsubstantial gaieties in wait just over the next green and
+fruitful valley.
+
+A simple healthy leisure class it was--the best of the men not
+unpleasantly undergraduate--they seemed to be on a perpetual candidates
+list for some etherealized "Porcellian" or "Skull and Bones" extended
+out indefinitely into the world; the women, of more than average beauty,
+fragilely athletic, somewhat idiotic as hostesses but charming and
+infinitely decorative as guests. Sedately and gracefully they danced the
+steps of their selection in the balmy tea hours, accomplishing with a
+certain dignity the movements so horribly burlesqued by clerk and chorus
+girl the country over. It seemed ironic that in this lone and
+discredited offspring of the arts Americans should excel,
+unquestionably.
+
+Having danced and splashed through a lavish spring, Anthony and Gloria
+found that they had spent too much money and for this must go into
+retirement for a certain period. There was Anthony's "work," they said.
+Almost before they knew it they were back in the gray house, more aware
+now that other lovers had slept there, other names had been called over
+the banisters, other couples had sat upon the porch steps watching the
+gray-green fields and the black bulk of woods beyond.
+
+It was the same Anthony, more restless, inclined to quicken only under
+the stimulus of several high-balls, faintly, almost imperceptibly,
+apathetic toward Gloria. But Gloria--she would be twenty-four in August
+and was in an attractive but sincere panic about it. Six years to
+thirty! Had she been less in love with Anthony her sense of the flight
+of time would have expressed itself in a reawakened interest in other
+men, in a deliberate intention of extracting a transient gleam of
+romance from every potential lover who glanced at her with lowered brows
+over a shining dinner table. She said to Anthony one day:
+
+"How I feel is that if I wanted anything I'd take it. That's what I've
+always thought all my life. But it happens that I want you, and so I
+just haven't room for any other desires."
+
+They were bound eastward through a parched and lifeless Indiana, and she
+had looked up from one of her beloved moving picture magazines to find a
+casual conversation suddenly turned grave.
+
+Anthony frowned out the car window. As the track crossed a country road
+a farmer appeared momentarily in his wagon; he was chewing on a straw
+and was apparently the same farmer they had passed a dozen times before,
+sitting in silent and malignant symbolism. As Anthony turned to Gloria
+his frown intensified.
+
+"You worry me," he objected; "I can imagine _wanting_ another woman
+under certain transitory circumstances, but I can't imagine taking her."
+
+"But I don't feel that way, Anthony. I can't be bothered resisting
+things I want. My way is not to want them--to want nobody but you."
+
+"Yet when I think that if you just happened to take a fancy to some
+one--"
+
+"Oh, don't be an idiot!" she exclaimed. "There'd be nothing casual about
+it. And I can't even imagine the possibility."
+
+This emphatically closed the conversation. Anthony's unfailing
+appreciation made her happier in his company than in any one's else. She
+definitely enjoyed him--she loved him. So the summer began very much as
+had the one before.
+
+There was, however, one radical change in m�nage. The icy-hearted
+Scandinavian, whose austere cooking and sardonic manner of waiting on
+table had so depressed Gloria, gave way to an exceedingly efficient
+Japanese whose name was Tanalahaka, but who confessed that he heeded any
+summons which included the dissyllable "Tana."
+
+Tana was unusually small even for a Japanese, and displayed a somewhat
+na�ve conception of himself as a man of the world. On the day of his
+arrival from "R. Gugimoniki, Japanese Reliable Employment Agency," he
+called Anthony into his room to see the treasures of his trunk. These
+included a large collection of Japanese post cards, which he was all for
+explaining to his employer at once, individually and at great length.
+Among them were half a dozen of pornographic intent and plainly of
+American origin, though the makers had modestly omitted both their names
+and the form for mailing. He next brought out some of his own
+handiwork--a pair of American pants, which he had made himself, and two
+suits of solid silk underwear. He informed Anthony confidentially as to
+the purpose for which these latter were reserved. The next exhibit was a
+rather good copy of an etching of Abraham Lincoln, to whose face he had
+given an unmistakable Japanese cast. Last came a flute; he had made it
+himself but it was broken: he was going to fix it soon.
+
+After these polite formalities, which Anthony conjectured must be native
+to Japan, Tana delivered a long harangue in splintered English on the
+relation of master and servant from which Anthony gathered that he had
+worked on large estates but had always quarrelled with the other
+servants because they were not honest. They had a great time over the
+word "honest," and in fact became rather irritated with each other,
+because Anthony persisted stubbornly that Tana was trying to say
+"hornets," and even went to the extent of buzzing in the manner of a bee
+and flapping his arms to imitate wings.
+
+After three-quarters of an hour Anthony was released with the warm
+assurance that they would have other nice chats in which Tana would tell
+"how we do in my countree."
+
+Such was Tana's garrulous premi�re in the gray house--and he fulfilled
+its promise. Though he was conscientious and honorable, he was
+unquestionably a terrific bore. He seemed unable to control his tongue,
+sometimes continuing from paragraph to paragraph with a look akin to
+pain in his small brown eyes.
+
+Sunday and Monday afternoons he read the comic sections of the
+newspapers. One cartoon which contained a facetious Japanese butler
+diverted him enormously, though he claimed that the protagonist, who to
+Anthony appeared clearly Oriental, had really an American face. The
+difficulty with the funny paper was that when, aided by Anthony, he had
+spelled out the last three pictures and assimilated their context with a
+concentration surely adequate for Kant's "Critique," he had entirely
+forgotten what the first pictures were about.
+
+In the middle of June Anthony and Gloria celebrated their first
+anniversary by having a "date." Anthony knocked at the door and she ran
+to let him in. Then they sat together on the couch calling over those
+names they had made for each other, new combinations of endearments ages
+old. Yet to this "date" was appended no attenuated good-night with its
+ecstasy of regret.
+
+Later in June horror leered out at Gloria, struck at her and frightened
+her bright soul back half a generation. Then slowly it faded out, faded
+back into that impenetrable darkness whence it had come--taking
+relentlessly its modicum of youth.
+
+With an infallible sense of the dramatic it chose a little railroad
+station in a wretched village near Portchester. The station platform lay
+all day bare as a prairie, exposed to the dusty yellow sun and to the
+glance of that most obnoxious type of countryman who lives near a
+metropolis and has attained its cheap smartness without its urbanity. A
+dozen of these yokels, red-eyed, cheerless as scarecrows, saw the
+incident. Dimly it passed across their confused and uncomprehending
+minds, taken at its broadest for a coarse joke, at its subtlest for a
+"shame." Meanwhile there upon the platform a measure of brightness faded
+from the world.
+
+With Eric Merriam, Anthony had been sitting over a decanter of Scotch
+all the hot summer afternoon, while Gloria and Constance Merriam swam
+and sunned themselves at the Beach Club, the latter under a striped
+parasol-awning, Gloria stretched sensuously upon the soft hot sand,
+tanning her inevitable legs. Later they had all four played with
+inconsequential sandwiches; then Gloria had risen, tapping Anthony's
+knee with her parasol to get his attention.
+
+"We've got to go, dear."
+
+"Now?" He looked at her unwillingly. At that moment nothing seemed of
+more importance than to idle on that shady porch drinking mellowed
+Scotch, while his host reminisced interminably on the byplay of some
+forgotten political campaign.
+
+"We've really got to go," repeated Gloria. "We can get a taxi to the
+station.... Come on, Anthony!" she commanded a bit more imperiously.
+
+"Now see here--" Merriam, his yarn cut off, made conventional
+objections, meanwhile provocatively filling his guest's glass with a
+high-ball that should have been sipped through ten minutes. But at
+Gloria's annoyed "We really _must!_" Anthony drank it off, got to his
+feet and made an elaborate bow to his hostess.
+
+"It seems we 'must,'" he said, with little grace.
+
+In a minute he was following Gloria down a garden-walk between tall
+rose-bushes, her parasol brushing gently the June-blooming leaves. Most
+inconsiderate, he thought, as they reached the road. He felt with
+injured na�vete that Gloria should not have interrupted such innocent
+and harmless enjoyment. The whiskey had both soothed and clarified the
+restless things in his mind. It occurred to him that she had taken this
+same attitude several times before. Was he always to retreat from
+pleasant episodes at a touch of her parasol or a flicker of her eye? His
+unwillingness blurred to ill will, which rose within him like a
+resistless bubble. He kept silent, perversely inhibiting a desire to
+reproach her. They found a taxi in front of the Inn; rode silently to
+the little station....
+
+Then Anthony knew what he wanted--to assert his will against this cool
+and impervious girl, to obtain with one magnificent effort a mastery
+that seemed infinitely desirable.
+
+"Let's go over to see the Barneses," he said without looking at her. "I
+don't feel like going home."
+
+--Mrs. Barnes, n�e Rachael Jerryl, had a summer place several miles from
+Redgate.
+
+"We went there day before yesterday," she answered shortly.
+
+"I'm sure they'd be glad to see us." He felt that that was not a strong
+enough note, braced himself stubbornly, and added: "I want to see the
+Barneses. I haven't any desire to go home."
+
+"Well, I haven't any desire to go to the Barneses."
+
+Suddenly they stared at each other.
+
+"Why, Anthony," she said with annoyance, "this is Sunday night and they
+probably have guests for supper. Why we should go in at this hour--"
+
+"Then why couldn't we have stayed at the Merriams'?" he burst out. "Why
+go home when we were having a perfectly decent time? They asked us
+to supper."
+
+"They had to. Give me the money and I'll get the railroad tickets."
+
+"I certainly will not! I'm in no humour for a ride in that damn hot
+train."
+
+Gloria stamped her foot on the platform.
+
+"Anthony, you act as if you're tight!"
+
+"On the contrary, I'm perfectly sober."
+
+But his voice had slipped into a husky key and she knew with certainty
+that this was untrue.
+
+"If you're sober you'll give me the money for the tickets."
+
+But it was too late to talk to him that way. In his mind was but one
+idea--that Gloria was being selfish, that she was always being selfish
+and would continue to be unless here and now he asserted himself as her
+master. This was the occasion of all occasions, since for a whim she had
+deprived him of a pleasure. His determination solidified, approached
+momentarily a dull and sullen hate.
+
+"I won't go in the train," he said, his voice trembling a little with
+anger. "We're going to the Barneses."
+
+"I'm not!" she cried. "If you go I'm going home alone."
+
+"Go on, then."
+
+Without a word she turned toward the ticket office; simultaneously he
+remembered that she had some money with her and that this was not the
+sort of victory he wanted, the sort he must have. He took a step after
+her and seized her arm.
+
+"See here!" he muttered, "you're _not_ going alone!"
+
+"I certainly am--why, Anthony!" This exclamation as she tried to pull
+away from him and he only tightened his grasp.
+
+He looked at her with narrowed and malicious eyes.
+
+"Let go!" Her cry had a quality of fierceness. "If you have _any_
+decency you'll let go."
+
+"Why?" He knew why. But he took a confused and not quite confident pride
+in holding her there.
+
+"I'm going home, do you understand? And you're going to let me go!"
+
+"No, I'm not."
+
+Her eyes were burning now.
+
+"Are you going to make a scene here?"
+
+"I say you're not going! I'm tired of your eternal selfishness!"
+
+"I only want to go home." Two wrathful tears started from her eyes.
+
+"This time you're going to do what _I_ say."
+
+Slowly her body straightened: her head went back in a gesture of
+infinite scorn.
+
+"I hate you!" Her low words were expelled like venom through her
+clenched teeth. "Oh, _let_ me go! Oh, I _hate_ you!" She tried to jerk
+herself away but he only grasped the other arm. "I hate you! I
+hate you!"
+
+At Gloria's fury his uncertainty returned, but he felt that now he had
+gone too far to give in. It seemed that he had always given in and that
+in her heart she had despised him for it. Ah, she might hate him now,
+but afterward she would admire him for his dominance.
+
+The approaching train gave out a premonitory siren that tumbled
+melodramatically toward them down the glistening blue tracks. Gloria
+tugged and strained to free herself, and words older than the Book of
+Genesis came to her lips.
+
+"Oh, you brute!" she sobbed. "Oh, you brute! Oh, I hate you! Oh, you
+brute! Oh--"
+
+On the station platform other prospective passengers were beginning to
+turn and stare; the drone of the train was audible, it increased to a
+clamor. Gloria's efforts redoubled, then ceased altogether, and she
+stood there trembling and hot-eyed at this helpless humiliation, as the
+engine roared and thundered into the station.
+
+Low, below the flood of steam and the grinding of the brakes came her
+voice:
+
+"Oh, if there was one _man_ here you couldn't do this! You couldn't do
+this! You coward! You coward, oh, you coward!"
+
+Anthony, silent, trembling himself, gripped her rigidly, aware that
+faces, dozens of them, curiously unmoved, shadows of a dream, were
+regarding him. Then the bells distilled metallic crashes that were like
+physical pain, the smoke-stacks volleyed in slow acceleration at the
+sky, and in a moment of noise and gray gaseous turbulence the line of
+faces ran by, moved off, became indistinct--until suddenly there was
+only the sun slanting east across the tracks and a volume of sound
+decreasing far off like a train made out of tin thunder. He dropped her
+arms. He had won.
+
+Now, if he wished, he might laugh. The test was done and he had
+sustained his will with violence. Let leniency walk in the wake
+of victory.
+
+"We'll hire a car here and drive back to Marietta," he said with fine
+reserve.
+
+For answer Gloria seized his hand with both of hers and raising it to
+her mouth bit deeply into his thumb. He scarcely noticed the pain;
+seeing the blood spurt he absent-mindedly drew out his handkerchief and
+wrapped the wound. That too was part of the triumph he supposed--it was
+inevitable that defeat should thus be resented--and as such was
+beneath notice.
+
+She was sobbing, almost without tears, profoundly and bitterly.
+
+"I won't go! I won't go! You--can't--make--me--go! You've--you've killed
+any love I ever had for you, and any respect. But all that's left in me
+would die before I'd move from this place. Oh, if I'd thought _you'd_
+lay your hands on me--"
+
+"You're going with me," he said brutally, "if I have to carry you."
+
+He turned, beckoned to a taxicab, told the driver to go to Marietta. The
+man dismounted and swung the door open. Anthony faced his wife and said
+between his clenched teeth:
+
+"Will you get in?--or will I _put_ you in?"
+
+With a subdued cry of infinite pain and despair she yielded herself up
+and got into the car.
+
+All the long ride, through the increasing dark of twilight, she sat
+huddled in her side of the car, her silence broken by an occasional dry
+and solitary sob. Anthony stared out the window, his mind working dully
+on the slowly changing significance of what had occurred. Something was
+wrong--that last cry of Gloria's had struck a chord which echoed
+posthumously and with incongruous disquiet in his heart. He must be
+right--yet, she seemed such a pathetic little thing now, broken and
+dispirited, humiliated beyond the measure of her lot to bear. The
+sleeves of her dress were torn; her parasol was gone, forgotten on the
+platform. It was a new costume, he remembered, and she had been so proud
+of it that very morning when they had left the house.... He began
+wondering if any one they knew had seen the incident. And persistently
+there recurred to him her cry:
+
+"All that's left in me would die--"
+
+This gave him a confused and increasing worry. It fitted so well with
+the Gloria who lay in the corner--no longer a proud Gloria, nor any
+Gloria he had known. He asked himself if it were possible. While he did
+not believe she would cease to love him--this, of course, was
+unthinkable--it was yet problematical whether Gloria without her
+arrogance, her independence, her virginal confidence and courage, would
+be the girl of his glory, the radiant woman who was precious and
+charming because she was ineffably, triumphantly herself.
+
+He was very drunk even then, so drunk as not to realize his own
+drunkenness. When they reached the gray house he went to his own room
+and, his mind still wrestling helplessly and sombrely with what he had
+done, fell into a deep stupor on his bed.
+
+It was after one o'clock and the hall seemed extraordinarily quiet when
+Gloria, wide-eyed and sleepless, traversed it and pushed open the door
+of his room. He had been too befuddled to open the windows and the air
+was stale and thick with whiskey. She stood for a moment by his bed, a
+slender, exquisitely graceful figure in her boyish silk pajamas--then
+with abandon she flung herself upon him, half waking him in the frantic
+emotion of her embrace, dropping her warm tears upon his throat.
+
+"Oh, Anthony!" she cried passionately, "oh, my darling, you don't know
+what you did!"
+
+Yet in the morning, coming early into her room, he knelt down by her bed
+and cried like a little boy, as though it was his heart that had
+been broken.
+
+"It seemed, last night," she said gravely, her fingers playing in his
+hair, "that all the part of me you loved, the part that was worth
+knowing, all the pride and fire, was gone. I knew that what was left of
+me would always love you, but never in quite the same way."
+
+Nevertheless, she was aware even then that she would forget in time and
+that it is the manner of life seldom to strike but always to wear away.
+After that morning the incident was never mentioned and its deep wound
+healed with Anthony's hand--and if there was triumph some darker force
+than theirs possessed it, possessed the knowledge and the victory.
+
+
+NIETZSCHEAN INCIDENT
+
+Gloria's independence, like all sincere and profound qualities, had
+begun unconsciously, but, once brought to her attention by Anthony's
+fascinated discovery of it, it assumed more nearly the proportions of a
+formal code. From her conversation it might be assumed that all her
+energy and vitality went into a violent affirmation of the negative
+principle "Never give a damn."
+
+"Not for anything or anybody," she said, "except myself and, by
+implication, for Anthony. That's the rule of all life and if it weren't
+I'd be that way anyhow. Nobody'd do anything for me if it didn't gratify
+them to, and I'd do as little for them."
+
+She was on the front porch of the nicest lady in Marietta when she said
+this, and as she finished she gave a curious little cry and sank in a
+dead faint to the porch floor.
+
+The lady brought her to and drove her home in her car. It had occurred
+to the estimable Gloria that she was probably with child.
+
+She lay upon the long lounge down-stairs. Day was slipping warmly out
+the window, touching the late roses on the porch pillars.
+
+"All I think of ever is that I love you," she wailed. "I value my body
+because you think it's beautiful. And this body of mine--of yours--to
+have it grow ugly and shapeless? It's simply intolerable. Oh, Anthony,
+I'm not afraid of the pain."
+
+He consoled her desperately--but in vain. She continued:
+
+"And then afterward I might have wide hips and be pale, with all my
+freshness gone and no radiance in my hair."
+
+He paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, asking:
+
+"Is it certain?"
+
+"I don't know anything. I've always hated obstrics, or whatever you call
+them. I thought I'd have a child some time. But not now."
+
+"Well, for God's sake don't lie there and go to pieces."
+
+Her sobs lapsed. She drew down a merciful silence from the twilight
+which filled the room. "Turn on the lights," she pleaded. "These days
+seem so short--June seemed--to--have--longer days when I was a
+little girl."
+
+The lights snapped on and it was as though blue drapes of softest silk
+had been dropped behind the windows and the door. Her pallor, her
+immobility, without grief now, or joy, awoke his sympathy.
+
+"Do you want me to have it?" she asked listlessly.
+
+"I'm indifferent. That is, I'm neutral. If you have it I'll probably be
+glad. If you don't--well, that's all right too."
+
+"I wish you'd make up your mind one way or the other!"
+
+"Suppose you make up _your_ mind."
+
+She looked at him contemptuously, scorning to answer.
+
+"You'd think you'd been singled out of all the women in the world for
+this crowning indignity."
+
+"What if I do!" she cried angrily. "It isn't an indignity for them. It's
+their one excuse for living. It's the one thing they're good for. It
+_is_ an indignity for _me._
+
+"See here, Gloria, I'm with you whatever you do, but for God's sake be a
+sport about it."
+
+"Oh, don't _fuss_ at me!" she wailed.
+
+They exchanged a mute look of no particular significance but of much
+stress. Then Anthony took a book from the shelf and dropped into
+a chair.
+
+Half an hour later her voice came out of the intense stillness that
+pervaded the room and hung like incense on the air.
+
+"I'll drive over and see Constance Merriam to-morrow."
+
+"All right. And I'll go to Tarrytown and see Grampa."
+
+"--You see," she added, "it isn't that I'm afraid--of this or anything
+else. I'm being true to me, you know."
+
+"I know," he agreed.
+
+
+THE PRACTICAL MEN
+
+Adam Patch, in a pious rage against the Germans, subsisted on the war
+news. Pin maps plastered his walls; atlases were piled deep on tables
+convenient to his hand together with "Photographic Histories of the
+World War," official Explain-alls, and the "Personal Impressions" of war
+correspondents and of Privates X, Y, and Z. Several times during
+Anthony's visit his grandfather's secretary, Edward Shuttleworth, the
+one-time "Accomplished Gin-physician" of "Pat's Place" in Hoboken, now
+shod with righteous indignation, would appear with an extra. The old man
+attacked each paper with untiring fury, tearing out those columns which
+appeared to him of sufficient pregnancy for preservation and thrusting
+them into one of his already bulging files.
+
+"Well, what have you been doing?" he asked Anthony blandly. "Nothing?
+Well, I thought so. I've been intending to drive over and see you,
+all summer."
+
+"I've been writing. Don't you remember the essay I sent you--the one I
+sold to The Florentine last winter?"
+
+"Essay? You never sent _me_ any essay."
+
+"Oh, yes, I did. We talked about it."
+
+Adam Patch shook his head mildly.
+
+"Oh, no. You never sent _me_ any essay. You may have thought you sent it
+but it never reached me."
+
+"Why, you read it, Grampa," insisted Anthony, somewhat exasperated, "you
+read it and disagreed with it."
+
+The old man suddenly remembered, but this was made apparent only by a
+partial falling open of his mouth, displaying rows of gray gums. Eying
+Anthony with a green and ancient stare he hesitated between confessing
+his error and covering it up.
+
+"So you're writing," he said quickly. "Well, why don't you go over and
+write about these Germans? Write something real, something about what's
+going on, something people can read."
+
+"Anybody can't be a war correspondent," objected Anthony. "You have to
+have some newspaper willing to buy your stuff. And I can't spare the
+money to go over as a free-lance."
+
+"I'll send you over," suggested his grandfather surprisingly. "I'll get
+you over as an authorized correspondent of any newspaper you pick out."
+
+Anthony recoiled from the idea--almost simultaneously he bounded toward
+it.
+
+"I--don't--know--"
+
+He would have to leave Gloria, whose whole life yearned toward him and
+enfolded him. Gloria was in trouble. Oh, the thing wasn't
+feasible--yet--he saw himself in khaki, leaning, as all war
+correspondents lean, upon a heavy stick, portfolio at shoulder--trying
+to look like an Englishman. "I'd like to think it over," he, confessed.
+"It's certainly very kind of you. I'll think it over and I'll let
+you know."
+
+Thinking it over absorbed him on the journey to New York. He had had one
+of those sudden flashes of illumination vouchsafed to all men who are
+dominated by a strong and beloved woman, which show them a world of
+harder men, more fiercely trained and grappling with the abstractions of
+thought and war. In that world the arms of Gloria would exist only as
+the hot embrace of a chance mistress, coolly sought and quickly
+forgotten....
+
+These unfamiliar phantoms were crowding closely about him when he
+boarded his train for Marietta, in the Grand Central Station. The car
+was crowded; he secured the last vacant seat and it was only after
+several minutes that he gave even a casual glance to the man beside him.
+When he did he saw a heavy lay of jaw and nose, a curved chin and small,
+puffed-under eyes. In a moment he recognized Joseph Bloeckman.
+
+Simultaneously they both half rose, were half embarrassed, and exchanged
+what amounted to a half handshake. Then, as though to complete the
+matter, they both half laughed.
+
+"Well," remarked Anthony without inspiration, "I haven't seen you for a
+long time." Immediately he regretted his words and started to add: "I
+didn't know you lived out this way." But Bloeckman anticipated him by
+asking pleasantly:
+
+"How's your wife? ..."
+
+"She's very well. How've you been?"
+
+"Excellent." His tone amplified the grandeur of the word.
+
+It seemed to Anthony that during the last year Bloeckman had grown
+tremendously in dignity. The boiled look was gone, he seemed "done" at
+last. In addition he was no longer overdressed. The inappropriate
+facetiousness he had affected in ties had given way to a sturdy dark
+pattern, and his right hand, which had formerly displayed two heavy
+rings, was now innocent of ornament and even without the raw glow of
+a manicure.
+
+This dignity appeared also in his personality. The last aura of the
+successful travelling-man had faded from him, that deliberate
+ingratiation of which the lowest form is the bawdy joke in the Pullman
+smoker. One imagined that, having been fawned upon financially, he had
+attained aloofness; having been snubbed socially, he had acquired
+reticence. But whatever had given him weight instead of bulk, Anthony no
+longer felt a correct superiority in his presence.
+
+"D'you remember Caramel, Richard Caramel? I believe you met him one
+night."
+
+"I remember. He was writing a book."
+
+"Well, he sold it to the movies. Then they had some scenario man named
+Jordan work on it. Well, Dick subscribes to a clipping bureau and he's
+furious because about half the movie reviewers speak of the 'power and
+strength of William Jordan's "Demon Lover."' Didn't mention old Dick at
+all. You'd think this fellow Jordan had actually conceived and developed
+the thing."
+
+Bloeckman nodded comprehensively.
+
+"Most of the contracts state that the original writer's name goes into
+all the paid publicity. Is Caramel still writing?"
+
+"Oh, yes. Writing hard. Short stories."
+
+"Well, that's fine, that's fine.... You on this train often?"
+
+"About once a week. We live in Marietta."
+
+"Is that so? Well, well! I live near Cos Cob myself. Bought a place
+there only recently. We're only five miles apart."
+
+"You'll have to come and see us." Anthony was surprised at his own
+courtesy. "I'm sure Gloria'd be delighted to see an old friend.
+Anybody'll tell you where the house is--it's our second season there."
+
+"Thank you." Then, as though returning a complementary politeness: "How
+is your grandfather?"
+
+"He's been well. I had lunch with him to-day."
+
+"A great character," said Bloeckman severely. "A fine example of an
+American."
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF LETHARGY
+
+Anthony found his wife deep in the porch hammock voluptuously engaged
+with a lemonade and a tomato sandwich and carrying on an apparently
+cheery conversation with Tana upon one of Tana's complicated themes.
+
+"In my countree," Anthony recognized his invariable preface, "all
+time--peoples--eat rice--because haven't got. Cannot eat what no have
+got." Had his nationality not been desperately apparent one would have
+thought he had acquired his knowledge of his native land from American
+primary-school geographies.
+
+When the Oriental had been squelched and dismissed to the kitchen,
+Anthony turned questioningly to Gloria:
+
+"It's all right," she announced, smiling broadly. "And it surprised me
+more than it does you."
+
+"There's no doubt?"
+
+"None! Couldn't be!"
+
+They rejoiced happily, gay again with reborn irresponsibility. Then he
+told her of his opportunity to go abroad, and that he was almost ashamed
+to reject it.
+
+"What do _you_ think? Just tell me frankly."
+
+"Why, Anthony!" Her eyes were startled. "Do you want to go? Without me?"
+
+His face fell--yet he knew, with his wife's question, that it was too
+late. Her arms, sweet and strangling, were around him, for he had made
+all such choices back in that room in the Plaza the year before. This
+was an anachronism from an age of such dreams.
+
+"Gloria," he lied, in a great burst of comprehension, "of course I
+don't. I was thinking you might go as a nurse or something." He wondered
+dully if his grandfather would consider this.
+
+As she smiled he realized again how beautiful she was, a gorgeous girl
+of miraculous freshness and sheerly honorable eyes. She embraced his
+suggestion with luxurious intensity, holding it aloft like a sun of her
+own making and basking in its beams. She strung together an amazing
+synopsis for an extravaganza of martial adventure.
+
+After supper, surfeited with the subject, she yawned. She wanted not to
+talk but only to read "Penrod," stretched upon the lounge until at
+midnight she fell asleep. But Anthony, after he had carried her
+romantically up the stairs, stayed awake to brood upon the day, vaguely
+angry with her, vaguely dissatisfied.
+
+"What am I going to do?" he began at breakfast. "Here we've been married
+a year and we've just worried around without even being efficient people
+of leisure."
+
+"Yes, you ought to do something," she admitted, being in an agreeable
+and loquacious humor. This was not the first of these discussions, but
+as they usually developed Anthony in the r�le of protagonist, she had
+come to avoid them.
+
+"It's not that I have any moral compunctions about work," he continued,
+"but grampa may die to-morrow and he may live for ten years. Meanwhile
+we're living above our income and all we've got to show for it is a
+farmer's car and a few clothes. We keep an apartment that we've only
+lived in three months and a little old house way off in nowhere. We're
+frequently bored and yet we won't make any effort to know any one except
+the same crowd who drift around California all summer wearing sport
+clothes and waiting for their families to die."
+
+"How you've changed!" remarked Gloria. "Once you told me you didn't see
+why an American couldn't loaf gracefully."
+
+"Well, damn it, I wasn't married. And the old mind was working at top
+speed and now it's going round and round like a cog-wheel with nothing
+to catch it. As a matter of fact I think that if I hadn't met you I
+_would_ have done something. But you make leisure so subtly
+attractive--"
+
+"Oh, it's all my fault--"
+
+"I didn't mean that, and you know I didn't. But here I'm almost
+twenty-seven and--"
+
+"Oh," she interrupted in vexation, "you make me tired! Talking as though
+I were objecting or hindering you!"
+
+"I was just discussing it, Gloria. Can't I discuss--"
+
+"I should think you'd be strong enough to settle--"
+
+"--something with you without--"
+
+"--your own problems without coming to me. You _talk_ a lot about going
+to work. I could use more money very easily, but _I'm_ not complaining.
+Whether you work or not I love you." Her last words were gentle as fine
+snow upon hard ground. But for the moment neither was attending to the
+other--they were each engaged in polishing and perfecting his
+own attitude.
+
+"I have worked--some." This by Anthony was an imprudent bringing up of
+raw reserves. Gloria laughed, torn between delight and derision; she
+resented his sophistry as at the same time she admired his nonchalance.
+She would never blame him for being the ineffectual idler so long as he
+did it sincerely, from the attitude that nothing much was worth doing.
+
+"Work!" she scoffed. "Oh, you sad bird! You bluffer! Work--that means a
+great arranging of the desk and the lights, a great sharpening of
+pencils, and 'Gloria, don't sing!' and 'Please keep that damn Tana away
+from me,' and 'Let me read you my opening sentence,' and 'I won't be
+through for a long time, Gloria, so don't stay up for me,' and a
+tremendous consumption of tea or coffee. And that's all. In just about
+an hour I hear the old pencil stop scratching and look over. You've got
+out a book and you're 'looking up' something. Then you're reading. Then
+yawns--then bed and a great tossing about because you're all full of
+caffeine and can't sleep. Two weeks later the whole performance
+over again."
+
+With much difficulty Anthony retained a scanty breech-clout of dignity.
+
+"Now that's a _slight_ exaggeration. You know _darn well_ I sold an
+essay to The Florentine--and it attracted a lot of attention considering
+the circulation of The Florentine. And what's more, Gloria, you know I
+sat up till five o'clock in the morning finishing it."
+
+She lapsed into silence, giving him rope. And if he had not hanged
+himself he had certainly come to the end of it.
+
+"At least," he concluded feebly, "I'm perfectly willing to be a war
+correspondent."
+
+But so was Gloria. They were both willing--anxious; they assured each
+other of it. The evening ended on a note of tremendous sentiment, the
+majesty of leisure, the ill health of Adam Patch, love at any cost.
+
+"Anthony!" she called over the banister one afternoon a week later,
+"there's some one at the door." Anthony, who had been lolling in the
+hammock on the sun-speckled south porch, strolled around to the front of
+the house. A foreign car, large and impressive, crouched like an immense
+and saturnine bug at the foot of the path. A man in a soft pongee suit,
+with cap to match, hailed him.
+
+"Hello there, Patch. Ran over to call on you."
+
+It was Bloeckman; as always, infinitesimally improved, of subtler
+intonation, of more convincing ease.
+
+"I'm awfully glad you did." Anthony raised his voice to a vine-covered
+window: "Glor-i-_a_! We've got a visitor!"
+
+"I'm in the tub," wailed Gloria politely.
+
+With a smile the two men acknowledged the triumph of her alibi.
+
+"She'll be down. Come round here on the side-porch. Like a drink?
+Gloria's always in the tub--good third of every day."
+
+"Pity she doesn't live on the Sound."
+
+"Can't afford it."
+
+As coming from Adam Patch's grandson, Bloeckman took this as a form of
+pleasantry. After fifteen minutes filled with estimable brilliancies,
+Gloria appeared, fresh in starched yellow, bringing atmosphere and an
+increase of vitality.
+
+"I want to be a successful sensation in the movies," she announced. "I
+hear that Mary Pickford makes a million dollars annually."
+
+"You could, you know," said Bloeckman. "I think you'd film very well."
+
+"Would you let me, Anthony? If I only play unsophisticated r�les?"
+
+As the conversation continued in stilted commas, Anthony wondered that
+to him and Bloeckman both this girl had once been the most stimulating,
+the most tonic personality they had ever known--and now the three sat
+like overoiled machines, without conflict, without fear, without
+elation, heavily enamelled little figures secure beyond enjoyment in a
+world where death and war, dull emotion and noble savagery were covering
+a continent with the smoke of terror.
+
+In a moment he would call Tana and they would pour into themselves a gay
+and delicate poison which would restore them momentarily to the
+pleasurable excitement of childhood, when every face in a crowd had
+carried its suggestion of splendid and significant transactions taking
+place somewhere to some magnificent and illimitable purpose.... Life was
+no more than this summer afternoon; a faint wind stirring the lace
+collar of Gloria's dress; the slow baking drowsiness of the veranda....
+Intolerably unmoved they all seemed, removed from any romantic imminency
+of action. Even Gloria's beauty needed wild emotions, needed poignancy,
+needed death....
+
+"... Any day next week," Bloeckman was saying to Gloria. "Here--take
+this card. What they do is to give you a test of about three hundred
+feet of film, and they can tell pretty accurately from that."
+
+"How about Wednesday?"
+
+"Wednesday's fine. Just phone me and I'll go around with you--"
+
+He was on his feet, shaking hands briskly--then his car was a wraith of
+dust down the road. Anthony turned to his wife in bewilderment.
+
+"Why, Gloria!"
+
+"You don't mind if I have a trial, Anthony. Just a trial? I've got to go
+to town Wednesday, _any_how."
+
+"But it's so silly! You don't want to go into the movies--moon around a
+studio all day with a lot of cheap chorus people."
+
+"Lot of mooning around Mary Pickford does!"
+
+"Everybody isn't a Mary Pickford."
+
+"Well, I can't see how you'd object to my _try_ing."
+
+"I do, though. I hate actors."
+
+"Oh, you make me tired. Do you imagine I have a very thrilling time
+dozing on this damn porch?"
+
+"You wouldn't mind if you loved me."
+
+"Of course I love you," she said impatiently, making out a quick case
+for herself. "It's just because I do that I hate to see you go to pieces
+by just lying around and saying you ought to work. Perhaps if I _did_ go
+into this for a while it'd stir you up so you'd do something."
+
+"It's just your craving for excitement, that's all it is."
+
+"Maybe it is! It's a perfectly natural craving, isn't it?"
+
+"Well, I'll tell you one thing. If you go to the movies I'm going to
+Europe."
+
+"Well, go on then! _I'm_ not stopping you!"
+
+To show she was not stopping him she melted into melancholy tears.
+Together they marshalled the armies of sentiment--words, kisses,
+endearments, self-reproaches. They attained nothing. Inevitably they
+attained nothing. Finally, in a burst of gargantuan emotion each of them
+sat down and wrote a letter. Anthony's was to his grandfather; Gloria's
+was to Joseph Bloeckman. It was a triumph of lethargy.
+
+One day early in July Anthony, returned from an afternoon in New York,
+called up-stairs to Gloria. Receiving no answer he guessed she was
+asleep and so went into the pantry for one of the little sandwiches that
+were always prepared for them. He found Tana seated at the kitchen table
+before a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends--cigar-boxes, knives,
+pencils, the tops of cans, and some scraps of paper covered with
+elaborate figures and diagrams.
+
+"What the devil you doing?" demanded Anthony curiously.
+
+Tana politely grinned.
+
+"I show you," he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I tell--"
+
+"You making a dog-house?"
+
+"No, sa." Tana grinned again. "Make typewutta."
+
+"Typewriter?"
+
+"Yes, sa. I think, oh all time I think, lie in bed think 'bout
+typewutta."
+
+"So you thought you'd make one, eh?"
+
+"Wait. I tell."
+
+Anthony, munching a sandwich, leaned leisurely against the sink. Tana
+opened and closed his mouth several times as though testing its capacity
+for action. Then with a rush he began:
+
+"I been think--typewutta--has, oh, many many many many _thing_. Oh many
+many many many." "Many keys. I see."
+
+"No-o? _Yes_-key! Many many many many lettah. Like so a-b-c."
+
+"Yes, you're right."
+
+"Wait. I tell." He screwed his face up in a tremendous effort to express
+himself: "I been think--many words--end same. Like i-n-g."
+
+"You bet. A whole raft of them."
+
+"So--I make--typewutta--quick. Not so many lettah--"
+
+"That's a great idea, Tana. Save time. You'll make a fortune. Press one
+key and there's 'ing.' Hope you work it out."
+
+Tana laughed disparagingly. "Wait. I tell--" "Where's Mrs. Patch?"
+
+"She out. Wait, I tell--" Again he screwed up his face for action. "_My_
+typewutta----"
+
+"Where is she?"
+
+"Here--I make." He pointed to the miscellany of junk on the table.
+
+"I mean Mrs. Patch."
+
+"She out." Tana reassured him. "She be back five o'clock, she say."
+
+"Down in the village?"
+
+"No. Went off before lunch. She go Mr. Bloeckman."
+
+Anthony started.
+
+"Went out with Mr. Bloeckman?"
+
+"She be back five."
+
+Without a word Anthony left the kitchen with Tana's disconsolate "I
+tell" trailing after him. So this was Gloria's idea of excitement, by
+God! His fists were clenched; within a moment he had worked himself up
+to a tremendous pitch of indignation. He went to the door and looked
+out; there was no car in sight and his watch stood at four minutes of
+five. With furious energy he dashed down to the end of the path--as far
+as the bend of the road a mile off he could see no car--except--but it
+was a farmer's flivver. Then, in an undignified pursuit of dignity, he
+rushed back to the shelter of the house as quickly as he had rushed out.
+
+Pacing up and down the living room he began an angry rehearsal of the
+speech he would make to her when she came in--
+
+"So this is love!" he would begin--or no, it sounded too much like the
+popular phrase "So this is Paris!" He must be dignified, hurt, grieved.
+Anyhow--"So this is what _you_ do when I have to go up and trot all day
+around the hot city on business. No wonder I can't write! No wonder I
+don't dare let you out of my sight!" He was expanding now, warming to
+his subject. "I'll tell you," he continued, "I'll tell you--" He paused,
+catching a familiar ring in the words--then he realized--it was
+Tana's "I tell."
+
+Yet Anthony neither laughed nor seemed absurd to himself. To his frantic
+imagination it was already six--seven--eight, and she was never coming!
+Bloeckman finding her bored and unhappy had persuaded her to go to
+California with him....
+
+--There was a great to-do out in front, a joyous "Yoho, Anthony!" and he
+rose trembling, weakly happy to see her fluttering up the path.
+Bloeckman was following, cap in hand.
+
+"Dearest!" she cried.
+
+"We've been for the best jaunt--all over New York State."
+
+"I'll have to be starting home," said Bloeckman, almost immediately.
+"Wish you'd both been here when I came."
+
+"I'm sorry I wasn't," answered Anthony dryly. When he had departed
+Anthony hesitated. The fear was gone from his heart, yet he felt that
+some protest was ethically apropos. Gloria resolved his uncertainty.
+
+"I knew you wouldn't mind. He came just before lunch and said he had to
+go to Garrison on business and wouldn't I go with him. He looked so
+lonesome, Anthony. And I drove his car all the way."
+
+Listlessly Anthony dropped into a chair, his mind tired--tired with
+nothing, tired with everything, with the world's weight he had never
+chosen to bear. He was ineffectual and vaguely helpless here as he had
+always been. One of those personalities who, in spite of all their
+words, are inarticulate, he seemed to have inherited only the vast
+tradition of human failure--that, and the sense of death.
+
+"I suppose I don't care," he answered.
+
+One must be broad about these things, and Gloria being young, being
+beautiful, must have reasonable privileges. Yet it wearied him that he
+failed to understand.
+
+
+WINTER
+
+She rolled over on her back and lay still for a moment in the great bed
+watching the February sun suffer one last attenuated refinement in its
+passage through the leaded panes into the room. For a time she had no
+accurate sense of her whereabouts or of the events of the day before, or
+the day before that; then, like a suspended pendulum, memory began to
+beat out its story, releasing with each swing a burdened quota of time
+until her life was given back to her.
+
+She could hear, now, Anthony's troubled breathing beside her; she could
+smell whiskey and cigarette smoke. She noticed that she lacked complete
+muscular control; when she moved it was not a sinuous motion with the
+resultant strain distributed easily over her body--it was a tremendous
+effort of her nervous system as though each time she were hypnotizing
+herself into performing an impossible action....
+
+She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth to get rid of that
+intolerable taste; then back by the bedside listening to the rattle of
+Bounds's key in the outer door.
+
+"Wake up, Anthony!" she said sharply.
+
+She climbed into bed beside him and closed her eyes. Almost the last
+thing she remembered was a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lacy. Mrs.
+Lacy had said, "Sure you don't want us to get you a taxi?" and Anthony
+had replied that he guessed they could walk over to Fifth all right.
+Then they had both attempted, imprudently, to bow--and collapsed
+absurdly into a battalion of empty milk bottles just outside the door.
+There must have been two dozen milk bottles standing open-mouthed in the
+dark. She could conceive of no plausible explanation of those milk
+bottles. Perhaps they had been attracted by the singing in the Lacy
+house and had hurried over agape with wonder to see the fun. Well,
+they'd had the worst of it--though it seemed that she and Anthony never
+would get up, the perverse things rolled so....
+
+Still, they had found a taxi. "My meter's broken and it'll cost you a
+dollar and a half to get home," said the taxi driver. "Well," said
+Anthony, "I'm young Packy McFarland and if you'll come down here I'll
+beat you till you can't stand up." ...At that point the man had driven
+off without them. They must have found another taxi, for they were in
+the apartment....
+
+"What time is it?" Anthony was sitting up in bed, staring at her with
+owlish precision.
+
+This was obviously a rhetorical question. Gloria could think of no
+reason why she should be expected to know the time.
+
+"Golly, I feel like the devil!" muttered Anthony dispassionately.
+Relaxing, he tumbled back upon his pillow. "Bring on your grim reaper!"
+
+"Anthony, how'd we finally get home last night?"
+
+"Taxi."
+
+"Oh!" Then, after a pause: "Did you put me to bed?"
+
+"I don't know. Seems to me you put _me_ to bed. What day is it?"
+
+"Tuesday."
+
+"Tuesday? I hope so. If it's Wednesday, I've got to start work at that
+idiotic place. Supposed to be down at nine or some such ungodly hour."
+
+"Ask Bounds," suggested Gloria feebly.
+
+"Bounds!" he called.
+
+Sprightly, sober--a voice from a world that it seemed in the past two
+days they had left forever, Bounds sprang in short steps down the hall
+and appeared in the half darkness of the door.
+
+"What day, Bounds?"
+
+"February the twenty-second, I think, sir."
+
+"I mean day of the week."
+
+"Tuesday, sir." "Thanks." After a pause: "Are you ready for breakfast,
+sir?"
+
+"Yes, and Bounds, before you get it, will you make a pitcher of water,
+and set it here beside the bed? I'm a little thirsty."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+Bounds retreated in sober dignity down the hallway.
+
+"Lincoln's birthday," affirmed Anthony without enthusiasm, "or St.
+Valentine's or somebody's. When did we start on this insane party?"
+
+"Sunday night."
+
+"After prayers?" he suggested sardonically.
+
+"We raced all over town in those hansoms and Maury sat up with his
+driver, don't you remember? Then we came home and he tried to cook some
+bacon--came out of the pantry with a few blackened remains, insisting it
+was 'fried to the proverbial crisp.'"
+
+Both of them laughed, spontaneously but with some difficulty, and lying
+there side by side reviewed the chain of events that had ended in this
+rusty and chaotic dawn.
+
+They had been in New York for almost four months, since the country had
+grown too cool in late October. They had given up California this year,
+partly because of lack of funds, partly with the idea of going abroad
+should this interminable war, persisting now into its second year, end
+during the winter. Of late their income had lost elasticity; no longer
+did it stretch to cover gay whims and pleasant extravagances, and
+Anthony had spent many puzzled and unsatisfactory hours over a densely
+figured pad, making remarkable budgets that left huge margins for
+"amusements, trips, etc.," and trying to apportion, even approximately,
+their past expenditures.
+
+He remembered a time when in going on a "party" with his two best
+friends, he and Maury had invariably paid more than their share of the
+expenses. They would buy the tickets for the theatre or squabble between
+themselves for the dinner check. It had seemed fitting; Dick, with his
+na�vet� and his astonishing fund of information about himself, had been
+a diverting, almost juvenile, figure--court jester to their royalty. But
+this was no longer true. It was Dick who always had money; it was
+Anthony who entertained within limitations--always excepting occasional
+wild, wine-inspired, check-cashing parties--and it was Anthony who was
+solemn about it next morning and told the scornful and disgusted Gloria
+that they'd have to be "more careful next time."
+
+In the two years since the publication of "The Demon Lover," Dick had
+made over twenty-five thousand dollars, most of it lately, when the
+reward of the author of fiction had begun to swell unprecedentedly as a
+result of the voracious hunger of the motion pictures for plots. He
+received seven hundred dollars for every story, at that time a large
+emolument for such a young man--he was not quite thirty--and for every
+one that contained enough "action" (kissing, shooting, and sacrificing)
+for the movies, he obtained an additional thousand. His stories varied;
+there was a measure of vitality and a sort of instinctive in all of
+them, but none attained the personality of "The Demon Lover," and there
+were several that Anthony considered downright cheap. These, Dick
+explained severely, were to widen his audience. Wasn't it true that men
+who had attained real permanence from Shakespeare to Mark Twain had
+appealed to the many as well as to the elect?
+
+Though Anthony and Maury disagreed, Gloria told him to go ahead and make
+as much money as he could--that was the only thing that counted
+anyhow....
+
+Maury, a little stouter, faintly mellower, and more complaisant, had
+gone to work in Philadelphia. He came to New York once or twice a month
+and on such occasions the four of them travelled the popular routes from
+dinner to the theatre, thence to the Frolic or, perhaps, at the urging
+of the ever-curious Gloria, to one of the cellars of Greenwich Village,
+notorious through the furious but short-lived vogue of the "new poetry
+movement."
+
+In January, after many monologues directed at his reticent wife, Anthony
+determined to "get something to do," for the winter at any rate. He
+wanted to please his grandfather and even, in a measure, to see how he
+liked it himself. He discovered during several tentative semi-social
+calls that employers were not interested in a young man who was only
+going to "try it for a few months or so." As the grandson of Adam Patch
+he was received everywhere with marked courtesy, but the old man was a
+back number now--the heyday of his fame as first an "oppressor" and then
+an uplifter of the people had been during the twenty years preceding his
+retirement. Anthony even found several of the younger men who were under
+the impression that Adam Patch had been dead for some years.
+
+Eventually Anthony went to his grandfather and asked his advice, which
+turned out to be that he should enter the bond business as a salesman, a
+tedious suggestion to Anthony, but one that in the end he determined to
+follow. Sheer money in deft manipulation had fascinations under all
+circumstances, while almost any side of manufacturing would be
+insufferably dull. He considered newspaper work but decided that the
+hours were not ordered for a married man. And he lingered over pleasant
+fancies of himself either as editor of a brilliant weekly of opinion, an
+American Mercure de France, or as scintillant producer of satiric comedy
+and Parisian musical revue. However, the approaches to these latter
+guilds seemed to be guarded by professional secrets. Men drifted into
+them by the devious highways of writing and acting. It was palpably
+impossible to get on a magazine unless you had been on one before.
+
+So in the end he entered, by way of his grandfather's letter, that
+Sanctum Americanum where sat the president of Wilson, Hiemer and Hardy
+at his "cleared desk," and issued therefrom employed. He was to begin
+work on the twenty-third of February.
+
+In tribute to the momentous occasion this two-day revel had been
+planned, since, he said, after he began working he'd have to get to bed
+early during the week. Maury Noble had arrived from Philadelphia on a
+trip that had to do with seeing some man in Wall Street (whom,
+incidentally, he failed to see), and Richard Caramel had been half
+persuaded, half tricked into joining them. They had condescended to a
+wet and fashionable wedding on Monday afternoon, and in the evening had
+occurred the d�nouement: Gloria, going beyond her accustomed limit of
+four precisely timed cocktails, led them on as gay and joyous a
+bacchanal as they had ever known, disclosing an astonishing knowledge of
+ballet steps, and singing songs which she confessed had been taught her
+by her cook when she was innocent and seventeen. She repeated these by
+request at intervals throughout the evening with such frank conviviality
+that Anthony, far from being annoyed, was gratified at this fresh source
+of entertainment. The occasion was memorable in other ways--a long
+conversation between Maury and a defunct crab, which he was dragging
+around on the end of a string, as to whether the crab was fully
+conversant with the applications of the binomial theorem, and the
+aforementioned race in two hansom cabs with the sedate and impressive
+shadows of Fifth Avenue for audience, ending in a labyrinthine escape
+into the darkness of Central Park. Finally Anthony and Gloria had paid a
+call on some wild young married people--the Lacys--and collapsed in the
+empty milk bottles.
+
+Morning now--theirs to add up the checks cashed here and there in clubs,
+stores, restaurants. Theirs to air the dank staleness of wine and
+cigarettes out of the tall blue front room, to pick up the broken glass
+and brush at the stained fabric of chairs and sofas; to give Bounds
+suits and dresses for the cleaners; finally, to take their smothery
+half-feverish bodies and faded depressed spirits out into the chill air
+of February, that life might go on and Wilson, Hiemer and Hardy obtain
+the services of a vigorous man at nine next morning.
+
+"Do you remember," called Anthony from the bathroom, "when Maury got out
+at the corner of One Hundred and Tenth Street and acted as a traffic
+cop, beckoning cars forward and motioning them back? They must have
+thought he was a private detective."
+
+After each reminiscence they both laughed inordinately, their
+overwrought nerves responding as acutely and janglingly to mirth as to
+depression.
+
+Gloria at the mirror was wondering at the splendid color and freshness
+of her face--it seemed that she had never looked so well, though her
+stomach hurt her and her head was aching furiously.
+
+The day passed slowly. Anthony, riding in a taxi to his broker's to
+borrow money on a bond, found that he had only two dollars in his
+pocket. The fare would cost all of that, but he felt that on this
+particular afternoon he could not have endured the subway. When the
+taximetre reached his limit he must get out and walk.
+
+With this his mind drifted off into one of its characteristic
+day-dreams.... In this dream he discovered that the metre was going too
+fast--the driver had dishonestly adjusted it. Calmly he reached his
+destination and then nonchalantly handed the man what he justly owed
+him. The man showed fight, but almost before his hands were up Anthony
+had knocked him down with one terrific blow. And when he rose Anthony
+quickly sidestepped and floored him definitely with a crack in
+the temple.
+
+... He was in court now. The judge had fined him five dollars and he had
+no money. Would the court take his check? Ah, but the court did not know
+him. Well, he could identify himself by having them call his apartment.
+
+... They did so. Yes, it was Mrs. Anthony Patch speaking--but how did
+she know that this man was her husband? How could she know? Let the
+police sergeant ask her if she remembered the milk bottles ...
+
+He leaned forward hurriedly and tapped at the glass. The taxi was only
+at Brooklyn Bridge, but the metre showed a dollar and eighty cents, and
+Anthony would never have omitted the ten per cent tip.
+
+Later in the afternoon he returned to the apartment. Gloria had also
+been out--shopping--and was asleep, curled in a corner of the sofa with
+her purchase locked securely in her arms. Her face was as untroubled as
+a little girl's, and the bundle that she pressed tightly to her bosom
+was a child's doll, a profound and infinitely healing balm to her
+disturbed and childish heart.
+
+
+DESTINY
+
+It was with this party, more especially with Gloria's part in it, that a
+decided change began to come over their way of living. The magnificent
+attitude of not giving a damn altered overnight; from being a mere tenet
+of Gloria's it became the entire solace and justification for what they
+chose to do and what consequence it brought. Not to be sorry, not to
+loose one cry of regret, to live according to a clear code of honor
+toward each other, and to seek the moment's happiness as fervently and
+persistently as possible.
+
+"No one cares about us but ourselves, Anthony," she said one day. "It'd
+be ridiculous for me to go about pretending I felt any obligations
+toward the world, and as for worrying what people think about me, I
+simply _don't_, that's all. Since I was a little girl in dancing-school
+I've been criticised by the mothers of all the little girls who weren't
+as popular as I was, and I've always looked on criticism as a sort of
+envious tribute."
+
+This was because of a party in the "Boul' Mich'" one night, where
+Constance Merriam had seen her as one of a highly stimulated party of
+four. Constance Merriam, "as an old school friend," had gone to the
+trouble of inviting her to lunch next day in order to inform her how
+terrible it was.
+
+"I told her I couldn't see it," Gloria told Anthony. "Eric Merriam is a
+sort of sublimated Percy Wolcott--you remember that man in Hot Springs I
+told you about--his idea of respecting Constance is to leave her at home
+with her sewing and her baby and her book, and such innocuous
+amusements, whenever he's going on a party that promises to be anything
+but deathly dull."
+
+"Did you tell her that?"
+
+"I certainly did. And I told her that what she really objected to was
+that I was having a better time than she was."
+
+Anthony applauded her. He was tremendously proud of Gloria, proud that
+she never failed to eclipse whatever other women might be in the party,
+proud that men were always glad to revel with her in great rowdy groups,
+without any attempt to do more than enjoy her beauty and the warmth of
+her vitality.
+
+These "parties" gradually became their chief source of entertainment.
+Still in love, still enormously interested in each other, they yet found
+as spring drew near that staying at home in the evening palled on them;
+books were unreal; the old magic of being alone had long since
+vanished--instead they preferred to be bored by a stupid musical comedy,
+or to go to dinner with the most uninteresting of their acquaintances,
+so long as there would be enough cocktails to keep the conversation from
+becoming utterly intolerable. A scattering of younger married people who
+had been their friends in school or college, as well as a varied
+assortment of single men, began to think instinctively of them whenever
+color and excitement were needed, so there was scarcely a day without
+its phone call, its "Wondered what you were doing this evening." Wives,
+as a rule, were afraid of Gloria--her facile attainment of the centre of
+the stage, her innocent but nevertheless disturbing way of becoming a
+favorite with husbands--these things drove them instinctively into an
+attitude of profound distrust, heightened by the fact that Gloria was
+largely unresponsive to any intimacy shown her by a woman.
+
+On the appointed Wednesday in February Anthony had gone to the imposing
+offices of Wilson, Hiemer and Hardy and listened to many vague
+instructions delivered by an energetic young man of about his own age,
+named Kahler, who wore a defiant yellow pompadour, and in announcing
+himself as an assistant secretary gave the impression that it was a
+tribute to exceptional ability.
+
+"There's two kinds of men here, you'll find," he said. "There's the man
+who gets to be an assistant secretary or treasurer, gets his name on our
+folder here, before he's thirty, and there's the man who gets his name
+there at forty-five. The man who gets his name there at forty-five stays
+there the rest of his life."
+
+"How about the man who gets it there at thirty?" inquired Anthony
+politely.
+
+"Why, he gets up here, you see." He pointed to a list of assistant
+vice-presidents upon the folder. "Or maybe he gets to be president or
+secretary or treasurer."
+
+"And what about these over here?"
+
+"Those? Oh, those are the trustees--the men with capital."
+
+"I see."
+
+"Now some people," continued Kahler, "think that whether a man gets
+started early or late depends on whether he's got a college education.
+But they're wrong."
+
+"I see."
+
+"I had one; I was Buckleigh, class of nineteen-eleven, but when I came
+down to the Street I soon found that the things that would help me here
+weren't the fancy things I learned in college. In fact, I had to get a
+lot of fancy stuff out of my head."
+
+Anthony could not help wondering what possible "fancy stuff" he had
+learned at Buckleigh in nineteen-eleven. An irrepressible idea that it
+was some sort of needlework recurred to him throughout the rest of the
+conversation.
+
+"See that fellow over there?" Kahler pointed to a youngish-looking man
+with handsome gray hair, sitting at a desk inside a mahogany railing.
+"That's Mr. Ellinger, the first vice-president. Been everywhere, seen
+everything; got a fine education."
+
+In vain did Anthony try to open his mind to the romance of finance; he
+could think of Mr. Ellinger only as one of the buyers of the handsome
+leather sets of Thackeray, Balzac, Hugo, and Gibbon that lined the walls
+of the big bookstores.
+
+Through the damp and uninspiring month of March he was prepared for
+salesmanship. Lacking enthusiasm he was capable of viewing the turmoil
+and bustle that surrounded him only as a fruitless circumambient
+striving toward an incomprehensible goal, tangibly evidenced only by the
+rival mansions of Mr. Frick and Mr. Carnegie on Fifth Avenue. That these
+portentous vice-presidents and trustees should be actually the fathers
+of the "best men" he had known at Harvard seemed to him incongruous.
+
+He ate in an employees' lunch-room up-stairs with an uneasy suspicion
+that he was being uplifted, wondering through that first week if the
+dozens of young clerks, some of them alert and immaculate, and just out
+of college, lived in flamboyant hope of crowding onto that narrow slip
+of cardboard before the catastrophic thirties. The conversation that
+interwove with the pattern of the day's work was all much of a piece.
+One discussed how Mr. Wilson had made his money, what method Mr. Hiemer
+had employed, and the means resorted to by Mr. Hardy. One related
+age-old but eternally breathless anecdotes of the fortunes stumbled on
+precipitously in the Street by a "butcher" or a "bartender," or "a darn
+_mess_enger boy, by golly!" and then one talked of the current gambles,
+and whether it was best to go out for a hundred thousand a year or be
+content with twenty. During the preceding year one of the assistant
+secretaries had invested all his savings in Bethlehem Steel. The story
+of his spectacular magnificence, of his haughty resignation in January,
+and of the triumphal palace he was now building in California, was the
+favorite office subject. The man's very name had acquired a magic
+significance, symbolizing as he did the aspirations of all good
+Americans. Anecdotes were told about him--how one of the vice-presidents
+had advised him to sell, by golly, but he had hung on, even bought on
+margin, "and _now_ look where he is!"
+
+Such, obviously, was the stuff of life--a dizzy triumph dazzling the
+eyes of all of them, a gypsy siren to content them with meagre wage and
+with the arithmetical improbability of their eventual success.
+
+To Anthony the notion became appalling. He felt that to succeed here the
+idea of success must grasp and limit his mind. It seemed to him that the
+essential element in these men at the top was their faith that their
+affairs were the very core of life. All other things being equal,
+self-assurance and opportunism won out over technical knowledge; it was
+obvious that the more expert work went on near the bottom--so, with
+appropriate efficiency, the technical experts were kept there.
+
+His determination to stay in at night during the week did not survive,
+and a good half of the time he came to work with a splitting, sickish
+headache and the crowded horror of the morning subway ringing in his
+ears like an echo of hell.
+
+Then, abruptly, he quit. He had remained in bed all one Monday, and late
+in the evening, overcome by one of those attacks of moody despair to
+which he periodically succumbed, he wrote and mailed a letter to Mr.
+Wilson, confessing that he considered himself ill adapted to the work.
+Gloria, coming in from the theatre with Richard Caramel, found him on
+the lounge, silently staring at the high ceiling, more depressed and
+discouraged than he had been at any time since their marriage.
+
+She wanted him to whine. If he had she would have reproached him
+bitterly, for she was not a little annoyed, but he only lay there so
+utterly miserable that she felt sorry for him, and kneeling down she
+stroked his head, saying how little it mattered, how little anything
+mattered so long as they loved each other. It was like their first year,
+and Anthony, reacting to her cool hand, to her voice that was soft as
+breath itself upon his ear, became almost cheerful, and talked with her
+of his future plans. He even regretted, silently, before he went to bed
+that he had so hastily mailed his resignation.
+
+"Even when everything seems rotten you can't trust that judgment,"
+Gloria had said. "It's the sum of all your judgments that counts."
+
+In mid-April came a letter from the real-estate agent in Marietta,
+encouraging them to take the gray house for another year at a slightly
+increased rental, and enclosing a lease made out for their signatures.
+For a week lease and letter lay carelessly neglected on Anthony's desk.
+They had no intention of returning to Marietta. They were weary of the
+place, and had been bored most of the preceding summer. Besides, their
+car had deteriorated to a rattling mass of hypochondriacal metal, and a
+new one was financially inadvisable.
+
+But because of another wild revel, enduring through four days and
+participated in, at one time or another, by more than a dozen people,
+they did sign the lease; to their utter horror they signed it and sent
+it, and immediately it seemed as though they heard the gray house,
+drably malevolent at last, licking its white chops and waiting to
+devour them.
+
+"Anthony, where's that lease?" she called in high alarm one Sunday
+morning, sick and sober to reality. "Where did you leave it? It
+was here!"
+
+Then she knew where it was. She remembered the house party they had
+planned on the crest of their exuberance; she remembered a room full of
+men to whose less exhilarated moments she and Anthony were of no
+importance, and Anthony's boast of the transcendent merit and seclusion
+of the gray house, that it was so isolated that it didn't matter how
+much noise went on there. Then Dick, who had visited them, cried
+enthusiastically that it was the best little house imaginable, and that
+they were idiotic not to take it for another summer. It had been easy to
+work themselves up to a sense of how hot and deserted the city was
+getting, of how cool and ambrosial were the charms of Marietta. Anthony
+had picked up the lease and waved it wildly, found Gloria happily
+acquiescent, and with one last burst of garrulous decision during which
+all the men agreed with solemn handshakes that they would come out for
+a visit ...
+
+"Anthony," she cried, "we've signed and sent it!"
+
+"What?"
+
+"The lease!"
+
+"What the devil!"
+
+"Oh, _An_thony!" There was utter misery in her voice. For the summer,
+for eternity, they had built themselves a prison. It seemed to strike at
+the last roots of their stability. Anthony thought they might arrange it
+with the real-estate agent. They could no longer afford the double rent,
+and going to Marietta meant giving up his apartment, his reproachless
+apartment with the exquisite bath and the rooms for which he had bought
+his furniture and hangings--it was the closest to a home that he had
+ever had--familiar with memories of four colorful years.
+
+But it was not arranged with the real-estate agent, nor was it arranged
+at all. Dispiritedly, without even any talk of making the best of it,
+without even Gloria's all-sufficing "I don't care," they went back to
+the house that they now knew heeded neither youth nor love--only those
+austere and incommunicable memories that they could never share.
+
+
+THE SINISTER SUMMER
+
+There was a horror in the house that summer. It came with them and
+settled itself over the place like a sombre pall, pervasive through the
+lower rooms, gradually spreading and climbing up the narrow stairs until
+it oppressed their very sleep. Anthony and Gloria grew to hate being
+there alone. Her bedroom, which had seemed so pink and young and
+delicate, appropriate to her pastel-shaded lingerie tossed here and
+there on chair and bed, seemed now to whisper with its rustling curtains:
+
+"Ah, my beautiful young lady, yours is not the first daintiness and
+delicacy that has faded here under the summer suns ... generations of
+unloved women have adorned themselves by that glass for rustic lovers
+who paid no heed.... Youth has come into this room in palest blue and
+left it in the gray cerements of despair, and through long nights many
+girls have lain awake where that bed stands pouring out waves of misery
+into the darkness."
+
+Gloria finally tumbled all her clothes and unguents ingloriously out of
+it, declaring that she had come to live with Anthony, and making the
+excuse that one of her screens was rotten and admitted bugs. So her room
+was abandoned to insensitive guests, and they dressed and slept in her
+husband's chamber, which Gloria considered somehow "good," as though
+Anthony's presence there had acted as exterminator of any uneasy shadows
+of the past that might have hovered about its walls.
+
+The distinction between "good" and "bad," ordered early and summarily
+out of both their lives, had been reinstated in another form. Gloria
+insisted that any one invited to the gray house must be "good," which,
+in the case of a girl, meant that she must be either simple and
+reproachless or, if otherwise, must possess a certain solidity and
+strength. Always intensely sceptical of her sex, her judgments were now
+concerned with the question of whether women were or were not clean. By
+uncleanliness she meant a variety of things, a lack of pride, a
+slackness in fibre and, most of all, the unmistakable aura of
+promiscuity.
+
+"Women soil easily," she said, "far more easily than men. Unless a
+girl's very young and brave it's almost impossible for her to go
+down-hill without a certain hysterical animality, the cunning, dirty
+sort of animality. A man's different--and I suppose that's why one of
+the commonest characters of romance is a man going gallantly to
+the devil."
+
+She was disposed to like many men, preferably those who gave her frank
+homage and unfailing entertainment--but often with a flash of insight
+she told Anthony that some one of his friends was merely using him, and
+consequently had best be left alone. Anthony customarily demurred,
+insisting that the accused was a "good one," but he found that his
+judgment was more fallible than hers, memorably when, as it happened on
+several occasions, he was left with a succession of restaurant checks
+for which to render a solitary account.
+
+More from their fear of solitude than from any desire to go through the
+fuss and bother of entertaining, they filled the house with guests every
+week-end, and often on through the week. The week-end parties were much
+the same. When the three or four men invited had arrived, drinking was
+more or less in order, followed by a hilarious dinner and a ride to the
+Cradle Beach Country Club, which they had joined because it was
+inexpensive, lively if not fashionable, and almost a necessity for just
+such occasions as these. Moreover, it was of no great moment what one
+did there, and so long as the Patch party were reasonably inaudible, it
+mattered little whether or not the social dictators of Cradle Beach saw
+the gay Gloria imbibing cocktails in the supper room at frequent
+intervals during the evening.
+
+Saturday ended, generally, in a glamourous confusion--it proving often
+necessary to assist a muddled guest to bed. Sunday brought the New York
+papers and a quiet morning of recuperating on the porch--and Sunday
+afternoon meant good-by to the one or two guests who must return to the
+city, and a great revival of drinking among the one or two who remained
+until next day, concluding in a convivial if not hilarious evening.
+
+The faithful Tana, pedagogue by nature and man of all work by
+profession, had returned with them. Among their more frequent guests a
+tradition had sprung up about him. Maury Noble remarked one afternoon
+that his real name was Tannenbaum, and that he was a German agent kept
+in this country to disseminate Teutonic propaganda through Westchester
+County, and, after that, mysterious letters began to arrive from
+Philadelphia addressed to the bewildered Oriental as "Lt. Emile
+Tannenbaum," containing a few cryptic messages signed "General Staff,"
+and adorned with an atmospheric double column of facetious Japanese.
+Anthony always handed them to Tana without a smile; hours afterward the
+recipient could be found puzzling over them in the kitchen and declaring
+earnestly that the perpendicular symbols were not Japanese, nor anything
+resembling Japanese.
+
+Gloria had taken a strong dislike to the man ever since the day when,
+returning unexpectedly from the village, she had discovered him
+reclining on Anthony's bed, puzzling out a newspaper. It was the
+instinct of all servants to be fond of Anthony and to detest Gloria, and
+Tana was no exception to the rule. But he was thoroughly afraid of her
+and made plain his aversion only in his moodier moments by subtly
+addressing Anthony with remarks intended for her ear:
+
+"What Miz Pats want dinner?" he would say, looking at his master. Or
+else he would comment about the bitter selfishness of "'Merican peoples"
+in such manner that there was no doubt who were the "peoples"
+referred to.
+
+But they dared not dismiss him. Such a step would have been abhorrent to
+their inertia. They endured Tana as they endured ill weather and
+sickness of the body and the estimable Will of God--as they endured all
+things, even themselves.
+
+
+IN DARKNESS
+
+One sultry afternoon late in July Richard Caramel telephoned from New
+York that he and Maury were coming out, bringing a friend with them.
+They arrived about five, a little drunk, accompanied by a small, stocky
+man of thirty-five, whom they introduced as Mr. Joe Hull, one of the
+best fellows that Anthony and Gloria had ever met.
+
+Joe Hull had a yellow beard continually fighting through his skin and a
+low voice which varied between basso profundo and a husky whisper.
+Anthony, carrying Maury's suitcase up-stairs, followed into the room and
+carefully closed the door.
+
+"Who is this fellow?" he demanded.
+
+Maury chuckled enthusiastically.
+
+"Who, Hull? Oh, _he's_ all right. He's a good one."
+
+"Yes, but who is he?"
+
+"Hull? He's just a good fellow. He's a prince." His laughter redoubled,
+culminating in a succession of pleasant catlike grins. Anthony hesitated
+between a smile and a frown.
+
+"He looks sort of funny to me. Weird-looking clothes"--he paused--"I've
+got a sneaking suspicion you two picked him up somewhere last night."
+
+"Ridiculous," declared Maury. "Why, I've known him all my life."
+However, as he capped this statement with another series of chuckles,
+Anthony was impelled to remark: "The devil you have!"
+
+Later, just before dinner, while Maury and Dick were conversing
+uproariously, with Joe Hull listening in silence as he sipped his drink,
+Gloria drew Anthony into the dining room:
+
+"I don't like this man Hull," she said. "I wish he'd use Tana's
+bathtub."
+
+"I can't very well ask him to."
+
+"Well, I don't want him in ours."
+
+"He seems to be a simple soul."
+
+"He's got on white shoes that look like gloves. I can see his toes right
+through them. Uh! Who is he, anyway?"
+
+"You've got me."
+
+"Well, I think they've got their nerve to bring him out here. This isn't
+a Sailor's Rescue Home!"
+
+"They were tight when they phoned. Maury said they've been on a party
+since yesterday afternoon."
+
+Gloria shook her head angrily, and saying no more returned to the porch.
+Anthony saw that she was trying to forget her uncertainty and devote
+herself to enjoying the evening.
+
+It had been a tropical day, and even into late twilight the heat-waves
+emanating from the dry road were quivering faintly like undulating panes
+of isinglass. The sky was cloudless, but far beyond the woods in the
+direction of the Sound a faint and persistent rolling had commenced.
+When Tana announced dinner the men, at a word from Gloria, remained
+coatless and went inside.
+
+Maury began a song, which they accomplished in harmony during the first
+course. It had two lines and was sung to a popular air called Daisy
+Dear. The lines were:
+
+"The--pan-ic--has--come--over us, So _ha-a-as_--the moral de_cline_!"
+
+Each rendition was greeted with bursts of enthusiasm and prolonged
+applause.
+
+"Cheer up, Gloria!" suggested Maury. "You seem the least bit depressed."
+
+"I'm not," she lied.
+
+"Here, Tannenbaum!" he called over his shoulder. "I've filled you a
+drink. Come on!"
+
+Gloria tried to stay his arm.
+
+"Please don't, Maury!"
+
+"Why not? Maybe he'll play the flute for us after dinner. Here, Tana."
+
+Tana, grinning, bore the glass away to the kitchen. In a few moments
+Maury gave him another.
+
+"Cheer up, Gloria!" he cried. "For Heaven's sakes everybody, cheer up
+Gloria."
+
+"Dearest, have another drink," counselled Anthony.
+
+"Do, please!"
+
+"Cheer up, Gloria," said Joe Hull easily.
+
+Gloria winced at this uncalled-for use of her first name, and glanced
+around to see if any one else had noticed it. The word coming so glibly
+from the lips of a man to whom she had taken an inordinate dislike
+repelled her. A moment later she noticed that Joe Hull had given Tana
+another drink, and her anger increased, heightened somewhat from the
+effects of the alcohol.
+
+"--and once," Maury was saying, "Peter Granby and I went into a Turkish
+bath in Boston, about two o'clock at night. There was no one there but
+the proprietor, and we jammed him into a closet and locked the door.
+Then a fella came in and wanted a Turkish bath. Thought we were the
+rubbers, by golly! Well, we just picked him up and tossed him into the
+pool with all his clothes on. Then we dragged him out and laid him on a
+slab and slapped him until he was black and blue. 'Not so rough,
+fellows!' he'd say in a little squeaky voice, 'please! ...'"
+
+--Was this Maury? thought Gloria. From any one else the story would have
+amused her, but from Maury, the infinitely appreciative, the apotheosis
+of tact and consideration....
+
+"The--pan-ic--has--come--over us, So _ha-a-as_--"
+
+A drum of thunder from outside drowned out the rest of the song; Gloria
+shivered and tried to empty her glass, but the first taste nauseated
+her, and she set it down. Dinner was over and they all marched into the
+big room, bearing several bottles and decanters. Some one had closed the
+porch door to keep out the wind, and in consequence circular tentacles
+of cigar smoke were twisting already upon the heavy air.
+
+"Paging Lieutenant Tannenbaum!" Again it was the changeling Maury.
+"Bring us the flute!"
+
+Anthony and Maury rushed into the kitchen; Richard Caramel started the
+phonograph and approached Gloria.
+
+"Dance with your well-known cousin."
+
+"I don't want to dance."
+
+"Then I'm going to carry you around."
+
+As though he were doing something of overpowering importance, he picked
+her up in his fat little arms and started trotting gravely about
+the room.
+
+"Set me down, Dick! I'm dizzy!" she insisted.
+
+He dumped her in a bouncing bundle on the couch, and rushed off to the
+kitchen, shouting "Tana! Tana!"
+
+Then, without warning, she felt other arms around her, felt herself
+lifted from the lounge. Joe Hull had picked her up and was trying,
+drunkenly, to imitate Dick.
+
+"Put me down!" she said sharply.
+
+His maudlin laugh, and the sight of that prickly yellow jaw close to her
+face stirred her to intolerable disgust.
+
+"At once!"
+
+"The--pan-ic--" he began, but got no further, for Gloria's hand swung
+around swiftly and caught him in the cheek. At this he all at once let
+go of her, and she fell to the floor, her shoulder hitting the table a
+glancing blow in transit....
+
+Then the room seemed full of men and smoke. There was Tana in his white
+coat reeling about supported by Maury. Into his flute he was blowing a
+weird blend of sound that was known, cried Anthony, as the Japanese
+train-song. Joe Hull had found a box of candles and was juggling them,
+yelling "One down!" every time he missed, and Dick was dancing by
+himself in a fascinated whirl around and about the room. It appeared to
+her that everything in the room was staggering in grotesque
+fourth-dimensional gyrations through intersecting planes of hazy blue.
+
+Outside, the storm had come up amazingly--the lulls within were filled
+with the scrape of the tall bushes against the house and the roaring of
+the rain on the tin roof of the kitchen. The lightning was interminable,
+letting down thick drips of thunder like pig iron from the heart of a
+white-hot furnace. Gloria could see that the rain was spitting in at
+three of the windows--but she could not move to shut them....
+
+... She was in the hall. She had said good night but no one had heard or
+heeded her. It seemed for an instant as though something had looked down
+over the head of the banister, but she could not have gone back into the
+living room--better madness than the madness of that clamor....
+Up-stairs she fumbled for the electric switch and missed it in the
+darkness; a roomful of lightning showed her the button plainly on the
+wall. But when the impenetrable black shut down, it again eluded her
+fumbling fingers, so she slipped off her dress and petticoat and threw
+herself weakly on the dry side of the half-drenched bed.
+
+She shut her eyes. From down-stairs arose the babel of the drinkers,
+punctured suddenly by a tinkling shiver of broken glass, and then
+another, and by a soaring fragment of unsteady, irregular song....
+
+She lay there for something over two hours--so she calculated afterward,
+sheerly by piecing together the bits of time. She was conscious, even
+aware, after a long while that the noise down-stairs had lessened, and
+that the storm was moving off westward, throwing back lingering showers
+of sound that fell, heavy and lifeless as her soul, into the soggy
+fields. This was succeeded by a slow, reluctant scattering of the rain
+and wind, until there was nothing outside her windows but a gentle
+dripping and the swishing play of a cluster of wet vine against the
+sill. She was in a state half-way between sleeping and waking, with
+neither condition predominant ... and she was harassed by a desire to
+rid herself of a weight pressing down upon her breast. She felt that if
+she could cry the weight would be lifted, and forcing the lids of her
+eyes together she tried to raise a lump in her throat ... to
+no avail....
+
+Drip! Drip! Drip! The sound was not unpleasant--like spring, like a cool
+rain of her childhood, that made cheerful mud in her back yard and
+watered the tiny garden she had dug with miniature rake and spade and
+hoe. Drip--dri-ip! It was like days when the rain came out of yellow
+skies that melted just before twilight and shot one radiant shaft of
+sunlight diagonally down the heavens into the damp green trees. So cool,
+so clear and clean--and her mother there at the centre of the world, at
+the centre of the rain, safe and dry and strong. She wanted her mother
+now, and her mother was dead, beyond sight and touch forever. And this
+weight was pressing on her, pressing on her--oh, it pressed on her so!
+
+She became rigid. Some one had come to the door and was standing
+regarding her, very quiet except for a slight swaying motion. She could
+see the outline of his figure distinct against some indistinguishable
+light. There was no sound anywhere, only a great persuasive
+silence--even the dripping had ceased ... only this figure, swaying,
+swaying in the doorway, an indiscernible and subtly menacing terror, a
+personality filthy under its varnish, like smallpox spots under a layer
+of powder. Yet her tired heart, beating until it shook her breasts, made
+her sure that there was still life in her, desperately shaken,
+threatened....
+
+The minute or succession of minutes prolonged itself interminably, and a
+swimming blur began to form before her eyes, which tried with childish
+persistence to pierce the gloom in the direction of the door. In another
+instant it seemed that some unimaginable force would shatter her out of
+existence ... and then the figure in the doorway--it was Hull, she saw,
+Hull--turned deliberately and, still slightly swaying, moved back and
+off, as if absorbed into that incomprehensible light that had given him
+dimension.
+
+Blood rushed back into her limbs, blood and life together. With a start
+of energy she sat upright, shifting her body until her feet touched the
+floor over the side of the bed. She knew what she must do--now, now,
+before it was too late. She must go out into this cool damp, out, away,
+to feel the wet swish of the grass around her feet and the fresh
+moisture on her forehead. Mechanically she struggled into her clothes,
+groping in the dark of the closet for a hat. She must go from this house
+where the thing hovered that pressed upon her bosom, or else made itself
+into stray, swaying figures in the gloom.
+
+In a panic she fumbled clumsily at her coat, found the sleeve just as
+she heard Anthony's footsteps on the lower stair. She dared not wait; he
+might not let her go, and even Anthony was part of this weight, part of
+this evil house and the sombre darkness that was growing up about it....
+
+Through the hall then ... and down the back stairs, hearing Anthony's
+voice in the bedroom she had just left--
+
+"Gloria! Gloria!"
+
+But she had reached the kitchen now, passed out through the doorway into
+the night. A hundred drops, startled by a flare of wind from a dripping
+tree, scattered on her and she pressed them gladly to her face with
+hot hands.
+
+"Gloria! Gloria!"
+
+The voice was infinitely remote, muffed and made plaintive by the walls
+she had just left. She rounded the house and started down the front path
+toward the road, almost exultant as she turned into it, and followed the
+carpet of short grass alongside, moving with caution in the
+intense darkness.
+
+"Gloria!"
+
+She broke into a run, stumbled over the segment of a branch twisted off
+by the wind. The voice was outside the house now. Anthony, finding the
+bedroom deserted, had come onto the porch. But this thing was driving
+her forward; it was back there with Anthony, and she must go on in her
+flight under this dim and oppressive heaven, forcing herself through the
+silence ahead as though it were a tangible barrier before her.
+
+She had gone some distance along the barely discernible road, probably
+half a mile, passed a single deserted barn that loomed up, black and
+foreboding, the only building of any sort between the gray house and
+Marietta; then she turned the fork, where the road entered the wood and
+ran between two high walls of leaves and branches that nearly touched
+overhead. She noticed suddenly a thin, longitudinal gleam of silver upon
+the road before her, like a bright sword half embedded in the mud. As
+she came closer she gave a little cry of satisfaction--it was a
+wagon-rut full of water, and glancing heavenward she saw a light rift of
+sky and knew that the moon was out.
+
+"Gloria!"
+
+She started violently. Anthony was not two hundred feet behind her.
+
+"Gloria, wait for me!"
+
+She shut her lips tightly to keep from screaming, and increased her
+gait. Before she had gone another hundred yards the woods disappeared,
+rolling back like a dark stocking from the leg of the road. Three
+minutes' walk ahead of her, suspended in the now high and limitless air,
+she saw a thin interlacing of attenuated gleams and glitters, centred in
+a regular undulation on some one invisible point. Abruptly she knew
+where she would go. That was the great cascade of wires that rose high
+over the river, like the legs of a gigantic spider whose eye was the
+little green light in the switch-house, and ran with the railroad bridge
+in the direction of the station. The station! There would be the train
+to take her away.
+
+"Gloria, it's me! It's Anthony! Gloria, I won't try to stop you! For
+God's sake, where are you?"
+
+She made no answer but began to run, keeping on the high side of the
+road and leaping the gleaming puddles--dimensionless pools of thin,
+unsubstantial gold. Turning sharply to the left, she followed a narrow
+wagon road, serving to avoid a dark body on the ground. She looked up as
+an owl hooted mournfully from a solitary tree. Just ahead of her she
+could see the trestle that led to the railroad bridge and the steps
+mounting up to it. The station lay across the river.
+
+Another sounds startled her, the melancholy siren of an approaching
+train, and almost simultaneously, a repeated call, thin now and
+far away.
+
+"Gloria! Gloria!"
+
+Anthony must have followed the main road. She laughed with a sort of
+malicious cunning at having eluded him; she could spare the time to wait
+until the train went by.
+
+The siren soared again, closer at hand, and then, with no anticipatory
+roar and clamor, a dark and sinuous body curved into view against the
+shadows far down the high-banked track, and with no sound but the rush
+of the cleft wind and the clocklike tick of the rails, moved toward the
+bridge--it was an electric train. Above the engine two vivid blurs of
+blue light formed incessantly a radiant crackling bar between them,
+which, like a spluttering flame in a lamp beside a corpse, lit for an
+instant the successive rows of trees and caused Gloria to draw back
+instinctively to the far side of the road. The light was tepid, the
+temperature of warm blood.... The clicking blended suddenly with itself
+in a rush of even sound, and then, elongating in sombre elasticity, the
+thing roared blindly by her and thundered onto the bridge, racing the
+lurid shaft of fire it cast into the solemn river alongside. Then it
+contracted swiftly, sucking in its sound until it left only a
+reverberant echo, which died upon the farther bank.
+
+Silence crept down again over the wet country; the faint dripping
+resumed, and suddenly a great shower of drops tumbled upon Gloria
+stirring her out of the trance-like torpor which the passage of the
+train had wrought. She ran swiftly down a descending level to the bank
+and began climbing the iron stairway to the bridge, remembering that it
+was something she had always wanted to do, and that she would have the
+added excitement of traversing the yard-wide plank that ran beside the
+tracks over the river.
+
+There! This was better. She was at the top now and could see the lands
+about her as successive sweeps of open country, cold under the moon,
+coarsely patched and seamed with thin rows and heavy clumps of trees. To
+her right, half a mile down the river, which trailed away behind the
+light like the shiny, slimy path of a snail, winked the scattered lights
+of Marietta. Not two hundred yards away at the end of the bridge
+squatted the station, marked by a sullen lantern. The oppression was
+lifted now--the tree-tops below her were rocking the young starlight to
+a haunted doze. She stretched out her arms with a gesture of freedom.
+This was what she had wanted, to stand alone where it was high and cool.
+
+"Gloria!"
+
+Like a startled child she scurried along the plank, hopping, skipping,
+jumping, with an ecstatic sense of her own physical lightness. Let him
+come now--she no longer feared that, only she must first reach the
+station, because that was part of the game. She was happy. Her hat,
+snatched off, was clutched tightly in her hand, and her short curled
+hair bobbed up and down about her ears. She had thought she would never
+feel so young again, but this was her night, her world. Triumphantly she
+laughed as she left the plank, and reaching the wooden platform flung
+herself down happily beside an iron roof-post.
+
+"Here I am!" she called, gay as the dawn in her elation. "Here I am,
+Anthony, dear--old, worried Anthony."
+
+"Gloria!" He reached the platform, ran toward her. "Are you all right?"
+Coming up he knelt and took her in his arms.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What was the matter? Why did you leave?" he queried anxiously.
+
+"I had to--there was something"--she paused and a flicker of uneasiness
+lashed at her mind--"there was something sitting on me--here." She put
+her hand on her breast. "I had to go out and get away from it."
+
+"What do you mean by 'something'?"
+
+"I don't know--that man Hull--"
+
+"Did he bother you?"
+
+"He came to my door, drunk. I think I'd gotten sort of crazy by that
+time."
+
+"Gloria, dearest--"
+
+Wearily she laid her head upon his shoulder.
+
+"Let's go back," he suggested.
+
+She shivered.
+
+"Uh! No, I couldn't. It'd come and sit on me again." Her voice rose to a
+cry that hung plaintive on the darkness. "That thing--"
+
+"There--there," he soothed her, pulling her close to him. "We won't do
+anything you don't want to do. What do you want to do? Just sit here?"
+
+"I want--I want to go away."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"Oh--anywhere."
+
+"By golly, Gloria," he cried, "you're still tight!"
+
+"No, I'm not. I haven't been, all evening. I went up-stairs about, oh, I
+don't know, about half an hour after dinner ...Ouch!"
+
+He had inadvertently touched her right shoulder.
+
+"It hurts me. I hurt it some way. I don't know--somebody picked me up
+and dropped me."
+
+"Gloria, come home. It's late and damp."
+
+"I can't," she wailed. "Oh, Anthony, don't ask me to! I will to-morrow.
+You go home and I'll wait here for a train. I'll go to a hotel--"
+
+"I'll go with you."
+
+"No, I don't want you with me. I want to be alone. I want to sleep--oh,
+I want to sleep. And then to-morrow, when you've got all the smell of
+whiskey and cigarettes out of the house, and everything straight, and
+Hull is gone, then I'll come home. If I went now, that thing--oh--!" She
+covered her eyes with her hand; Anthony saw the futility of trying to
+persuade her.
+
+"I was all sober when you left," he said. "Dick was asleep on the lounge
+and Maury and I were having a discussion. That fellow Hull had wandered
+off somewhere. Then I began to realize I hadn't seen you for several
+hours, so I went up-stairs--"
+
+He broke off as a salutatory "Hello, there!" boomed suddenly out of the
+darkness. Gloria sprang to her feet and he did likewise.
+
+"It's Maury's voice," she cried excitedly. "If it's Hull with him, keep
+them away, keep them away!"
+
+"Who's there?" Anthony called.
+
+"Just Dick and Maury," returned two voices reassuringly.
+
+"Where's Hull?"
+
+"He's in bed. Passed out."
+
+Their figures appeared dimly on the platform.
+
+"What the devil are you and Gloria doing here?" inquired Richard Caramel
+with sleepy bewilderment.
+
+"What are _you_ two doing here?"
+
+Maury laughed.
+
+"Damned if I know. We followed you, and had the deuce of a time doing
+it. I heard you out on the porch yelling for Gloria, so I woke up the
+Caramel here and got it through his head, with some difficulty, that if
+there was a search-party we'd better be on it. He slowed me up by
+sitting down in the road at intervals and asking me what it was all
+about. We tracked you by the pleasant scent of Canadian Club."
+
+There was a rattle of nervous laughter under the low train-shed.
+
+"How did you track us, really?"
+
+"Well, we followed along down the road and then we suddenly lost you.
+Seems you turned off at a wagontrail. After a while somebody hailed us
+and asked us if we were looking for a young girl. Well, we came up and
+found it was a little shivering old man, sitting on a fallen tree like
+somebody in a fairy tale. 'She turned down here,' he said, 'and most
+steppud on me, goin' somewhere in an awful hustle, and then a fella in
+short golfin' pants come runnin' along and went after her. He throwed me
+this.' The old fellow had a dollar bill he was waving around--"
+
+"Oh, the poor old man!" ejaculated Gloria, moved.
+
+"I threw him another and we went on, though he asked us to stay and tell
+him what it was all about."
+
+"Poor old man," repeated Gloria dismally.
+
+Dick sat down sleepily on a box.
+
+"And now what?" he inquired in the tone of stoic resignation.
+
+"Gloria's upset," explained Anthony. "She and I are going to the city by
+the next train."
+
+Maury in the darkness had pulled a time-table from his pocket.
+
+"Strike a match."
+
+A tiny flare leaped out of the opaque background illuminating the four
+faces, grotesque and unfamiliar here in the open night.
+
+"Let's see. Two, two-thirty--no, that's evening. By gad, you won't get a
+train till five-thirty."
+
+Anthony hesitated.
+
+"Well," he muttered uncertainly, "we've decided to stay here and wait
+for it. You two might as well go back and sleep."
+
+"You go, too, Anthony," urged Gloria; "I want you to have some sleep,
+dear. You've been as pale as a ghost all day."
+
+"Why, you little idiot!"
+
+Dick yawned.
+
+"Very well. You stay, we stay."
+
+He walked out from under the shed and surveyed the heavens.
+
+"Rather a nice night, after all. Stars are out and everything.
+Exceptionally tasty assortment of them."
+
+"Let's see." Gloria moved after him and the other two followed her.
+"Let's sit out here," she suggested. "I like it much better."
+
+Anthony and Dick converted a long box into a backrest and found a board
+dry enough for Gloria to sit on. Anthony dropped down beside her and
+with some effort Dick hoisted himself onto an apple-barrel near them.
+
+"Tana went to sleep in the porch hammock," he remarked. "We carried him
+in and left him next to the kitchen stove to dry. He was drenched to
+the skin."
+
+"That awful little man!" sighed Gloria.
+
+"How do you do!" The voice, sonorous and funereal, had come from above,
+and they looked up startled to find that in some manner Maury had
+climbed to the roof of the shed, where he sat dangling his feet over the
+edge, outlined as a shadowy and fantastic gargoyle against the now
+brilliant sky.
+
+"It must be for such occasions as this," he began softly, his words
+having the effect of floating down from an immense height and settling
+softly upon his auditors, "that the righteous of the land decorate the
+railroads with bill-boards asserting in red and yellow that 'Jesus
+Christ is God,' placing them, appropriately enough, next to
+announcements that 'Gunter's Whiskey is Good.'"
+
+There was gentle laughter and the three below kept their heads tilted
+upward.
+
+"I think I shall tell you the story of my education," continued Maury,
+"under these sardonic constellations."
+
+"Do! Please!"
+
+"Shall I, really?"
+
+They waited expectantly while he directed a ruminative yawn toward the
+white smiling moon.
+
+"Well," he began, "as an infant I prayed. I stored up prayers against
+future wickedness. One year I stored up nineteen hundred 'Now I
+lay me's.'"
+
+"Throw down a cigarette," murmured some one.
+
+A small package reached the platform simultaneously with the stentorian
+command:
+
+"Silence! I am about to unburden myself of many memorable remarks
+reserved for the darkness of such earths and the brilliance of
+such skies."
+
+Below, a lighted match was passed from cigarette to cigarette. The voice
+resumed:
+
+"I was adept at fooling the deity. I prayed immediately after all crimes
+until eventually prayer and crime became indistinguishable to me. I
+believed that because a man cried out 'My God!' when a safe fell on him,
+it proved that belief was rooted deep in the human breast. Then I went
+to school. For fourteen years half a hundred earnest men pointed to
+ancient flint-locks and cried to me: 'There's the real thing. These new
+rifles are only shallow, superficial imitations.' They damned the books
+I read and the things I thought by calling them immoral; later the
+fashion changed, and they damned things by calling them 'clever'.
+
+"And so I turned, canny for my years, from the professors to the poets,
+listening--to the lyric tenor of Swinburne and the tenor robusto of
+Shelley, to Shakespeare with his first bass and his fine range, to
+Tennyson with his second bass and his occasional falsetto, to Milton and
+Marlow, bassos profundo. I gave ear to Browning chatting, Byron
+declaiming, and Wordsworth droning. This, at least, did me no harm. I
+learned a little of beauty--enough to know that it had nothing to do
+with truth--and I found, moreover, that there was no great literary
+tradition; there was only the tradition of the eventful death of every
+literary tradition....
+
+"Then I grew up, and the beauty of succulent illusions fell away from
+me. The fibre of my mind coarsened and my eyes grew miserably keen. Life
+rose around my island like a sea, and presently I was swimming.
+
+"The transition was subtle--the thing had lain in wait for me for some
+time. It has its insidious, seemingly innocuous trap for every one. With
+me? No--I didn't try to seduce the janitor's wife--nor did I run through
+the streets unclothed, proclaiming my virility. It is never quite
+passion that does the business--it is the dress that passion wears. I
+became bored--that was all. Boredom, which is another name and a
+frequent disguise for vitality, became the unconscious motive of all my
+acts. Beauty was behind me, do you understand?--I was grown." He paused.
+"End of school and college period. Opening of Part Two."
+
+Three quietly active points of light showed the location of his
+listeners. Gloria was now half sitting, half lying, in Anthony's lap.
+His arm was around her so tightly that she could hear the beating of his
+heart. Richard Caramel, perched on the apple-barrel, from time to time
+stirred and gave off a faint grunt.
+
+"I grew up then, into this land of jazz, and fell immediately into a
+state of almost audible confusion. Life stood over me like an immoral
+schoolmistress, editing my ordered thoughts. But, with a mistaken faith
+in intelligence, I plodded on. I read Smith, who laughed at charity and
+insisted that the sneer was the highest form of self-expression--but
+Smith himself replaced charity as an obscurer of the light. I read
+Jones, who neatly disposed of individualism--and behold! Jones was still
+in my way. I did not think--I was a battle-ground for the thoughts of
+many men; rather was I one of those desirable but impotent countries
+over which the great powers surge back and forth.
+
+"I reached maturity under the impression that I was gathering the
+experience to order my life for happiness. Indeed, I accomplished the
+not unusual feat of solving each question in my mind long before it
+presented itself to me in life--and of being beaten and bewildered
+just the same.
+
+"But after a few tastes of this latter dish I had had enough. Here! I
+said, Experience is not worth the getting. It's not a thing that happens
+pleasantly to a passive you--it's a wall that an active you runs up
+against. So I wrapped myself in what I thought was my invulnerable
+scepticism and decided that my education was complete. But it was too
+late. Protect myself as I might by making no new ties with tragic and
+predestined humanity, I was lost with the rest. I had traded the fight
+against love for the fight against loneliness, the fight against life
+for the fight against death."
+
+He broke off to give emphasis to his last observation--after a moment he
+yawned and resumed.
+
+"I suppose that the beginning of the second phase of my education was a
+ghastly dissatisfaction at being used in spite of myself for some
+inscrutable purpose of whose ultimate goal I was unaware--if, indeed,
+there _was_ an ultimate goal. It was a difficult choice. The
+schoolmistress seemed to be saying, 'We're going to play football and
+nothing but football. If you don't want to play football you can't
+play at all--'
+
+"What was I to do--the playtime was so short!
+
+"You see, I felt that we were even denied what consolation there might
+have been in being a figment of a corporate man rising from his knees.
+Do you think that I leaped at this pessimism, grasped it as a sweetly
+smug superior thing, no more depressing really than, say, a gray autumn
+day before a fire?--I don't think I did that. I was a great deal too
+warm for that, and too alive.
+
+"For it seemed to me that there was no ultimate goal for man. Man was
+beginning a grotesque and bewildered fight with nature--nature, that by
+the divine and magnificent accident had brought us to where we could fly
+in her face. She had invented ways to rid the race of the inferior and
+thus give the remainder strength to fill her higher--or, let us say, her
+more amusing--though still unconscious and accidental intentions. And,
+actuated by the highest gifts of the enlightenment, we were seeking to
+circumvent her. In this republic I saw the black beginning to mingle
+with the white--in Europe there was taking place an economic catastrophe
+to save three or four diseased and wretchedly governed races from the
+one mastery that might organize them for material prosperity.
+
+"We produce a Christ who can raise up the leper--and presently the breed
+of the leper is the salt of the earth. If any one can find any lesson in
+that, let him stand forth."
+
+"There's only one lesson to be learned from life, anyway," interrupted
+Gloria, not in contradiction but in a sort of melancholy agreement.
+
+"What's that?" demanded Maury sharply.
+
+"That there's no lesson to be learned from life."
+
+After a short silence Maury said:
+
+"Young Gloria, the beautiful and merciless lady, first looked at the
+world with the fundamental sophistication I have struggled to attain,
+that Anthony never will attain, that Dick will never fully understand."
+
+There was a disgusted groan from the apple-barrel. Anthony, grown
+accustomed to the dark, could see plainly the flash of Richard Caramel's
+yellow eye and the look of resentment on his face as he cried:
+
+"You're crazy! By your own statement I should have attained some
+experience by trying."
+
+"Trying what?" cried Maury fiercely. "Trying to pierce the darkness of
+political idealism with some wild, despairing urge toward truth? Sitting
+day after day supine in a rigid chair and infinitely removed from life
+staring at the tip of a steeple through the trees, trying to separate,
+definitely and for all time, the knowable from the unknowable? Trying to
+take a piece of actuality and give it glamour from your own soul to make
+for that inexpressible quality it possessed in life and lost in transit
+to paper or canvas? Struggling in a laboratory through weary years for
+one iota of relative truth in a mass of wheels or a test tube--"
+
+"Have you?"
+
+Maury paused, and in his answer, when it came, there was a measure of
+weariness, a bitter overnote that lingered for a moment in those three
+minds before it floated up and off like a bubble bound for the moon.
+
+"Not I," he said softly. "I was born tired--but with the quality of
+mother wit, the gift of women like Gloria--to that, for all my talking
+and listening, my waiting in vain for the eternal generality that seems
+to lie just beyond every argument and every speculation, to that I have
+added not one jot."
+
+In the distance a deep sound that had been audible for some moments
+identified itself by a plaintive mooing like that of a gigantic cow and
+by the pearly spot of a headlight apparent half a mile away. It was a
+steam-driven train this time, rumbling and groaning, and as it tumbled
+by with a monstrous complaint it sent a shower of sparks and cinders
+over the platform.
+
+"Not one jot!" Again Maury's voice dropped down to them as from a great
+height. "What a feeble thing intelligence is, with its short steps, its
+waverings, its pacings back and forth, its disastrous retreats!
+Intelligence is a mere instrument of circumstances. There are people who
+say that intelligence must have built the universe--why, intelligence
+never built a steam engine! Circumstances built a steam engine.
+Intelligence is little more than a short foot-rule by which we measure
+the infinite achievements of Circumstances.
+
+"I could quote you the philosophy of the hour--but, for all we know,
+fifty years may see a complete reversal of this abnegation that's
+absorbing the intellectuals to-day, the triumph of Christ over Anatole
+France--" He hesitated, and then added: "But all I know--the tremendous
+importance of myself to me, and the necessity of acknowledging that
+importance to myself--these things the wise and lovely Gloria was born
+knowing these things and the painful futility of trying to know
+anything else.
+
+"Well, I started to tell you of my education, didn't I? But I learned
+nothing, you see, very little even about myself. And if I had I should
+die with my lips shut and the guard on my fountain pen--as the wisest
+men have done since--oh, since the failure of a certain matter--a
+strange matter, by the way. It concerned some sceptics who thought they
+were far-sighted, just as you and I. Let me tell you about them by way
+of an evening prayer before you all drop off to sleep.
+
+"Once upon a time all the men of mind and genius in the world became of
+one belief--that is to say, of no belief. But it wearied them to think
+that within a few years after their death many cults and systems and
+prognostications would be ascribed to them which they had never
+meditated nor intended. So they said to one another:
+
+"'Let's join together and make a great book that will last forever to
+mock the credulity of man. Let's persuade our more erotic poets to write
+about the delights of the flesh, and induce some of our robust
+journalists to contribute stories of famous amours. We'll include all
+the most preposterous old wives' tales now current. We'll choose the
+keenest satirist alive to compile a deity from all the deities
+worshipped by mankind, a deity who will be more magnificent than any of
+them, and yet so weakly human that he'll become a byword for laughter
+the world over--and we'll ascribe to him all sorts of jokes and vanities
+and rages, in which he'll be supposed to indulge for his own diversion,
+so that the people will read our book and ponder it, and there'll be no
+more nonsense in the world.
+
+"'Finally, let us take care that the book possesses all the virtues of
+style, so that it may last forever as a witness to our profound
+scepticism and our universal irony.'
+
+"So the men did, and they died.
+
+"But the book lived always, so beautifully had it been written, and so
+astounding the quality of imagination with which these men of mind and
+genius had endowed it. They had neglected to give it a name, but after
+they were dead it became known as the Bible."
+
+When he concluded there was no comment. Some damp languor sleeping on
+the air of night seemed to have bewitched them all.
+
+"As I said, I started on the story of my education. But my high-balls
+are dead and the night's almost over, and soon there'll be an awful
+jabbering going on everywhere, in the trees and the houses, and the two
+little stores over there behind the station, and there'll be a great
+running up and down upon the earth for a few hours--Well," he concluded
+with a laugh, "thank God we four can all pass to our eternal rest
+knowing we've left the world a little better for having lived in it."
+
+A breeze sprang up, blowing with it faint wisps of life which flattened
+against the sky.
+
+"Your remarks grow rambling and inconclusive," said Anthony sleepily.
+"You expected one of those miracles of illumination by which you say
+your most brilliant and pregnant things in exactly the setting that
+should provoke the ideal symposium. Meanwhile Gloria has shown her
+far-sighted detachment by falling asleep--I can tell that by the fact
+that she has managed to concentrate her entire weight upon my
+broken body."
+
+"Have I bored you?" inquired Maury, looking down with some concern.
+
+"No, you have disappointed us. You've shot a lot of arrows but did you
+shoot any birds?"
+
+"I leave the birds to Dick," said Maury hurriedly. "I speak erratically,
+in disassociated fragments."
+
+"You can get no rise from me," muttered Dick. "My mind is full of any
+number of material things. I want a warm bath too much to worry about
+the importance of my work or what proportion of us are pathetic figures."
+
+Dawn made itself felt in a gathering whiteness eastward over the river
+and an intermittent cheeping in the near-by trees.
+
+"Quarter to five," sighed Dick; "almost another hour to wait. Look! Two
+gone." He was pointing to Anthony, whose lids had sagged over his eyes.
+"Sleep of the Patch family--"
+
+But in another five minutes, despite the amplifying cheeps and chirrups,
+his own head had fallen forward, nodded down twice, thrice....
+
+Only Maury Noble remained awake, seated upon the station roof, his eyes
+wide open and fixed with fatigued intensity upon the distant nucleus of
+morning. He was wondering at the unreality of ideas, at the fading
+radiance of existence, and at the little absorptions that were creeping
+avidly into his life, like rats into a ruined house. He was sorry for no
+one now--on Monday morning there would be his business, and later there
+would be a girl of another class whose whole life he was; these were the
+things nearest his heart. In the strangeness of the brightening day it
+seemed presumptuous that with this feeble, broken instrument of his mind
+he had ever tried to think.
+
+There was the sun, letting down great glowing masses of heat; there was
+life, active and snarling, moving about them like a fly swarm--the dark
+pants of smoke from the engine, a crisp "all aboard!" and a bell
+ringing. Confusedly Maury saw eyes in the milk train staring curiously
+up at him, heard Gloria and Anthony in quick controversy as to whether
+he should go to the city with her, then another clamor and she was gone
+and the three men, pale as ghosts, were standing alone upon the platform
+while a grimy coal-heaver went down the road on top of a motor truck,
+carolling hoarsely at the summer morning.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+THE BROKEN LUTE
+
+_It is seven-thirty of an August evening. The windows in the living room
+of the gray house are wide open, patiently exchanging the tainted inner
+atmosphere of liquor and smoke for the fresh drowsiness of the late hot
+dusk. There are dying flower scents upon the air, so thin, so fragile,
+as to hint already of a summer laid away in time. But August is still
+proclaimed relentlessly by a thousand crickets around the side-porch,
+and by one who has broken into the house and concealed himself
+confidently behind a bookcase, from time to time shrieking of his
+cleverness and his indomitable will._
+
+_The room itself is in messy disorder. On the table is a dish of fruit,
+which is real but appears artificial. Around it are grouped an ominous
+assortment of decanters, glasses, and heaped ash-trays, the latter still
+raising wavy smoke-ladders into the stale air, the effect on the whole
+needing but a skull to resemble that venerable chromo, once a fixture in
+every "den," which presents the appendages to the life of pleasure with
+delightful and awe-inspiring sentiment._
+
+_After a while the sprightly solo of the supercricket is interrupted
+rather than joined by a new sound--the melancholy wail of an erratically
+fingered flute. It is obvious that the musician is practising rather
+than performing, for from time to time the gnarled strain breaks off
+and, after an interval of indistinct mutterings, recommences._
+
+_Just prior to the seventh false start a third sound contributes to the
+subdued discord. It is a taxi outside. A minute's silence, then the taxi
+again, its boisterous retreat almost obliterating the scrape of
+footsteps on the cinder walk. The door-bell shrieks alarmingly through
+the house._
+
+_From the kitchen enters a small, fatigued Japanese, hastily buttoning a
+servant's coat of white duck. He opens the front screen-door and admits
+a handsome young man of thirty, clad in the sort of well-intentioned
+clothes peculiar to those who serve mankind. To his whole personality
+clings a well-intentioned air: his glance about the room is compounded
+of curiosity and a determined optimism; when he looks at Tana the entire
+burden of uplifting the godless Oriental is in his eyes. His name is_
+FREDERICK E. PARAMORE. _He was at Harvard with_ ANTHONY, _where because
+of the initials of their surnames they were constantly placed next to
+each other in classes. A fragmentary acquaintance developed--but since
+that time they have never met._
+
+_Nevertheless,_ PARAMORE _enters the room with a certain air of arriving
+for the evening._
+
+_Tana is answering a question._
+
+TANA: (_Grinning with ingratiation_) Gone to Inn for dinnah. Be back
+half-hour. Gone since ha' past six.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Regarding the glasses on the table_) Have they company?
+
+TANA: Yes. Company. Mistah Caramel, Mistah and Missays Barnes, Miss
+Kane, all stay here.
+
+PARAMORE: I see. (_Kindly_) They've been having a spree, I see.
+
+TANA: I no un'stan'.
+
+PARAMORE: They've been having a fling.
+
+TANA: Yes, they have drink. Oh, many, many, many drink.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Receding delicately from the subject_) "Didn't I hear the
+sounds of music as I approached the house"?
+
+TANA:(_With a spasmodic giggle_)Yes, I play.
+
+PARAMORE: One of the Japanese instruments.
+
+(_He is quite obviously a subscriber to the "National Geographic
+Magazine_.")
+
+TANA: I play flu-u-ute, Japanese flu-u-ute.
+
+PARAMORE: What song were you playing? One of your Japanese melodies?
+
+TANA:(_His brow undergoing preposterous contraction_) I play train song.
+How you call?--railroad song. So call in my countree. Like train. It go
+so-o-o; that mean whistle; train start. Then go so-o-o; that mean train
+go. Go like that. Vera nice song in my countree. Children song.
+
+PARAMORE: It sounded very nice. (_It is apparent at this point that only
+a gigantic effort at control restrains Tana from rushing up-stairs for
+his post cards, including the six made in America_.)
+
+TANA: I fix high-ball for gentleman?
+
+PARAMORE: "No, thanks. I don't use it". (_He smiles_.)
+
+(TANA _withdraws into the kitchen, leaving the intervening door slightly
+ajar. From the crevice there suddenly issues again the melody of the
+Japanese train song--this time not a practice, surely, but a
+performance, a lusty, spirited performance._
+
+_The phone rings._ TANA, _absorbed in his harmonics, gives no heed, so_
+PARAMORE _takes up the receiver_.)
+
+PARAMORE: Hello.... Yes.... No, he's not here now, but he'll be back any
+moment.... Butterworth? Hello, I didn't quite catch the name.... Hello,
+hello, hello. Hello! ... Huh!
+
+(_The phone obstinately refuses to yield up any more sound. Paramore
+replaces the receiver._
+
+_At this point the taxi motif re-enters, wafting with it a second young
+man; he carries a suitcase and opens the front door without ringing
+the bell._)
+
+MAURY: (_In the hall_) "Oh, Anthony! Yoho"! (_He comes into the large
+room and sees_ PARAMORE) How do?
+
+PARAMORE: (_Gazing at him with gathering intensity_) Is this--is this
+Maury Noble?
+
+MAURY: "That's it". (_He advances, smiling, and holding out his hand_)
+How are you, old boy? Haven't seen you for years.
+
+(_He has vaguely associated the face with Harvard, but is not even
+positive about that. The name, if he ever knew it, he has long since
+forgotten. However, with a fine sensitiveness and an equally commendable
+charity_ PARAMORE _recognizes the fact and tactfully relieves the
+situation_.)
+
+PARAMORE: You've forgotten Fred Paramore? We were both in old Unc
+Robert's history class.
+
+MAURY: No, I haven't, Unc--I mean Fred. Fred was--I mean Unc was a great
+old fellow, wasn't he?
+
+PARAMORE: (_Nodding his head humorously several times_) Great old
+character. Great old character.
+
+MAURY: (_After a short pause_) Yes--he was. Where's Anthony?
+
+PARAMORE: The Japanese servant told me he was at some inn. Having
+dinner, I suppose.
+
+MAURY: (_Looking at his watch_) Gone long?
+
+PARAMORE: I guess so. The Japanese told me they'd be back shortly.
+
+MAURY: Suppose we have a drink.
+
+PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don't use it. (_He smiles_.)
+
+MAURY: Mind if I do? (_Yawning as he helps himself from a bottle_) What
+have you been doing since you left college?
+
+PARAMORE: Oh, many things. I've led a very active life. Knocked about
+here and there. (_His tone implies anything front lion-stalking to
+organized crime._)
+
+MAURY: Oh, been over to Europe?
+
+PARAMORE: No, I haven't--unfortunately.
+
+MAURY: I guess we'll all go over before long.
+
+PARAMORE: Do you really think so?
+
+MAURY: Sure! Country's been fed on sensationalism for more than two
+years. Everybody getting restless. Want to have some fun.
+
+PARAMORE: Then you don't believe any ideals are at stake?
+
+MAURY: Nothing of much importance. People want excitement every so
+often.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Intently_) It's very interesting to hear you say that. Now I
+was talking to a man who'd been over there----
+
+(_During the ensuing testament, left to be filled in by the reader with
+such phrases as "Saw with his own eyes," "Splendid spirit of France,"
+and "Salvation of civilization,"_ MAURY _sits with lowered eyelids,
+dispassionately bored._)
+
+MAURY: (_At the first available opportunity_) By the way, do you happen
+to know that there's a German agent in this very house?
+
+PARAMORE: (_Smiling cautiously_) Are you serious?
+
+MAURY: Absolutely. Feel it my duty to warn you.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Convinced_) A governess?
+
+MAURY: (_In a whisper, indicating the kitchen with his thumb_) _Tana!_
+That's not his real name. I understand he constantly gets mail addressed
+to Lieutenant Emile Tannenbaum.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Laughing with hearty tolerance_) You were kidding me.
+
+MAURY: I may be accusing him falsely. But, you haven't told me what
+you've been doing.
+
+PARAMORE: For one thing--writing.
+
+MAURY: Fiction?
+
+PARAMORE: No. Non-fiction.
+
+MAURY: What's that? A sort of literature that's half fiction and half
+fact?
+
+PARAMORE: Oh, I've confined myself to fact. I've been doing a good deal
+of social-service work.
+
+MAURY: Oh!
+
+(_An immediate glow of suspicion leaps into his eyes. It is as though_
+PARAMORE _had announced himself as an amateur pickpocket._)
+
+PARAMORE: At present I'm doing service work in Stamford. Only last week
+some one told me that Anthony Patch lived so near.
+
+(_They are interrupted by a clamor outside, unmistakable as that of two
+sexes in conversation and laughter. Then there enter the room in a body_
+ANTHONY, GLORIA, RICHARD CARAMEL, MURIEL KANE, RACHAEL BARNES _and_
+RODMAN BARNES, _her husband. They surge about_ MAURY, _illogically
+replying_ "Fine!" _to his general_ "Hello." ... ANTHONY, _meanwhile,
+approaches his other guest._)
+
+ANTHONY: Well, I'll be darned. How are you? Mighty glad to see you.
+
+PARAMORE: It's good to see you, Anthony. I'm stationed in Stamford, so I
+thought I'd run over. (_Roguishly_) We have to work to beat the devil
+most of the time, so we're entitled to a few hours' vacation.
+
+(_In an agony of concentration_ ANTHONY _tries to recall the name. After
+a struggle of parturition his memory gives up the fragment "Fred,"
+around which he hastily builds the sentence "Glad you did, Fred!"
+Meanwhile the slight hush prefatory to an introduction has fallen upon
+the company._ MAURY, _who could help, prefers to look on in malicious
+enjoyment._)
+
+ANTHONY: (_In desperation_) Ladies and gentlemen, this is--this is Fred.
+
+MURIEL: (_With obliging levity_) Hello, Fred!
+
+(RICHARD CARAMEL _and_ PARAMORE _greet each other intimately by their
+first names, the latter recollecting that_ DICK _was one of the men in
+his class who had never before troubled to speak to him._ DICK
+_fatuously imagines that_ PARAMORE _is some one he has previously met
+in_ ANTHONY'S _house._
+
+_The three young women go up-stairs._)
+
+MAURY: (_In an undertone to_ DICK) Haven't seen Muriel since Anthony's
+wedding.
+
+DICK: She's now in her prime. Her latest is "I'll say so!"
+
+(ANTHONY _struggles for a while with_ PARAMORE _and at length attempts
+to make the conversation general by asking every one to have a drink._)
+
+MAURY: I've done pretty well on this bottle. I've gone from "Proof" down
+to "Distillery." (_He indicates the words on the label._)
+
+ANTHONY: (_To_ PARAMORE) Never can tell when these two will turn up.
+Said good-by to them one afternoon at five and darned if they didn't
+appear about two in the morning. A big hired touring-car from New York
+drove up to the door and out they stepped, drunk as lords, of course.
+
+(_In an ecstasy of consideration_ PARAMORE _regards the cover of a book
+which he holds in his hand._ MAURY _and_ DICK _exchange a glance._)
+
+DICK: (_Innocently, to_ PARAMORE) You work here in town?
+
+PARAMORE: No, I'm in the Laird Street Settlement in Stamford. (_To_
+ANTHONY) You have no idea of the amount of poverty in these small
+Connecticut towns. Italians and other immigrants. Catholics mostly, you
+know, so it's very hard to reach them.
+
+ANTHONY: (_Politely_) Lot of crime?
+
+PARAMORE: Not so much crime as ignorance and dirt.
+
+MAURY: That's my theory: immediate electrocution of all ignorant and
+dirty people. I'm all for the criminals--give color to life. Trouble is
+if you started to punish ignorance you'd have to begin in the first
+families, then you could take up the moving picture people, and finally
+Congress and the clergy.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Smiling uneasily_) I was speaking of the more fundamental
+ignorance--of even our language.
+
+MAURY: (_Thoughtfully_) I suppose it is rather hard. Can't even keep up
+with the new poetry.
+
+PARAMORE: It's only when the settlement work has gone on for months that
+one realizes how bad things are. As our secretary said to me, your
+finger-nails never seem dirty until you wash your hands. Of course we're
+already attracting much attention.
+
+MAURY: (_Rudely_) As your secretary might say, if you stuff paper into a
+grate it'll burn brightly for a moment.
+
+(_At this point_ GLORIA, _freshly tinted and lustful of admiration and
+entertainment, rejoins the party, followed by her two friends. For
+several moments the conversation becomes entirely fragmentary._ GLORIA
+_calls_ ANTHONY _aside._)
+
+GLORIA: Please don't drink much, Anthony.
+
+ANTHONY: Why?
+
+GLORIA: Because you're so simple when you're drunk.
+
+ANTHONY: Good Lord! What's the matter now?
+
+GLORIA: (_After a pause during which her eyes gaze coolly into his_)
+Several things. In the first place, why do you insist on paying for
+everything? Both those men have more money than you!
+
+ANTHONY: Why, Gloria! They're my guests!
+
+GLORIA: That's no reason why you should pay for a bottle of champagne
+Rachael Barnes smashed. Dick tried to fix that second taxi bill, and you
+wouldn't let him.
+
+ANTHONY: Why, Gloria--
+
+GLORIA: When we have to keep selling bonds to even pay our bills, it's
+time to cut down on excess generosities. Moreover, I wouldn't be quite
+so attentive to Rachael Barnes. Her husband doesn't like it any more
+than I do!
+
+ANTHONY: Why, Gloria--
+
+GLORIA: (_Mimicking him sharply_) "Why, Gloria!" But that's happened a
+little too often this summer--with every pretty woman you meet. It's
+grown to be a sort of habit, and I'm _not_ going to stand it! If you can
+play around, I can, too. (_Then, as an afterthought_) By the way, this
+Fred person isn't a second Joe Hull, is he?
+
+ANTHONY: Heavens, no! He probably came up to get me to wheedle some
+money out of grandfather for his flock.
+
+(GLORIA _turns away from a very depressed_ ANTHONY _and returns to her
+guests._
+
+_By nine o'clock these can be divided into two classes--those who have
+been drinking consistently and those who have taken little or nothing.
+In the second group are the_ BARNESES, MURIEL, _and_ FREDERICK E.
+PARAMORE.)
+
+MURIEL: I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be
+able to put them in words.
+
+DICK: As Goliath said, he understood how David felt, but he couldn't
+express himself. The remark was immediately adopted for a motto by the
+Philistines.
+
+MURIEL: I don't get you. I must be getting stupid in my old age.
+
+GLORIA: (_Weaving unsteadily among the company like an exhilarated
+angel_) If any one's hungry there's some French pastry on the dining
+room table.
+
+MAURY: Can't tolerate those Victorian designs it comes in.
+
+MURIEL: (_Violently amused_) _I'll_ say you're tight, Maury.
+
+(_Her bosom is still a pavement that she offers to the hoofs of many
+passing stallions, hoping that their iron shoes may strike even a spark
+of romance in the darkness ..._
+
+_Messrs._ BARNES _and_ PARAMORE _have been engaged in conversation upon
+some wholesome subject, a subject so wholesome that_ MR. BARNES _has
+been trying for several moments to creep into the more tainted air
+around the central lounge. Whether_ PARAMORE _is lingering in the gray
+house out of politeness or curiosity, or in order at some future time to
+make a sociological report on the decadence of American life, is
+problematical._)
+
+MAURY: Fred, I imagined you were very broad-minded.
+
+PARAMORE: I am.
+
+MURIEL: Me, too. I believe one religion's as good as another and
+everything.
+
+PARAMORE: There's some good in all religions.
+
+MURIEL: I'm a Catholic but, as I always say, I'm not working at it.
+
+PARAMORE: (_With a tremendous burst of tolerance_) The Catholic religion
+is a very--a very powerful religion.
+
+MAURY: Well, such a broad-minded man should consider the raised plane of
+sensation and the stimulated optimism contained in this cocktail.
+
+PARAMORE: (_Taking the drink, rather defiantly_) Thanks, I'll try--one.
+
+MAURY: One? Outrageous! Here we have a class of 'nineteen ten reunion,
+and you refuse to be even a little pickled. Come on!
+
+"_Here's a health to King Charles, Here's a health to King Charles,
+Bring the bowl that you boast_----"
+
+(PARAMORE _joins in with a hearty voice_.)
+
+MAURY: Fill the cup, Frederick. You know everything's subordinated to
+nature's purposes with us, and her purpose with you is to make you a
+rip-roaring tippler.
+
+PARAMORE: If a fellow can drink like a gentleman--
+
+MAURY: What is a gentleman, anyway?
+
+ANTHONY: A man who never has pins under his coat lapel.
+
+MAURY: Nonsense! A man's social rank is determined by the amount of
+bread he eats in a sandwich.
+
+DICK: He's a man who prefers the first edition of a book to the last
+edition of a newspaper.
+
+RACHAEL: A man who never gives an impersonation of a dope-fiend.
+
+MAURY: An American who can fool an English butler into thinking he's
+one.
+
+MURIEL: A man who comes from a good family and went to Yale or Harvard
+or Princeton, and has money and dances well, and all that.
+
+MAURY: At last--the perfect definition! Cardinal Newman's is now a back
+number.
+
+PARAMORE: I think we ought to look on the question more broad-mindedly.
+Was it Abraham Lincoln who said that a gentleman is one who never
+inflicts pain?
+
+MAURY: It's attributed, I believe, to General Ludendorff.
+
+PARAMORE: Surely you're joking.
+
+MAURY: Have another drink.
+
+PARAMORE: I oughtn't to. (_Lowering his voice for_ MAURY'S _ear alone_)
+What if I were to tell you this is the third drink I've ever taken in
+my life?
+
+(DICK _starts the phonograph, which provokes_ MURIEL _to rise and sway
+from side to side, her elbows against her ribs, her forearms
+perpendicular to her body and out like fins._)
+
+MURIEL: Oh, let's take up the rugs and dance!
+
+(_This suggestion is received by_ ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _with interior
+groans and sickly smiles of acquiescence._)
+
+MURIEL: Come on, you lazy-bones. Get up and move the furniture back.
+
+DICK: Wait till I finish my drink.
+
+MAURY: (_Intent on his purpose toward_ PARAMORE) I'll tell you what.
+Let's each fill one glass, drink it off and then we'll dance.
+
+(_A wave of protest which breaks against the rock of_ MAURY'S
+_insistence._)
+
+MURIEL: My head is simply going _round_ now.
+
+RACHAEL: (_In an undertone to_ ANTHONY) Did Gloria tell you to stay away
+from me?
+
+ANTHONY: (_Confused_) Why, certainly not. Of course not.
+
+(RACHAEL _smiles at him inscrutably. Two years have given her a sort of
+hard, well-groomed beauty._)
+
+MAURY: (_Holding up his glass_) Here's to the defeat of democracy and
+the fall of Christianity.
+
+MURIEL: Now really!
+
+(_She flashes a mock-reproachful glance at_ MAURY _and then drinks._
+
+_They all drink, with varying degrees of difficulty._)
+
+MURIEL: Clear the floor!
+
+(_It seems inevitable that this process is to be gone through, so_
+ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _join in the great moving of tables, piling of
+chairs, rolling of carpets, and breaking of lamps. When the furniture
+has been stacked in ugly masses at the sides, there appears a space
+about eight feet square._)
+
+MURIEL: Oh, let's have music!
+
+MAURY: Tana will render the love song of an eye, ear, nose, and throat
+specialist.
+
+(_Amid some confusion due to the fact that_ TANA _has retired for the
+night, preparations are made for the performance. The pajamaed Japanese,
+flute in hand, is wrapped in a comforter and placed in a chair atop one
+of the tables, where he makes a ludicrous and grotesque spectacle._
+PARAMORE _is perceptibly drunk and so enraptured with the notion that he
+increases the effect by simulating funny-paper staggers and even
+venturing on an occasional hiccough._)
+
+PARAMORE: (_To_ GLORIA) Want to dance with me?
+
+GLORIA: No, sir! Want to do the swan dance. Can you do it?
+
+PARAMORE: Sure. Do them all.
+
+GLORIA: All right. You start from that side of the room and I'll start
+from this.
+
+MURIEL: Let's go!
+
+(_Then Bedlam creeps screaming out of the bottles:_ TANA _plunges into
+the recondite mazes of the train song, the plaintive "tootle toot-toot"
+blending its melancholy cadences with the_ "Poor Butter-fly
+(tink-atink), by the blossoms wait-ing" _of the phonograph._ MURIEL _is
+too weak with laughter to do more than cling desperately to_ BARNES,
+_who, dancing with the ominous rigidity of an army officer, tramps
+without humor around the small space._ ANTHONY _is trying to hear_
+RACHAEL'S _whisper--without attracting_ GLORIA's _attention...._
+
+_But the grotesque, the unbelievable, the histrionic incident is about
+to occur, one of those incidents in which life seems set upon the
+passionate imitation of the lowest forms of literature._ PARAMORE _has
+been trying to emulate_ GLORIA, _and as the commotion reaches its height
+he begins to spin round and round, more and more dizzily--he staggers,
+recovers, staggers again and then falls in the direction of the hall ...
+almost into the arms of old_ ADAM PATCH, _whose approach has been
+rendered inaudible by the pandemonium in the room._
+
+ADAM PATCH _is very white. He leans upon a stick. The man with him is_
+EDWARD SHUTTLEWORTH, _and it is he who seizes_ PARAMORE _by the shoulder
+and deflects the course of his fall away from the venerable
+philanthropist._
+
+_The time required for quiet to descend upon the room like a monstrous
+pall may be estimated at two minutes, though for a short period after
+that the phonograph gags and the notes of the Japanese train song
+dribble from the end of_ TANA'S _flute. Of the nine people only_ BARNES,
+PARAMORE, _and_ TANA _are unaware of the late-comer's identity. Of the
+nine not one is aware that_ ADAM PATCH _has that morning made a
+contribution of fifty thousand dollars to the cause of national
+prohibition._
+
+_It is given to_ PARAMORE _to break the gathering silence; the high tide
+of his life's depravity is reached in his incredible remark._)
+
+PARAMORE: (_Crawling rapidly toward the kitchen on his hands and knees_)
+I'm not a guest here--I work here.
+
+(_Again silence falls--so deep now, so weighted with intolerably
+contagious apprehension, that_ RACHAEL _gives a nervous little giggle,
+and_ DICK _finds himself telling over and over a line from Swinburne,
+grotesquely appropriate to the scene:_
+
+"One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath."
+
+... _Out of the hush the voice of_ ANTHONY, _sober and strained, saying
+something to_ ADAM PATCH; _then this, too, dies away._)
+
+SHUTTLEWORTH: (_Passionately_) Your grandfather thought he would motor
+over to see your house. I phoned from Rye and left a message.
+
+(_A series of little gasps, emanating, apparently, from nowhere, from no
+one, fall into the next pause._ ANTHONY _is the color of chalk._
+GLORIA'S _lips are parted and her level gaze at the old man is tense and
+frightened. There is not one smile in the room. Not one? Or does_ CROSS
+PATCH'S _drawn mouth tremble slightly open, to expose the even rows of
+his thin teeth? He speaks--five mild and simple words._)
+
+ADAM PATCH: We'll go back now, Shuttleworth--(_And that is all. He
+turns, and assisted by his cane goes out through the hall, through the
+front door, and with hellish portentousness his uncertain footsteps
+crunch on the gravel path under the August moon._)
+
+
+RETROSPECT
+
+In this extremity they were like two goldfish in a bowl from which all
+the water had been drawn; they could not even swim across to each other.
+
+Gloria would be twenty-six in May. There was nothing, she had said, that
+she wanted, except to be young and beautiful for a long time, to be gay
+and happy, and to have money and love. She wanted what most women want,
+but she wanted it much more fiercely and passionately. She had been
+married over two years. At first there had been days of serene
+understanding, rising to ecstasies of proprietorship and pride.
+Alternating with these periods had occurred sporadic hates, enduring a
+short hour, and forgetfulnesses lasting no longer than an afternoon.
+That had been for half a year.
+
+Then the serenity, the content, had become less jubilant, had become,
+gray--very rarely, with the spur of jealousy or forced separation, the
+ancient ecstasies returned, the apparent communion of soul and soul, the
+emotional excitement. It was possible for her to hate Anthony for as
+much as a full day, to be carelessly incensed at him for as long as a
+week. Recrimination had displaced affection as an indulgence, almost as
+an entertainment, and there were nights when they would go to sleep
+trying to remember who was angry and who should be reserved next
+morning. And as the second year waned there had entered two new
+elements. Gloria realized that Anthony had become capable of utter
+indifference toward her, a temporary indifference, more than half
+lethargic, but one from which she could no longer stir him by a
+whispered word, or a certain intimate smile. There were days when her
+caresses affected him as a sort of suffocation. She was conscious of
+these things; she never entirely admitted them to herself.
+
+It was only recently that she perceived that in spite of her adoration
+of him, her jealousy, her servitude, her pride, she fundamentally
+despised him--and her contempt blended indistinguishably with her other
+emotions.... All this was her love--the vital and feminine illusion that
+had directed itself toward him one April night, many months before.
+
+On Anthony's part she was, in spite of these qualifications, his sole
+preoccupation. Had he lost her he would have been a broken man,
+wretchedly and sentimentally absorbed in her memory for the remainder of
+life. He seldom took pleasure in an entire day spent alone with
+her--except on occasions he preferred to have a third person with them.
+There were times when he felt that if he were not left absolutely alone
+he would go mad--there were a few times when he definitely hated her. In
+his cups he was capable of short attractions toward other women, the
+hitherto-suppressed outcroppings of an experimental temperament.
+
+That spring, that summer, they had speculated upon future happiness--how
+they were to travel from summer land to summer land, returning
+eventually to a gorgeous estate and possible idyllic children, then
+entering diplomacy or politics, to accomplish, for a while, beautiful
+and important things, until finally as a white-haired (beautifully,
+silkily, white-haired) couple they were to loll about in serene glory,
+worshipped by the bourgeoisie of the land.... These times were to begin
+"when we get our money"; it was on such dreams rather than on any
+satisfaction with their increasingly irregular, increasingly dissipated
+life that their hope rested. On gray mornings when the jests of the
+night before had shrunk to ribaldries without wit or dignity, they
+could, after a fashion, bring out this batch of common hopes and count
+them over, then smile at each other and repeat, by way of clinching the
+matter, the terse yet sincere Nietzscheanism of Gloria's defiant "I
+don't care!"
+
+Things had been slipping perceptibly. There was the money question,
+increasingly annoying, increasingly ominous; there was the realization
+that liquor had become a practical necessity to their amusement--not an
+uncommon phenomenon in the British aristocracy of a hundred years ago,
+but a somewhat alarming one in a civilization steadily becoming more
+temperate and more circumspect. Moreover, both of them seemed vaguely
+weaker in fibre, not so much in what they did as in their subtle
+reactions to the civilization about them. In Gloria had been born
+something that she had hitherto never needed--the skeleton, incomplete
+but nevertheless unmistakable, of her ancient abhorrence, a conscience.
+This admission to herself was coincidental with the slow decline of her
+physical courage.
+
+Then, on the August morning after Adam Patch's unexpected call, they
+awoke, nauseated and tired, dispirited with life, capable only of one
+pervasive emotion--fear.
+
+
+PANIC
+
+"Well?" Anthony sat up in bed and looked down at her. The corners of his
+lips were drooping with depression, his voice was strained and hollow.
+
+Her reply was to raise her hand to her mouth and begin a slow, precise
+nibbling at her finger.
+
+"We've done it," he said after a pause; then, as she was still silent,
+he became exasperated. "Why don't you say something?"
+
+"What on earth do you want me to say?"
+
+"What are you thinking?"
+
+"Nothing."
+
+"Then stop biting your finger!"
+
+Ensued a short confused discussion of whether or not she had been
+thinking. It seemed essential to Anthony that she should muse aloud upon
+last night's disaster. Her silence was a method of settling the
+responsibility on him. For her part she saw no necessity for speech--the
+moment required that she should gnaw at her finger like a nervous child.
+
+"I've got to fix up this damn mess with my grandfather," he said with
+uneasy conviction. A faint newborn respect was indicated by his use of
+"my grandfather" instead of "grampa."
+
+"You can't," she affirmed abruptly. "You can't--_ever_. He'll never
+forgive you as long as he lives."
+
+"Perhaps not," agreed Anthony miserably. "Still--I might possibly square
+myself by some sort of reformation and all that sort of thing--"
+
+"He looked sick," she interrupted, "pale as flour."
+
+"He _is_ sick. I told you that three months ago."
+
+"I wish he'd died last week!" she said petulantly. "Inconsiderate old
+fool!"
+
+Neither of them laughed.
+
+"But just let me say," she added quietly, "the next time I see you
+acting with any woman like you did with Rachael Barnes last night, I'll
+leave you--_just--like--that!_ I'm simply _not_ going to stand it!"
+
+Anthony quailed.
+
+"Oh, don't be absurd," he protested. "You know there's no woman in the
+world for me except you--none, dearest."
+
+His attempt at a tender note failed miserably--the more imminent danger
+stalked back into the foreground.
+
+"If I went to him," suggested Anthony, "and said with appropriate
+biblical quotations that I'd walked too long in the way of
+unrighteousness and at last seen the light--" He broke off and glanced
+with a whimsical expression at his wife. "I wonder what he'd do?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+She was speculating as to whether or not their guests would have the
+acumen to leave directly after breakfast.
+
+Not for a week did Anthony muster the courage to go to Tarrytown. The
+prospect was revolting and left alone he would have been incapable of
+making the trip--but if his will had deteriorated in these past three
+years, so had his power to resist urging. Gloria compelled him to go. It
+was all very well to wait a week, she said, for that would give his
+grandfather's violent animosity time to cool--but to wait longer would
+be an error--it would give it a chance to harden.
+
+He went, in trepidation ... and vainly. Adam Patch was not well, said
+Shuttleworth indignantly. Positive instructions had been given that no
+one was to see him. Before the ex-"gin-physician's" vindictive eye
+Anthony's front wilted. He walked out to his taxicab with what was
+almost a slink--recovering only a little of his self-respect as he
+boarded the train; glad to escape, boylike, to the wonder palaces of
+consolation that still rose and glittered in his own mind.
+
+Gloria was scornful when he returned to Marietta. Why had he not forced
+his way in? That was what she would have done!
+
+Between them they drafted a letter to the old man, and after
+considerable revision sent it off. It was half an apology, half a
+manufactured explanation. The letter was not answered.
+
+Came a day in September, a day slashed with alternate sun and rain, sun
+without warmth, rain without freshness. On that day they left the gray
+house, which had seen the flower of their love. Four trunks and three
+monstrous crates were piled in the dismantled room where, two years
+before, they had sprawled lazily, thinking in terms of dreams, remote,
+languorous, content. The room echoed with emptiness. Gloria, in a new
+brown dress edged with fur, sat upon a trunk in silence, and Anthony
+walked nervously to and fro smoking, as they waited for the truck that
+would take their things to the city.
+
+"What are those?" she demanded, pointing to some books piled upon one of
+the crates.
+
+"That's my old stamp collection," he confessed sheepishly. "I forgot to
+pack it."
+
+"Anthony, it's so silly to carry it around."
+
+"Well, I was looking through it the day we left the apartment last
+spring, and I decided not to store it."
+
+"Can't you sell it? Haven't we enough junk?"
+
+"I'm sorry," he said humbly.
+
+With a thunderous rattling the truck rolled up to the door. Gloria shook
+her fist defiantly at the four walls.
+
+"I'm so glad to go!" she cried, "so glad. Oh, my God, how I hate this
+house!"
+
+So the brilliant and beautiful lady went up with her husband to New
+York. On the very train that bore them away they quarrelled--her bitter
+words had the frequency, the regularity, the inevitability of the
+stations they passed.
+
+"Don't be cross," begged Anthony piteously. "We've got nothing but each
+other, after all."
+
+"We haven't even that, most of the time," cried Gloria.
+
+"When haven't we?"
+
+"A lot of times--beginning with one occasion on the station platform at
+Redgate."
+
+"You don't mean to say that--"
+
+"No," she interrupted coolly, "I don't brood over it. It came and
+went--and when it went it took something with it."
+
+She finished abruptly. Anthony sat in silence, confused, depressed. The
+drab visions of train-side Mamaroneck, Larchmont, Rye, Pelham Manor,
+succeeded each other with intervals of bleak and shoddy wastes posing
+ineffectually as country. He found himself remembering how on one summer
+morning they two had started from New York in search of happiness. They
+had never expected to find it, perhaps, yet in itself that quest had
+been happier than anything he expected forevermore. Life, it seemed,
+must be a setting up of props around one--otherwise it was disaster.
+There was no rest, no quiet. He had been futile in longing to drift and
+dream; no one drifted except to maelstroms, no one dreamed, without his
+dreams becoming fantastic nightmares of indecision and regret.
+
+Pelham! They had quarrelled in Pelham because Gloria must drive. And
+when she set her little foot on the accelerator the car had jumped off
+spunkily, and their two heads had jerked back like marionettes worked by
+a single string.
+
+The Bronx--the houses gathering and gleaming in the sun, which was
+falling now through wide refulgent skies and tumbling caravans of light
+down into the streets. New York, he supposed, was home--the city of
+luxury and mystery, of preposterous hopes and exotic dreams. Here on the
+outskirts absurd stucco palaces reared themselves in the cool sunset,
+poised for an instant in cool unreality, glided off far away, succeeded
+by the mazed confusion of the Harlem River. The train moved in through
+the deepening twilight, above and past half a hundred cheerful sweating
+streets of the upper East Side, each one passing the car window like the
+space between the spokes of a gigantic wheel, each one with its vigorous
+colorful revelation of poor children swarming in feverish activity like
+vivid ants in alleys of red sand. From the tenement windows leaned
+rotund, moon-shaped mothers, as constellations of this sordid heaven;
+women like dark imperfect jewels, women like vegetables, women like
+great bags of abominably dirty laundry.
+
+"I like these streets," observed Anthony aloud. "I always feel as though
+it's a performance being staged for me; as though the second I've passed
+they'll all stop leaping and laughing and, instead, grow very sad,
+remembering how poor they are, and retreat with bowed heads into their
+houses. You often get that effect abroad, but seldom in this country."
+
+Down in a tall busy street he read a dozen Jewish names on a line of
+stores; in the door of each stood a dark little man watching the passers
+from intent eyes--eyes gleaming with suspicion, with pride, with
+clarity, with cupidity, with comprehension. New York--he could not
+dissociate it now from the slow, upward creep of this people--the little
+stores, growing, expanding, consolidating, moving, watched over with
+hawk's eyes and a bee's attention to detail--they slathered out on all
+sides. It was impressive--in perspective it was tremendous.
+
+Gloria's voice broke in with strange appropriateness upon his thoughts.
+
+"I wonder where Bloeckman's been this summer."
+
+
+THE APARTMENT
+
+After the sureties of youth there sets in a period of intense and
+intolerable complexity. With the soda-jerker this period is so short as
+to be almost negligible. Men higher in the scale hold out longer in the
+attempt to preserve the ultimate niceties of relationship, to retain
+"impractical" ideas of integrity. But by the late twenties the business
+has grown too intricate, and what has hitherto been imminent and
+confusing has become gradually remote and dim. Routine comes down like
+twilight on a harsh landscape, softening it until it is tolerable. The
+complexity is too subtle, too varied; the values are changing utterly
+with each lesion of vitality; it has begun to appear that we can learn
+nothing from the past with which to face the future--so we cease to be
+impulsive, convincible men, interested in what is ethically true by fine
+margins, we substitute rules of conduct for ideas of integrity, we value
+safety above romance, we become, quite unconsciously, pragmatic. It is
+left to the few to be persistently concerned with the nuances of
+relationships--and even this few only in certain hours especially set
+aside for the task.
+
+Anthony Patch had ceased to be an individual of mental adventure, of
+curiosity, and had become an individual of bias and prejudice, with a
+longing to be emotionally undisturbed. This gradual change had taken
+place through the past several years, accelerated by a succession of
+anxieties preying on his mind. There was, first of all, the sense of
+waste, always dormant in his heart, now awakened by the circumstances of
+his position. In his moments of insecurity he was haunted by the
+suggestion that life might be, after all, significant. In his early
+twenties the conviction of the futility of effort, of the wisdom of
+abnegation, had been confirmed by the philosophies he had admired as
+well as by his association with Maury Noble, and later with his wife.
+Yet there had been occasions--just before his first meeting with Gloria,
+for example, and when his grandfather had suggested that he should go
+abroad as a war correspondent--upon which his dissatisfaction had driven
+him almost to a positive step.
+
+One day just before they left Marietta for the last time, in carelessly
+turning over the pages of a Harvard Alumni Bulletin, he had found a
+column which told him what his contemporaries had been about in this six
+years since graduation. Most of them were in business, it was true, and
+several were converting the heathen of China or America to a nebulous
+protestantism; but a few, he found, were working constructively at jobs
+that were neither sinecures nor routines. There was Calvin Boyd, for
+instance, who, though barely out of medical school, had discovered a new
+treatment for typhus, had shipped abroad and was mitigating some of the
+civilization that the Great Powers had brought to Servia; there was
+Eugene Bronson, whose articles in The New Democracy were stamping him as
+a man with ideas transcending both vulgar timeliness and popular
+hysteria; there was a man named Daly who had been suspended from the
+faculty of a righteous university for preaching Marxian doctrines in the
+classroom: in art, science, politics, he saw the authentic personalities
+of his time emerging--there was even Severance, the quarter-back, who
+had given up his life rather neatly and gracefully with the Foreign
+Legion on the Aisne.
+
+He laid down the magazine and thought for a while about these diverse
+men. In the days of his integrity he would have defended his attitude to
+the last--an Epicurus in Nirvana, he would have cried that to struggle
+was to believe, to believe was to limit. He would as soon have become a
+churchgoer because the prospect of immortality gratified him as he would
+have considered entering the leather business because the intensity of
+the competition would have kept him from unhappiness. But at present he
+had no such delicate scruples. This autumn, as his twenty-ninth year
+began, he was inclined to close his mind to many things, to avoid prying
+deeply into motive and first causes, and mostly to long passionately for
+security from the world and from himself. He hated to be alone, as has
+been said he often dreaded being alone with Gloria.
+
+Because of the chasm which his grandfather's visit had opened before
+him, and the consequent revulsion from his late mode of life, it was
+inevitable that he should look around in this suddenly hostile city for
+the friends and environments that had once seemed the warmest and most
+secure. His first step was a desperate attempt to get back his old
+apartment.
+
+In the spring of 1912 he had signed a four-year lease at seventeen
+hundred a year, with an option of renewal. This lease had expired the
+previous May. When he had first rented the rooms they had been mere
+potentialities, scarcely to be discerned as that, but Anthony had seen
+into these potentialities and arranged in the lease that he and the
+landlord should each spend a certain amount in improvements. Rents had
+gone up in the past four years, and last spring when Anthony had waived
+his option the landlord, a Mr. Sohenberg, had realized that he could get
+a much bigger price for what was now a prepossessing apartment.
+Accordingly, when Anthony approached him on the subject in September he
+was met with Sohenberg's offer of a three-year lease at twenty-five
+hundred a year. This, it seemed to Anthony, was outrageous. It meant
+that well over a third of their income would be consumed in rent. In
+vain he argued that his own money, his own ideas on the repartitioning,
+had made the rooms attractive.
+
+In vain he offered two thousand dollars--twenty-two hundred, though they
+could ill afford it: Mr. Sohenberg was obdurate. It seemed that two
+other gentlemen were considering it; just that sort of an apartment was
+in demand for the moment, and it would scarcely be business to _give_ it
+to Mr. Patch. Besides, though he had never mentioned it before, several
+of the other tenants had complained of noise during the previous
+winter--singing and dancing late at night, that sort of thing.
+
+Internally raging Anthony hurried back to the Ritz to report his
+discomfiture to Gloria.
+
+"I can just see you," she stormed, "letting him back you down!"
+
+"What could I say?"
+
+"You could have told him what he _was_. I wouldn't have _stood_ it. No
+other man in the world would have stood it! You just let people order
+you around and cheat you and bully you and take advantage of you as if
+you were a silly little boy. It's absurd!"
+
+"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't lose your temper."
+
+"I know, Anthony, but you _are_ such an ass!"
+
+"Well, possibly. Anyway, we can't afford that apartment. But we can
+afford it better than living here at the Ritz."
+
+"You were the one who insisted on coming here."
+
+"Yes, because I knew you'd be miserable in a cheap hotel."
+
+"Of course I would!"
+
+"At any rate we've got to find a place to live."
+
+"How much can we pay?" she demanded.
+
+"Well, we can pay even his price if we sell more bonds, but we agreed
+last night that until I had gotten something definite to do we-"
+
+"Oh, I know all that. I asked you how much we can pay out of just our
+income."
+
+"They say you ought not to pay more than a fourth."
+
+"How much is a fourth?"
+
+"One hundred and fifty a month."
+
+"Do you mean to say we've got only six hundred dollars coming in every
+month?" A subdued note crept into her voice.
+
+"Of course!" he answered angrily. "Do you think we've gone on spending
+more than twelve thousand a year without cutting way into our capital?"
+
+"I knew we'd sold bonds, but--have we spent that much a year? How did
+we?" Her awe increased.
+
+"Oh, I'll look in those careful account-books we kept," he remarked
+ironically, and then added: "Two rents a good part of the time, clothes,
+travel--why, each of those springs in California cost about four
+thousand dollars. That darn car was an expense from start to finish. And
+parties and amusements and--oh, one thing or another."
+
+They were both excited now and inordinately depressed. The situation
+seemed worse in the actual telling Gloria than it had when he had first
+made the discovery himself.
+
+"You've got to make some money," she said suddenly.
+
+"I know it."
+
+"And you've got to make another attempt to see your grandfather."
+
+"I will."
+
+"When?"
+
+"When we get settled."
+
+This eventuality occurred a week later. They rented a small apartment on
+Fifty-seventh Street at one hundred and fifty a month. It included
+bedroom, living-room, kitchenette, and bath, in a thin, white-stone
+apartment house, and though the rooms were too small to display
+Anthony's best furniture, they were clean, new, and, in a blonde and
+sanitary way, not unattractive. Bounds had gone abroad to enlist in the
+British army, and in his place they tolerated rather than enjoyed the
+services of a gaunt, big-boned Irishwoman, whom Gloria loathed because
+she discussed the glories of Sinn Fein as she served breakfast. But they
+vowed they would have no more Japanese, and English servants were for
+the present hard to obtain. Like Bounds, the woman prepared only
+breakfast. Their other meals they took at restaurants and hotels.
+
+What finally drove Anthony post-haste up to Tarrytown was an
+announcement in several New York papers that Adam Patch, the
+multimillionaire, the philanthropist, the venerable uplifter, was
+seriously ill and not expected to recover.
+
+
+THE KITTEN
+
+Anthony could not see him. The doctors' instructions were that he was to
+talk to no one, said Mr. Shuttleworth--who offered kindly to take any
+message that Anthony might care to intrust with him, and deliver it to
+Adam Patch when his condition permitted. But by obvious innuendo he
+confirmed Anthony's melancholy inference that the prodigal grandson
+would be particularly unwelcome at the bedside. At one point in the
+conversation Anthony, with Gloria's positive instructions in mind, made
+a move as though to brush by the secretary, but Shuttleworth with a
+smile squared his brawny shoulders, and Anthony saw how futile such an
+attempt would be.
+
+Miserably intimidated, he returned to New York, where husband and wife
+passed a restless week. A little incident that occurred one evening
+indicated to what tension their nerves were drawn.
+
+Walking home along a cross-street after dinner, Anthony noticed a
+night-bound cat prowling near a railing.
+
+"I always have an instinct to kick a cat," he said idly.
+
+"I like them."
+
+"I yielded to it once."
+
+"When?"
+
+"Oh, years ago; before I met you. One night between the acts of a show.
+Cold night, like this, and I was a little tight--one of the first times
+I was ever tight," he added. "The poor little beggar was looking for a
+place to sleep, I guess, and I was in a mean mood, so it took my fancy
+to kick it--"
+
+"Oh, the poor kitty!" cried Gloria, sincerely moved. Inspired with the
+narrative instinct, Anthony enlarged on the theme.
+
+"It was pretty bad," he admitted. "The poor little beast turned around
+and looked at me rather plaintively as though hoping I'd pick him up and
+be kind to him--he was really just a kitten--and before he knew it a big
+foot launched out at him and caught his little back"
+
+"Oh!" Gloria's cry was full of anguish.
+
+"It was such a cold night," he continued, perversely, keeping his voice
+upon a melancholy note. "I guess it expected kindness from somebody, and
+it got only pain--"
+
+He broke off suddenly--Gloria was sobbing. They had reached home, and
+when they entered the apartment she threw herself upon the lounge,
+crying as though he had struck at her very soul.
+
+"Oh, the poor little kitty!" she repeated piteously, "the poor little
+kitty. So cold--"
+
+"Gloria"
+
+"Don't come near me! Please, don't come near me. You killed the soft
+little kitty."
+
+Touched, Anthony knelt beside her.
+
+"Dear," he said. "Oh, Gloria, darling. It isn't true. I invented
+it--every word of it."
+
+But she would not believe him. There had been something in the details
+he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night,
+for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and
+cruelty of all the world.
+
+
+THE PASSING OF AN AMERICAN MORALIST
+
+Old Adam died on a midnight of late November with a pious compliment to
+his God on his thin lips. He, who had been flattered so much, faded out
+flattering the Omnipotent Abstraction which he fancied he might have
+angered in the more lascivious moments of his youth. It was announced
+that he had arranged some sort of an armistice with the deity, the terms
+of which were not made public, though they were thought to have included
+a large cash payment. All the newspapers printed his biography, and two
+of them ran short editorials on his sterling worth, and his part in the
+drama of industrialism, with which he had grown up. They referred
+guardedly to the reforms he had sponsored and financed. The memories of
+Comstock and Cato the Censor were resuscitated and paraded like gaunt
+ghosts through the columns.
+
+Every newspaper remarked that he was survived by a single grandson,
+Anthony Comstock Patch, of New York.
+
+The burial took place in the family plot at Tarrytown. Anthony and
+Gloria rode in the first carriage, too worried to feel grotesque, both
+trying desperately to glean presage of fortune from the faces of
+retainers who had been with him at the end.
+
+They waited a frantic week for decency, and then, having received no
+notification of any kind, Anthony called up his grandfather's lawyer.
+Mr. Brett was not he was expected back in an hour. Anthony left his
+telephone number.
+
+It was the last day of November, cool and crackling outside, with a
+lustreless sun peering bleakly in at the windows. While they waited for
+the call, ostensibly engaged in reading, the atmosphere, within and
+without, seemed pervaded with a deliberate rendition of the pathetic
+fallacy. After an interminable while, the bell jingled, and Anthony,
+starting violently, took up the receiver.
+
+"Hello ..." His voice was strained and hollow. "Yes--I did leave word.
+Who is this, please? ... Yes.... Why, it was about the estate. Naturally
+I'm interested, and I've received no word about the reading of the
+will--I thought you might not have my address.... What? ... Yes ..."
+
+Gloria fell on her knees. The intervals between Anthony's speeches were
+like tourniquets winding on her heart. She found herself helplessly
+twisting the large buttons from a velvet cushion. Then:
+
+"That's--that's very, very odd--that's very odd--that's very odd. Not
+even any--ah--mention or any--ah--reason?"
+
+His voice sounded faint and far away. She uttered a little sound, half
+gasp, half cry.
+
+"Yes, I'll see.... All right, thanks ... thanks...."
+
+The phone clicked. Her eyes looking along the floor saw his feet cut the
+pattern of a patch of sunlight on the carpet. She arose and faced him
+with a gray, level glance just as his arms folded about her.
+
+"My dearest," he whispered huskily. "He did it, God damn him!"
+
+NEXT DAY
+
+"Who are the heirs?" asked Mr. Haight. "You see when you can tell me so
+little about it--"
+
+Mr. Haight was tall and bent and beetle-browed. He had been recommended
+to Anthony as an astute and tenacious lawyer.
+
+"I only know vaguely," answered Anthony. "A man named Shuttleworth, who
+was a sort of pet of his, has the whole thing in charge as administrator
+or trustee or something--all except the direct bequests to charity and
+the provisions for servants and for those two cousins in Idaho."
+
+"How distant are the cousins?"
+
+"Oh, third or fourth, anyway. I never even heard of them."
+
+Mr. Haight nodded comprehensively.
+
+"And you want to contest a provision of the will?"
+
+"I guess so," admitted Anthony helplessly. "I want to do what sounds
+most hopeful--that's what I want you to tell me."
+
+"You want them to refuse probate to the will?"
+
+Anthony shook his head.
+
+"You've got me. I haven't any idea what 'probate' is. I want a share of
+the estate."
+
+"Suppose you tell me some more details. For instance, do you know why
+the testator disinherited you?"
+
+"Why--yes," began Anthony. "You see he was always a sucker for moral
+reform, and all that--"
+
+"I know," interjected Mr. Haight humorlessly.
+
+"--and I don't suppose he ever thought I was much good. I didn't go into
+business, you see. But I feel certain that up to last summer I was one
+of the beneficiaries. We had a house out in Marietta, and one night
+grandfather got the notion he'd come over and see us. It just happened
+that there was a rather gay party going on and he arrived without any
+warning. Well, he took one look, he and this fellow Shuttleworth, and
+then turned around and tore right back to Tarrytown. After that he never
+answered my letters or even let me see him."
+
+"He was a prohibitionist, wasn't he?"
+
+"He was everything--regular religious maniac."
+
+"How long before his death was the will made that disinherited you?"
+
+"Recently--I mean since August."
+
+"And you think that the direct reason for his not leaving you the
+majority of the estate was his displeasure with your recent actions?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+Mr. Haight considered. Upon what grounds was Anthony thinking of
+contesting the will?
+
+"Why, isn't there something about evil influence?"
+
+"Undue influence is one ground--but it's the most difficult. You would
+have to show that such pressure was brought to bear so that the deceased
+was in a condition where he disposed of his property contrary to his
+intentions--"
+
+"Well, suppose this fellow Shuttleworth dragged him over to Marietta
+just when he thought some sort of a celebration was probably going on?"
+
+"That wouldn't have any bearing on the case. There's a strong division
+between advice and influence. You'd have to prove that the secretary had
+a sinister intention. I'd suggest some other grounds. A will is
+automatically refused probate in case of insanity, drunkenness"--here
+Anthony smiled--"or feeble-mindedness through premature old age."
+
+"But," objected Anthony, "his private physician, being one of the
+beneficiaries, would testify that he wasn't feeble-minded. And he
+wasn't. As a matter of fact he probably did just what he intended to
+with his money--it was perfectly consistent with everything he'd ever
+done in his life--"
+
+"Well, you see, feeble-mindedness is a great deal like undue
+influence--it implies that the property wasn't disposed of as originally
+intended. The most common ground is duress--physical pressure."
+
+Anthony shook his head.
+
+"Not much chance on that, I'm afraid. Undue influence sounds best to
+me."
+
+After more discussion, so technical as to be largely unintelligible to
+Anthony, he retained Mr. Haight as counsel. The lawyer proposed an
+interview with Shuttleworth, who, jointly with Wilson, Hiemer and Hardy,
+was executor of the will. Anthony was to come back later in the week.
+
+It transpired that the estate consisted of approximately forty million
+dollars. The largest bequest to an individual was of one million, to
+Edward Shuttleworth, who received in addition thirty thousand a year
+salary as administrator of the thirty-million-dollar trust fund, left to
+be doled out to various charities and reform societies practically at
+his own discretion. The remaining nine millions were proportioned among
+the two cousins in Idaho and about twenty-five other beneficiaries:
+friends, secretaries, servants, and employees, who had, at one time or
+another, earned the seal of Adam Patch's approval.
+
+At the end of another fortnight Mr. Haight, on a retainer's fee of
+fifteen thousand dollars, had begun preparations for contesting
+the will.
+
+
+THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT
+
+Before they had been two months in the little apartment on Fifty-seventh
+Street, it had assumed for both of them the same indefinable but almost
+material taint that had impregnated the gray house in Marietta. There
+was the odor of tobacco always--both of them smoked incessantly; it was
+in their clothes, their blankets, the curtains, and the ash-littered
+carpets. Added to this was the wretched aura of stale wine, with its
+inevitable suggestion of beauty gone foul and revelry remembered in
+disgust. About a particular set of glass goblets on the sideboard the
+odor was particularly noticeable, and in the main room the mahogany
+table was ringed with white circles where glasses had been set down upon
+it. There had been many parties--people broke things; people became sick
+in Gloria's bathroom; people spilled wine; people made unbelievable
+messes of the kitchenette.
+
+These things were a regular part of their existence. Despite the
+resolutions of many Mondays it was tacitly understood as the week end
+approached that it should be observed with some sort of unholy
+excitement. When Saturday came they would not discuss the matter, but
+would call up this person or that from among their circle of
+sufficiently irresponsible friends, and suggest a rendezvous. Only after
+the friends had gathered and Anthony had set out decanters, would he
+murmur casually "I guess I'll have just one high-ball myself--"
+
+Then they were off for two days--realizing on a wintry dawn that they
+had been the noisiest and most conspicuous members of the noisiest and
+most conspicuous party at the Boul' Mich', or the Club Ram�e, or at
+other resorts much less particular about the hilarity of their
+client�le. They would find that they had, somehow, squandered eighty or
+ninety dollars, how, they never knew; they customarily attributed it to
+the general penury of the "friends" who had accompanied them.
+
+It began to be not unusual for the more sincere of their friends to
+remonstrate with them, in the very course of a party, and to predict a
+sombre end for them in the loss of Gloria's "looks" and Anthony's
+"constitution."
+
+The story of the summarily interrupted revel in Marietta had, of course,
+leaked out in detail--"Muriel doesn't mean to tell every one she knows,"
+said Gloria to Anthony, "but she thinks every one she tells is the only
+one she's going to tell"--and, diaphanously veiled, the tale had been
+given a conspicuous place in Town Tattle. When the terms of Adam Patch's
+will were made public and the newspapers printed items concerning
+Anthony's suit, the story was beautifully rounded out--to Anthony's
+infinite disparagement. They began to hear rumors about themselves from
+all quarters, rumors founded usually on a soupcon of truth, but overlaid
+with preposterous and sinister detail.
+
+Outwardly they showed no signs of deterioration. Gloria at twenty-six
+was still the Gloria of twenty; her complexion a fresh damp setting for
+her candid eyes; her hair still a childish glory, darkening slowly from
+corn color to a deep russet gold; her slender body suggesting ever a
+nymph running and dancing through Orphic groves. Masculine eyes, dozens
+of them, followed her with a fascinated stare when she walked through a
+hotel lobby or down the aisle of a theatre. Men asked to be introduced
+to her, fell into prolonged states of sincere admiration, made definite
+love to her--for she was still a thing of exquisite and unbelievable
+beauty. And for his part Anthony had rather gained than lost in
+appearance; his face had taken on a certain intangible air of tragedy,
+romantically contrasted with his trim and immaculate person.
+
+Early in the winter, when all conversation turned on the probability of
+America's going into the war, when Anthony was making a desperate and
+sincere attempt to write, Muriel Kane arrived in New York and came
+immediately to see them. Like Gloria, she seemed never to change. She
+knew the latest slang, danced the latest dances, and talked of the
+latest songs and plays with all the fervor of her first season as a New
+York drifter. Her coyness was eternally new, eternally ineffectual; her
+clothes were extreme; her black hair was bobbed, now, like Gloria's.
+
+"I've come up for the midwinter prom at New Haven," she announced,
+imparting her delightful secret. Though she must have been older then
+than any of the boys in college, she managed always to secure some sort
+of invitation, imagining vaguely that at the next party would occur the
+flirtation which was to end at the romantic altar.
+
+"Where've you been?" inquired Anthony, unfailingly amused.
+
+"I've been at Hot Springs. It's been slick and peppy this fall--more
+_men!_"
+
+"Are you in love, Muriel?"
+
+"What do you mean 'love'?" This was the rhetorical question of the year.
+"I'm going to tell you something," she said, switching the subject
+abruptly. "I suppose it's none of my business, but I think it's time for
+you two to settle down."
+
+"Why, we are settled down."
+
+"Yes, you are!" she scoffed archly. "Everywhere I go I hear stories of
+your escapades. Let me tell you, I have an awful time sticking up
+for you."
+
+"You needn't bother," said Gloria coldly.
+
+"Now, Gloria," she protested, "you know I'm one of your best friends."
+
+Gloria was silent. Muriel continued:
+
+"It's not so much the idea of a woman drinking, but Gloria's so pretty,
+and so many people know her by sight all around, that it's naturally
+conspicuous--"
+
+"What have you heard recently?" demanded Gloria, her dignity going down
+before her curiosity.
+
+"Well, for instance, that that party in Marietta _killed_ Anthony's
+grandfather."
+
+Instantly husband and wife were tense with annoyance.
+
+"Why, I think that's outrageous."
+
+"That's what they say," persisted Muriel stubbornly.
+
+Anthony paced the room. "It's preposterous!" he declared. "The very
+people we take on parties shout the story around as a great joke--and
+eventually it gets back to us in some such form as this."
+
+Gloria began running her finger through a stray red-dish curl. Muriel
+licked her veil as she considered her next remark.
+
+"You ought to have a baby."
+
+Gloria looked up wearily.
+
+"We can't afford it."
+
+"All the people in the slums have them," said Muriel triumphantly.
+
+Anthony and Gloria exchanged a smile. They had reached the stage of
+violent quarrels that were never made up, quarrels that smouldered and
+broke out again at intervals or died away from sheer indifference--but
+this visit of Muriel's drew them temporarily together. When the
+discomfort under which they were living was remarked upon by a third
+party, it gave them the impetus to face this hostile world together. It
+was very seldom, now, that the impulse toward reunion sprang
+from within.
+
+Anthony found himself associating his own existence with that of the
+apartment's night elevator man, a pale, scraggly bearded person of about
+sixty, with an air of being somewhat above his station. It was probably
+because of this quality that he had secured the position; it made him a
+pathetic and memorable figure of failure. Anthony recollected, without
+humor, a hoary jest about the elevator man's career being a matter of
+ups and downs--it was, at any rate, an enclosed life of infinite
+dreariness. Each time Anthony stepped into the car he waited
+breathlessly for the old man's "Well, I guess we're going to have some
+sunshine to-day." Anthony thought how little rain or sunshine he would
+enjoy shut into that close little cage in the smoke-colored,
+windowless hall.
+
+A darkling figure, he attained tragedy in leaving the life that had used
+him so shabbily. Three young gunmen came in one night, tied him up and
+left him on a pile of coal in the cellar while they went through the
+trunk room. When the janitor found him next morning he had collapsed
+from chill. He died of pneumonia four days later.
+
+He was replaced by a glib Martinique negro, with an incongruous British
+accent and a tendency to be surly, whom Anthony detested. The passing of
+the old man had approximately the same effect on him that the kitten
+story had had on Gloria. He was reminded of the cruelty of all life and,
+in consequence, of the increasing bitterness of his own.
+
+He was writing--and in earnest at last. He had gone to Dick and listened
+for a tense hour to an elucidation of those minutiae of procedure which
+hitherto he had rather scornfully looked down upon. He needed money
+immediately--he was selling bonds every month to pay their bills. Dick
+was frank and explicit:
+
+"So far as articles on literary subjects in these obscure magazines go,
+you couldn't make enough to pay your rent. Of course if a man has the
+gift of humor, or a chance at a big biography, or some specialized
+knowledge, he may strike it rich. But for you, fiction's the only thing.
+You say you need money right away?"
+
+"I certainly do."
+
+"Well, it'd be a year and a half before you'd make any money out of a
+novel. Try some popular short stories. And, by the way, unless they're
+exceptionally brilliant they have to be cheerful and on the side of the
+heaviest artillery to make you any money."
+
+Anthony thought of Dick's recent output, which had been appearing in a
+well-known monthly. It was concerned chiefly with the preposterous
+actions of a class of sawdust effigies who, one was assured, were New
+York society people, and it turned, as a rule, upon questions of the
+heroine's technical purity, with mock-sociological overtones about the
+"mad antics of the four hundred."
+
+"But your stories--" exclaimed Anthony aloud, almost involuntarily.
+
+"Oh, that's different," Dick asserted astoundingly. "I have a
+reputation, you see, so I'm expected to deal with strong themes."
+
+Anthony gave an interior start, realizing with this remark how much
+Richard Caramel had fallen off. Did he actually think that these amazing
+latter productions were as good as his first novel?
+
+Anthony went back to the apartment and set to work. He found that the
+business of optimism was no mean task. After half a dozen futile starts
+he went to the public library and for a week investigated the files of a
+popular magazine. Then, better equipped, he accomplished his first
+story, "The Dictaphone of Fate." It was founded upon one of his few
+remaining impressions of that six weeks in Wall Street the year before.
+It purported to be the sunny tale of an office boy who, quite by
+accident, hummed a wonderful melody into the dictaphone. The cylinder
+was discovered by the boss's brother, a well-known producer of musical
+comedy--and then immediately lost. The body of the story was concerned
+with the pursuit of the missing cylinder and the eventual marriage of
+the noble office boy (now a successful composer) to Miss Rooney, the
+virtuous stenographer, who was half Joan of Arc and half Florence
+Nightingale.
+
+He had gathered that this was what the magazines wanted. He offered, in
+his protagonists, the customary denizens of the pink-and-blue literary
+world, immersing them in a saccharine plot that would offend not a
+single stomach in Marietta. He had it typed in double space--this last
+as advised by a booklet, "Success as a Writer Made Easy," by R. Meggs
+Widdlestien, which assured the ambitious plumber of the futility of
+perspiration, since after a six-lesson course he could make at least a
+thousand dollars a month.
+
+After reading it to a bored Gloria and coaxing from her the immemorial
+remark that it was "better than a lot of stuff that gets published," he
+satirically affixed the nom de plume of "Gilles de Sade," enclosed the
+proper return envelope, and sent it off.
+
+Following the gigantic labor of conception he decided to wait until he
+heard from the first story before beginning another. Dick had told him
+that he might get as much as two hundred dollars. If by any chance it
+did happen to be unsuited, the editor's letter would, no doubt, give him
+an idea of what changes should be made.
+
+"It is, without question, the most abominable piece of writing in
+existence," said Anthony.
+
+The editor quite conceivably agreed with him. He returned the manuscript
+with a rejection slip. Anthony sent it off elsewhere and began another
+story. The second one was called "The Little Open Doors"; it was written
+in three days. It concerned the occult: an estranged couple were brought
+together by a medium in a vaudeville show.
+
+There were six altogether, six wretched and pitiable efforts to "write
+down" by a man who had never before made a consistent effort to write at
+all. Not one of them contained a spark of vitality, and their total
+yield of grace and felicity was less than that of an average newspaper
+column. During their circulation they collected, all told, thirty-one
+rejection slips, headstones for the packages that he would find lying
+like dead bodies at his door.
+
+In mid-January Gloria's father died, and they went again to Kansas
+City--a miserable trip, for Gloria brooded interminably, not upon her
+father's death, but on her mother's. Russel Gilbert's affairs having
+been cleared up they came into possession of about three thousand
+dollars, and a great amount of furniture. This was in storage, for he
+had spent his last days in a small hotel. It was due to his death that
+Anthony made a new discovery concerning Gloria. On the journey East she
+disclosed herself, astonishingly, as a Bilphist.
+
+"Why, Gloria," he cried, "you don't mean to tell me you believe that
+stuff."
+
+"Well," she said defiantly, "why not?"
+
+"Because it's--it's fantastic. You know that in every sense of the word
+you're an agnostic. You'd laugh at any orthodox form of
+Christianity--and then you come out with the statement that you believe
+in some silly rule of reincarnation."
+
+"What if I do? I've heard you and Maury, and every one else for whose
+intellect I have the slightest respect, agree that life as it appears is
+utterly meaningless. But it's always seemed to me that if I were
+unconsciously learning something here it might not be so meaningless."
+
+"You're not learning anything--you're just getting tired. And if you
+must have a faith to soften things, take up one that appeals to the
+reason of some one beside a lot of hysterical women. A person like you
+oughtn't to accept anything unless it's decently demonstrable."
+
+"I don't care about truth. I want some happiness."
+
+"Well, if you've got a decent mind the second has got to be qualified by
+the first. Any simple soul can delude himself with mental garbage."
+
+"I don't care," she held out stoutly, "and, what's more, I'm not
+propounding any doctrine."
+
+The argument faded off, but reoccurred to Anthony several times
+thereafter. It was disturbing to find this old belief, evidently
+assimilated from her mother, inserting itself again under its immemorial
+disguise as an innate idea.
+
+They reached New York in March after an expensive and ill-advised week
+spent in Hot Springs, and Anthony resumed his abortive attempts at
+fiction. As it became plainer to both of them that escape did not lie in
+the way of popular literature, there was a further slipping of their
+mutual confidence and courage. A complicated struggle went on
+incessantly between them. All efforts to keep down expenses died away
+from sheer inertia, and by March they were again using any pretext as an
+excuse for a "party." With an assumption of recklessness Gloria tossed
+out the suggestion that they should take all their money and go on a
+real spree while it lasted--anything seemed better than to see it go in
+unsatisfactory driblets.
+
+"Gloria, you want parties as much as I do."
+
+"It doesn't matter about me. Everything I do is in accordance with my
+ideas: to use every minute of these years, when I'm young, in having the
+best time I possibly can."
+
+"How about after that?"
+
+"After that I won't care."
+
+"Yes, you will."
+
+"Well, I may--but I won't be able to do anything about it. And I'll have
+had my good time."
+
+"You'll be the same then. After a fashion, we _have_ had our good time,
+raised the devil, and we're in the state of paying for it."
+
+Nevertheless, the money kept going. There would be two days of gaiety,
+two days of moroseness--an endless, almost invariable round. The sharp
+pull-ups, when they occurred, resulted usually in a spurt of work for
+Anthony, while Gloria, nervous and bored, remained in bed or else chewed
+abstractedly at her fingers. After a day or so of this, they would make
+an engagement, and then--Oh, what did it matter? This night, this glow,
+the cessation of anxiety and the sense that if living was not purposeful
+it was, at any rate, essentially romantic! Wine gave a sort of gallantry
+to their own failure.
+
+Meanwhile the suit progressed slowly, with interminable examinations of
+witnesses and marshallings of evidence. The preliminary proceedings of
+settling the estate were finished. Mr. Haight saw no reason why the case
+should not come up for trial before summer.
+
+Bloeckman appeared in New York late in March; he had been in England for
+nearly a year on matters concerned with "Films Par Excellence." The
+process of general refinement was still in progress--always he dressed a
+little better, his intonation was mellower, and in his manner there was
+perceptibly more assurance that the fine things of the world were his by
+a natural and inalienable right. He called at the apartment, remained
+only an hour, during which he talked chiefly of the war, and left
+telling them he was coming again. On his second visit Anthony was not at
+home, but an absorbed and excited Gloria greeted her husband later in
+the afternoon.
+
+"Anthony," she began, "would you still object if I went in the movies?"
+
+His whole heart hardened against the idea. As she seemed to recede from
+him, if only in threat, her presence became again not so much precious
+as desperately necessary.
+
+"Oh, Gloria--!"
+
+"Blockhead said he'd put me in--only if I'm ever going to do anything
+I'll have to start now. They only want young women. Think of the
+money, Anthony!"
+
+"For you--yes. But how about me?"
+
+"Don't you know that anything I have is yours too?"
+
+"It's such a hell of a career!" he burst out, the moral, the infinitely
+circumspect Anthony, "and such a hell of a bunch. And I'm so utterly
+tired of that fellow Bloeckman coming here and interfering. I hate
+theatrical things."
+
+"It isn't theatrical! It's utterly different."
+
+"What am I supposed to do? Chase you all over the country? Live on your
+money?"
+
+"Then make some yourself."
+
+The conversation developed into one of the most violent quarrels they
+had ever had. After the ensuing reconciliation and the inevitable period
+of moral inertia, she realized that he had taken the life out of the
+project. Neither of them ever mentioned the probability that Bloeckman
+was by no means disinterested, but they both knew that it lay back of
+Anthony's objection.
+
+In April war was declared with Germany. Wilson and his cabinet--a
+cabinet that in its lack of distinction was strangely reminiscent of the
+twelve apostles--let loose the carefully starved dogs of war, and the
+press began to whoop hysterically against the sinister morals, sinister
+philosophy, and sinister music produced by the Teutonic temperament.
+Those who fancied themselves particularly broad-minded made the
+exquisite distinction that it was only the German Government which
+aroused them to hysteria; the rest were worked up to a condition of
+retching indecency. Any song which contained the word "mother" and the
+word "kaiser" was assured of a tremendous success. At last every one had
+something to talk about--and almost every one fully enjoyed it, as
+though they had been cast for parts in a sombre and romantic play.
+
+Anthony, Maury, and Dick sent in their applications for officers'
+training-camps and the two latter went about feeling strangely exalted
+and reproachless; they chattered to each other, like college boys, of
+war's being the one excuse for, and justification of, the aristocrat,
+and conjured up an impossible caste of officers, to be composed, it
+appeared, chiefly of the more attractive alumni of three or four Eastern
+colleges. It seemed to Gloria that in this huge red light streaming
+across the nation even Anthony took on a new glamour.
+
+The Tenth Infantry, arriving in New York from Panama, were escorted from
+saloon to saloon by patriotic citizens, to their great bewilderment.
+West Pointers began to be noticed for the first time in years, and the
+general impression was that everything was glorious, but not half so
+glorious as it was going to be pretty soon, and that everybody was a
+fine fellow, and every race a great race--always excepting the
+Germans--and in every strata of society outcasts and scapegoats had but
+to appear in uniform to be forgiven, cheered, and wept over by
+relatives, ex-friends, and utter strangers.
+
+Unfortunately, a small and precise doctor decided that there was
+something the matter with Anthony's blood-pressure. He could not
+conscientiously pass him for an officers' training-camp.
+
+
+THE BROKEN LUTE
+
+Their third anniversary passed, uncelebrated, unnoticed. The season
+warmed in thaw, melted into hotter summer, simmered and boiled away. In
+July the will was offered for probate, and upon the contestation was
+assigned by the surrogate to trial term for trial. The matter was
+prolonged into September--there was difficulty in empanelling an
+unbiassed jury because of the moral sentiments involved. To Anthony's
+disappointment a verdict was finally returned in favor of the testator,
+whereupon Mr. Haight caused a notice of appeal to be served upon Edward
+Shuttleworth.
+
+As the summer waned Anthony and Gloria talked of the things they were to
+do when the money was theirs, and of the places they were to go to after
+the war, when they would "agree on things again," for both of them
+looked forward to a time when love, springing like the phoenix from its
+own ashes, should be born again in its mysterious and unfathomable haunts.
+
+He was drafted early in the fall, and the examining doctor made no
+mention of low blood-pressure. It was all very purposeless and sad when
+Anthony told Gloria one night that he wanted, above all things, to be
+killed. But, as always, they were sorry for each other for the wrong
+things at the wrong times....
+
+They decided that for the present she was not to go with him to the
+Southern camp where his contingent was ordered. She would remain in New
+York to "use the apartment," to save money, and to watch the progress of
+the case--which was pending now in the Appellate Division, of which the
+calendar, Mr. Haight told them, was far behind.
+
+Almost their last conversation was a senseless quarrel about the proper
+division of the income--at a word either would have given it all to the
+other. It was typical of the muddle and confusion of their lives that on
+the October night when Anthony reported at the Grand Central Station for
+the journey to camp, she arrived only in time to catch his eye over the
+anxious heads of a gathered crowd. Through the dark light of the
+enclosed train-sheds their glances stretched across a hysterical area,
+foul with yellow sobbing and the smells of poor women. They must have
+pondered upon what they had done to one another, and each must have
+accused himself of drawing this sombre pattern through which they were
+tracing tragically and obscurely. At the last they were too far away for
+either to see the other's tears.
+
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THREE
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+A MATTER OF CIVILIZATION
+
+At a frantic command from some invisible source, Anthony groped his way
+inside. He was thinking that for the first time in more than three years
+he was to remain longer than a night away from Gloria. The finality of
+it appealed to him drearily. It was his clean and lovely girl that he
+was leaving.
+
+They had arrived, he thought, at the most practical financial
+settlement: she was to have three hundred and seventy-five dollars a
+month--not too much considering that over half of that would go in
+rent--and he was taking fifty to supplement his pay. He saw no need for
+more: food, clothes, and quarters would be provided--there were no
+social obligations for a private.
+
+The car was crowded and already thick with breath. It was one of the
+type known as "tourist" cars, a sort of brummagem Pullman, with a bare
+floor, and straw seats that needed cleaning. Nevertheless, Anthony
+greeted it with relief. He had vaguely expected that the trip South
+would be made in a freight-car, in one end of which would stand eight
+horses and in the other forty men. He had heard the "hommes 40, chevaux
+8" story so often that it had become confused and ominous.
+
+As he rocked down the aisle with his barrack-bag slung at his shoulder
+like a monstrous blue sausage, he saw no vacant seats, but after a
+moment his eye fell on a single space at present occupied by the feet of
+a short swarthy Sicilian, who, with his hat drawn over his eyes, hunched
+defiantly in the corner. As Anthony stopped beside him he stared up with
+a scowl, evidently intended to be intimidating; he must have adopted it
+as a defense against this entire gigantic equation. At Anthony's sharp
+"That seat taken?" he very slowly lifted the feet as though they were a
+breakable package, and placed them with some care upon the floor. His
+eyes remained on Anthony, who meanwhile sat down and unbuttoned the
+uniform coat issued him at Camp Upton the day before. It chafed him
+under the arms.
+
+Before Anthony could scrutinize the other occupants of the section a
+young second lieutenant blew in at the upper end of the car and wafted
+airily down the aisle, announcing in a voice of appalling acerbity:
+
+"There will be no smoking in this car! No smoking! Don't smoke, men, in
+this car!"
+
+As he sailed out at the other end a dozen little clouds of expostulation
+arose on all sides.
+
+"Oh, cripe!"
+
+"Jeese!"
+
+"No _smokin'_?"
+
+"Hey, come back here, fella!"
+
+"What's 'ee idea?"
+
+Two or three cigarettes were shot out through the open windows. Others
+were retained inside, though kept sketchily away from view. From here
+and there in accents of bravado, of mockery, of submissive humor, a few
+remarks were dropped that soon melted into the listless and
+pervasive silence.
+
+The fourth occupant of Anthony's section spoke up suddenly.
+
+"G'by, liberty," he said sullenly. "G'by, everything except bein' an
+officer's dog."
+
+Anthony looked at him. He was a tall Irishman with an expression moulded
+of indifference and utter disdain. His eyes fell on Anthony, as though
+he expected an answer, and then upon the others. Receiving only a
+defiant stare from the Italian he groaned and spat noisily on the floor
+by way of a dignified transition back into taciturnity.
+
+A few minutes later the door opened again and the second lieutenant was
+borne in upon his customary official zephyr, this time singing out a
+different tiding:
+
+"All right, men, smoke if you want to! My mistake, men! It's all right,
+men! Go on and smoke--my mistake!"
+
+This time Anthony had a good look at him. He was young, thin, already
+faded; he was like his own mustache; he was like a great piece of shiny
+straw. His chin receded, faintly; this was offset by a magnificent and
+unconvincing scowl, a scowl that Anthony was to connect with the faces
+of many young officers during the ensuing year.
+
+Immediately every one smoked--whether they had previously desired to or
+not. Anthony's cigarette contributed to the hazy oxidation which seemed
+to roll back and forth in opalescent clouds with every motion of the
+train. The conversation, which had lapsed between the two impressive
+visits of the young officer, now revived tepidly; the men across the
+aisle began making clumsy experiments with their straw seats' capacity
+for comparative comfort; two card games, half-heartedly begun, soon drew
+several spectators to sitting positions on the arms of seats. In a few
+minutes Anthony became aware of a persistently obnoxious sound--the
+small, defiant Sicilian had fallen audibly asleep. It was wearisome to
+contemplate that animate protoplasm, reasonable by courtesy only, shut
+up in a car by an incomprehensible civilization, taken somewhere, to do
+a vague something without aim or significance or consequence. Anthony
+sighed, opened a newspaper which he had no recollection of buying, and
+began to read by the dim yellow light.
+
+Ten o'clock bumped stuffily into eleven; the hours clogged and caught
+and slowed down. Amazingly the train halted along the dark countryside,
+from time to time indulging in short, deceitful movements backward or
+forward, and whistling harsh paeans into the high October night. Having
+read his newspaper through, editorials, cartoons, and war-poems, his eye
+fell on a half-column headed _Shakespeareville, Kansas_. It seemed that
+the Shakespeareville Chamber of Commerce had recently held an
+enthusiastic debate as to whether the American soldiers should be known
+as "Sammies" or "Battling Christians." The thought gagged him. He
+dropped the newspaper, yawned, and let his mind drift off at a tangent.
+He wondered why Gloria had been late. It seemed so long ago already--he
+had a pang of illusive loneliness. He tried to imagine from what angle
+she would regard her new position, what place in her considerations he
+would continue to hold. The thought acted as a further depressant--he
+opened his paper and began to read again.
+
+The members of the Chamber of Commerce in Shakespeareville had decided
+upon "Liberty Lads."
+
+For two nights and two days they rattled southward, making mysterious
+inexplicable stops in what were apparently arid wastes, and then rushing
+through large cities with a pompous air of hurry. The whimsicalities of
+this train foreshadowed for Anthony the whimsicalities of all army
+administration.
+
+In the arid wastes they were served from the baggage-car with beans and
+bacon that at first he was unable to eat--he dined scantily on some milk
+chocolate distributed by a village canteen. But on the second day the
+baggage-car's output began to appear surprisingly palatable. On the
+third morning the rumor was passed along that within the hour they would
+arrive at their destination, Camp Hooker.
+
+It had become intolerably hot in the car, and the men were all in shirt
+sleeves. The sun came in through the windows, a tired and ancient sun,
+yellow as parchment and stretched out of shape in transit. It tried to
+enter in triumphant squares and produced only warped splotches--but it
+was appallingly steady; so much so that it disturbed Anthony not to be
+the pivot of all the inconsequential sawmills and trees and telegraph
+poles that were turning around him so fast. Outside it played its heavy
+tremolo over olive roads and fallow cotton-fields, back of which ran a
+ragged line of woods broken with eminences of gray rock. The foreground
+was dotted sparsely with wretched, ill-patched shanties, among which
+there would flash by, now and then, a specimen of the languid yokelry of
+South Carolina, or else a strolling darky with sullen and
+bewildered eyes.
+
+Then the woods moved off and they rolled into a broad space like the
+baked top of a gigantic cake, sugared with an infinity of tents arranged
+in geometric figures over its surface. The train came to an uncertain
+stop, and the sun and the poles and the trees faded, and his universe
+rocked itself slowly back to its old usualness, with Anthony Patch in
+the centre. As the men, weary and perspiring, crowded out of the car, he
+smelt that unforgetable aroma that impregnates all permanent camps--the
+odor of garbage.
+
+Camp Hooker was an astonishing and spectacular growth, suggesting "A
+Mining Town in 1870--The Second Week." It was a thing of wooden shacks
+and whitish-gray tents, connected by a pattern of roads, with hard tan
+drill-grounds fringed with trees. Here and there stood green Y.M.C.A.
+houses, unpromising oases, with their muggy odor of wet flannels and
+closed telephone-booths--and across from each of them there was usually
+a canteen, swarming with life, presided over indolently by an officer
+who, with the aid of a side-car, usually managed to make his detail a
+pleasant and chatty sinecure.
+
+Up and down the dusty roads sped the soldiers of the quartermaster
+corps, also in side-cars. Up and down drove the generals in their
+government automobiles, stopping now and then to bring unalert details
+to attention, to frown heavily upon captains marching at the heads of
+companies, to set the pompous pace in that gorgeous game of showing off
+which was taking place triumphantly over the entire area.
+
+The first week after the arrival of Anthony's draft was filled with a
+series of interminable inoculations and physical examinations, and with
+the preliminary drilling. The days left him desperately tired. He had
+been issued the wrong size shoes by a popular, easy-going
+supply-sergeant, and in consequence his feet were so swollen that the
+last hours of the afternoon were an acute torture. For the first time in
+his life he could throw himself down on his cot between dinner and
+afternoon drill-call, and seeming to sink with each moment deeper into a
+bottomless bed, drop off immediately to sleep, while the noise and
+laughter around him faded to a pleasant drone of drowsy summer sound. In
+the morning he awoke stiff and aching, hollow as a ghost, and hurried
+forth to meet the other ghostly figures who swarmed in the wan company
+streets, while a harsh bugle shrieked and spluttered at the
+gray heavens.
+
+He was in a skeleton infantry company of about a hundred men. After the
+invariable breakfast of fatty bacon, cold toast, and cereal, the entire
+hundred would rush for the latrines, which, however well-policed, seemed
+always intolerable, like the lavatories in cheap hotels. Out on the
+field, then, in ragged order--the lame man on his left grotesquely
+marring Anthony's listless efforts to keep in step, the platoon
+sergeants either showing off violently to impress the officers and
+recruits, or else quietly lurking in close to the line of march,
+avoiding both labor and unnecessary visibility.
+
+When they reached the field, work began immediately--they peeled off
+their shirts for calisthenics. This was the only part of the day that
+Anthony enjoyed. Lieutenant Kretching, who presided at the antics, was
+sinewy and muscular, and Anthony, followed his movements faithfully,
+with a feeling that he was doing something of positive value to himself.
+The other officers and sergeants walked about among the men with the
+malice of schoolboys, grouping here and there around some unfortunate
+who lacked muscular control, giving him confused instructions and
+commands. When they discovered a particularly forlorn, ill-nourished
+specimen, they would linger the full half-hour making cutting remarks
+and snickering among themselves.
+
+One little officer named Hopkins, who had been a sergeant in the regular
+army, was particularly annoying. He took the war as a gift of revenge
+from the high gods to himself, and the constant burden of his harangues
+was that these rookies did not appreciate the full gravity and
+responsibility of "the service." He considered that by a combination of
+foresight and dauntless efficiency he had raised himself to his current
+magnificence. He aped the particular tyrannies of every officer under
+whom he had served in times gone by. His frown was frozen on his
+brow--before giving a private a pass to go to town he would ponderously
+weigh the effect of such an absence upon the company, the army, and the
+welfare of the military profession the world over.
+
+Lieutenant Kretching, blond, dull and phlegmatic, introduced Anthony
+ponderously to the problems of attention, right face, about face, and at
+ease. His principal defect was his forgetfulness. He often kept the
+company straining and aching at attention for five minutes while he
+stood out in front and explained a new movement--as a result only the men
+in the centre knew what it was all about--those on both flanks had been
+too emphatically impressed with the necessity of staring straight ahead.
+
+The drill continued until noon. It consisted of stressing a succession
+of infinitely remote details, and though Anthony perceived that this was
+consistent with the logic of war, it none the less irritated him. That
+the same faulty blood-pressure which would have been indecent in an
+officer did not interfere with the duties of a private was a
+preposterous incongruity. Sometimes, after listening to a sustained
+invective concerned with a dull and, on the face of it, absurd subject
+known as military "courtesy," he suspected that the dim purpose of the
+war was to let the regular army officers--men with the mentality and
+aspirations of schoolboys--have their fling with some real slaughter. He
+was being grotesquely sacrificed to the twenty-year patience of
+a Hopkins!
+
+Of his three tent-mates--a flat-faced, conscientious objector from
+Tennessee, a big, scared Pole, and the disdainful Celt whom he had sat
+beside on the train--the two former spent the evenings in writing
+eternal letters home, while the Irishman sat in the tent door whistling
+over and over to himself half a dozen shrill and monotonous bird-calls.
+It was rather to avoid an hour of their company than with any hope of
+diversion that, when the quarantine was lifted at the end of the week,
+he went into town. He caught one of the swarm of jitneys that overran
+the camp each evening, and in half an hour was set down in front of the
+Stonewall Hotel on the hot and drowsy main street.
+
+Under the gathering twilight the town was unexpectedly attractive. The
+sidewalks were peopled by vividly dressed, overpainted girls, who
+chattered volubly in low, lazy voices, by dozens of taxi-drivers who
+assailed passing officers with "Take y' anywheh, _Lieu_tenant," and by
+an intermittent procession of ragged, shuffling, subservient negroes.
+Anthony, loitering along through the warm dusk, felt for the first time
+in years the slow, erotic breath of the South, imminent in the hot
+softness of the air, in the pervasive lull, of thought and time.
+
+He had gone about a block when he was arrested suddenly by a harsh
+command at his elbow.
+
+"Haven't you been taught to salute officers?"
+
+He looked dumbly at the man who addressed him, a stout, black-haired
+captain, who fixed him menacingly with brown pop-eyes.
+
+"_Come to attention!_" The words were literally thundered. A few
+pedestrians near by stopped and stared. A soft-eyed girl in a lilac
+dress tittered to her companion.
+
+Anthony came to attention.
+
+"What's your regiment and company?"
+
+Anthony told him.
+
+"After this when you pass an officer on the street you straighten up and
+salute!"
+
+"All right!"
+
+"Say 'Yes, sir!'"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+The stout officer grunted, turned sharply, and marched down the street.
+After a moment Anthony moved on; the town was no longer indolent and
+exotic; the magic was suddenly gone out of the dusk. His eyes were
+turned precipitately inward upon the indignity of his position. He hated
+that officer, every officer--life was unendurable.
+
+After he had gone half a block he realized that the girl in the lilac
+dress who had giggled at his discomfiture was walking with her friend
+about ten paces ahead of him. Several times she had turned and stared at
+Anthony, with cheerful laughter in the large eyes that seemed the same
+color as her gown.
+
+At the corner she and her companion visibly slackened their pace--he
+must make his choice between joining them and passing obliviously by. He
+passed, hesitated, then slowed down. In a moment the pair were abreast
+of him again, dissolved in laughter now--not such strident mirth as he
+would have expected in the North from actresses in this familiar comedy,
+but a soft, low rippling, like the overflow from some subtle joke, into
+which he had inadvertently blundered.
+
+"How do you do?" he said.
+
+Her eyes were soft as shadows. Were they violet, or was it their blue
+darkness mingling with the gray hues of dusk?
+
+"Pleasant evening," ventured Anthony uncertainly.
+
+"Sure is," said the second girl.
+
+"Hasn't been a very pleasant evening for you," sighed the girl in lilac.
+Her voice seemed as much a part of the night as the drowsy breeze
+stirring the wide brim of her hat.
+
+"He had to have a chance to show off," said Anthony with a scornful
+laugh.
+
+"Reckon so," she agreed.
+
+They turned the corner and moved lackadaisically up a side street, as if
+following a drifting cable to which they were attached. In this town it
+seemed entirely natural to turn corners like that, it seemed natural to
+be bound nowhere in particular, to be thinking nothing.... The side
+street was dark, a sudden offshoot into a district of wild rose hedges
+and little quiet houses set far back from the street.
+
+"Where're you going?" he inquired politely.
+
+"Just goin'." The answer was an apology, a question, an explanation.
+
+"Can I stroll along with you?"
+
+"Reckon so."
+
+It was an advantage that her accent was different. He could not have
+determined the social status of a Southerner from her talk--in New York
+a girl of a lower class would have been raucous, unendurable--except
+through the rosy spectacles of intoxication.
+
+Dark was creeping down. Talking little--Anthony in careless, casual
+questions, the other two with provincial economy of phrase and
+burden--they sauntered past another corner, and another. In the middle
+of a block they stopped beneath a lamp-post.
+
+"I live near here," explained the other girl.
+
+"I live around the block," said the girl in lilac.
+
+"Can I see you home?"
+
+"To the corner, if you want to."
+
+The other girl took a few steps backward. Anthony removed his hat.
+
+"You're supposed to salute," said the girl in lilac with a laugh. "All
+the soldiers salute."
+
+"I'll learn," he responded soberly.
+
+The other girl said, "Well--" hesitated, then added, "call me up
+to-morrow, Dot," and retreated from the yellow circle of the
+street-lamp. Then, in silence, Anthony and the girl in lilac walked the
+three blocks to the small rickety house which was her home. Outside the
+wooden gate she hesitated.
+
+"Well--thanks."
+
+"Must you go in so soon?"
+
+"I ought to."
+
+"Can't you stroll around a little longer?" She regarded him
+dispassionately.
+
+"I don't even know you."
+
+Anthony laughed.
+
+"It's not too late."
+
+"I reckon I better go in."
+
+"I thought we might walk down and see a movie."
+
+"I'd like to."
+
+"Then I could bring you home. I'd have just enough time. I've got to be
+in camp by eleven."
+
+It was so dark that he could scarcely see her now. She was a dress
+swayed infinitesimally by the wind, two limpid, reckless eyes ...
+
+"Why don't you come--Dot? Don't you like movies? Better come."
+
+She shook her head.
+
+"I oughtn't to."
+
+He liked her, realizing that she was temporizing for the effect on him.
+He came closer and took her hand.
+
+"If we get back by ten, can't you? just to the movies?"
+
+"Well--I reckon so--"
+
+Hand in hand they walked back toward down-town, along a hazy, dusky
+street where a negro newsboy was calling an extra in the cadence of the
+local venders' tradition, a cadence that was as musical as song.
+
+Dot
+
+Anthony's affair with Dorothy Raycroft was an inevitable result of his
+increasing carelessness about himself. He did not go to her desiring to
+possess the desirable, nor did he fall before a personality more vital,
+more compelling than his own, as he had done with Gloria four years
+before. He merely slid into the matter through his inability to make
+definite judgments. He could say "No!" neither to man nor woman;
+borrower and temptress alike found him tender-minded and pliable. Indeed
+he seldom made decisions at all, and when he did they were but
+half-hysterical resolves formed in the panic of some aghast and
+irreparable awakening.
+
+The particular weakness he indulged on this occasion was his need of
+excitement and stimulus from without. He felt that for the first time in
+four years he could express and interpret himself anew. The girl
+promised rest; the hours in her company each evening alleviated the
+morbid and inevitably futile poundings of his imagination. He had become
+a coward in earnest--completely the slave of a hundred disordered and
+prowling thoughts which were released by the collapse of the authentic
+devotion to Gloria that had been the chief jailer of his insufficiency.
+
+On that first night, as they stood by the gate, he kissed Dorothy and
+made an engagement to meet her the following Saturday. Then he went out
+to camp, and with the light burning lawlessly in his tent, he wrote a
+long letter to Gloria, a glowing letter, full of the sentimental dark,
+full of the remembered breath of flowers, full of a true and exceeding
+tenderness--these things he had learned again for a moment in a kiss
+given and taken under a rich warm moonlight just an hour before.
+
+When Saturday night came he found Dot waiting at the entrance of the
+Bijou Moving Picture Theatre. She was dressed as on the preceding
+Wednesday in her lilac gown of frailest organdy, but it had evidently
+been washed and starched since then, for it was fresh and unrumpled.
+Daylight confirmed the impression he had received that in a sketchy,
+faulty way she was lovely. She was clean, her features were small,
+irregular, but eloquent and appropriate to each other. She was a dark,
+unenduring little flower--yet he thought he detected in her some quality
+of spiritual reticence, of strength drawn from her passive acceptance of
+all things. In this he was mistaken.
+
+Dorothy Raycroft was nineteen. Her father had kept a small, unprosperous
+corner store, and she had graduated from high school in the lowest
+fourth of her class two days before he died. At high school she had
+enjoyed a rather unsavory reputation. As a matter of fact her behavior
+at the class picnic, where the rumors started, had been merely
+indiscreet--she had retained her technical purity until over a year
+later. The boy had been a clerk in a store on Jackson Street, and on the
+day after the incident he departed unexpectedly to New York. He had been
+intending to leave for some time, but had tarried for the consummation
+of his amorous enterprise.
+
+After a while she confided the adventure to a girl friend, and later, as
+she watched her friend disappear down the sleepy street of dusty
+sunshine she knew in a flash of intuition that her story was going out
+into the world. Yet after telling it she felt much better, and a little
+bitter, and made as near an approach to character as she was capable of
+by walking in another direction and meeting another man with the honest
+intention of gratifying herself again. As a rule things happened to Dot.
+She was not weak, because there was nothing in her to tell her she was
+being weak. She was not strong, because she never knew that some of the
+things she did were brave. She neither defied nor conformed nor
+compromised.
+
+She had no sense of humor, but, to take its place, a happy disposition
+that made her laugh at the proper times when she was with men. She had
+no definite intentions--sometimes she regretted vaguely that her
+reputation precluded what chance she had ever had for security. There
+had been no open discovery: her mother was interested only in starting
+her off on time each morning for the jewelry store where she earned
+fourteen dollars a week. But some of the boys she had known in high
+school now looked the other way when they were walking with "nice
+girls," and these incidents hurt her feelings. When they occurred she
+went home and cried.
+
+Besides the Jackson Street clerk there had been two other men, of whom
+the first was a naval officer, who passed through town during the early
+days of the war. He had stayed over a night to make a connection, and
+was leaning idly against one of the pillars of the Stonewall Hotel when
+she passed by. He remained in town four days. She thought she loved
+him--lavished on him that first hysteria of passion that would have gone
+to the pusillanimous clerk. The naval officer's uniform--there were few
+of them in those days--had made the magic. He left with vague promises
+on his lips, and, once on the train, rejoiced that he had not told her
+his real name.
+
+Her resultant depression had thrown her into the arms of Cyrus Fielding,
+the son of a local clothier, who had hailed her from his roadster one
+day as she passed along the sidewalk. She had always known him by name.
+Had she been born to a higher stratum he would have known her before.
+She had descended a little lower--so he met her after all. After a month
+he had gone away to training-camp, a little afraid of the intimacy, a
+little relieved in perceiving that she had not cared deeply for him, and
+that she was not the sort who would ever make trouble. Dot romanticized
+this affair and conceded to her vanity that the war had taken these men
+away from her. She told herself that she could have married the naval
+officer. Nevertheless, it worried her that within eight months there had
+been three men in her life. She thought with more fear than wonder in
+her heart that she would soon be like those "bad girls" on Jackson
+Street at whom she and her gum-chewing, giggling friends had stared with
+fascinated glances three years before.
+
+For a while she attempted to be more careful. She let men "pick her up";
+she let them kiss her, and even allowed certain other liberties to be
+forced upon her, but she did not add to her trio. After several months
+the strength of her resolution--or rather the poignant expediency of her
+fears--was worn away. She grew restless drowsing there out of life and
+time while the summer months faded. The soldiers she met were either
+obviously below her or, less obviously, above her--in which case they
+desired only to use her; they were Yankees, harsh and ungracious; they
+swarmed in large crowds.... And then she met Anthony.
+
+On that first evening he had been little more than a pleasantly unhappy
+face, a voice, the means with which to pass an hour, but when she kept
+her engagement with him on Saturday she regarded him with consideration.
+She liked him. Unknowingly she saw her own tragedies mirrored in
+his face.
+
+Again they went to the movies, again they wandered along the shadowy,
+scented streets, hand in hand this time, speaking a little in hushed
+voices. They passed through the gate--up toward the little porch--
+
+"I can stay a while, can't I?"
+
+"Sh!" she whispered, "we've got to be very quiet. Mother sits up reading
+Snappy Stories." In confirmation he heard the faint crackling inside as
+a page was turned. The open-shutter slits emitted horizontal rods of
+light that fell in thin parallels across Dorothy's skirt. The street was
+silent save for a group on the steps of a house across the way, who,
+from time to time, raised their voices in a soft, bantering song.
+
+"--_When you wa-ake
+You shall ha-ave
+All the pretty little hawsiz_--"
+
+Then, as though it had been waiting on a near-by roof for their arrival,
+the moon came slanting suddenly through the vines and turned the girl's
+face to the color of white roses.
+
+Anthony had a start of memory, so vivid that before his closed eyes
+there formed a picture, distinct as a flashback on a screen--a spring
+night of thaw set out of time in a half-forgotten winter five years
+before--another face, radiant, flower-like, upturned to lights as
+transforming as the stars--
+
+Ah, _la belle dame sans merci_ who lived in his heart, made known to him
+in transitory fading splendor by dark eyes in the Ritz-Carlton, by a
+shadowy glance from a passing carriage in the Bois de Boulogne! But
+those nights were only part of a song, a remembered glory--here again
+were the faint winds, the illusions, the eternal present with its
+promise of romance.
+
+"Oh," she whispered, "do you love me? Do you love me?"
+
+The spell was broken--the drifted fragments of the stars became only
+light, the singing down the street diminished to a monotone, to the
+whimper of locusts in the grass. With almost a sigh he kissed her
+fervent mouth, while her arms crept up about his shoulders.
+
+
+THE MAN-AT-ARMS
+
+As the weeks dried up and blew away, the range of Anthony's travels
+extended until he grew to comprehend the camp and its environment. For
+the first time in his life he was in constant personal contact with the
+waiters to whom he had given tips, the chauffeurs who had touched their
+hats to him, the carpenters, plumbers, barbers, and farmers who had
+previously been remarkable only in the subservience of their
+professional genuflections. During his first two months in camp he did
+not hold ten minutes' consecutive conversation with a single man.
+
+On the service record his occupation stood as "student"; on the original
+questionnaire he had prematurely written "author"; but when men in his
+company asked his business he commonly gave it as bank clerk--had he
+told the truth, that he did no work, they would have been suspicious of
+him as a member of the leisure class.
+
+His platoon sergeant, Pop Donnelly, was a scraggly "old soldier," worn
+thin with drink. In the past he had spent unnumbered weeks in the
+guard-house, but recently, thanks to the drill-master famine, he had
+been elevated to his present pinnacle. His complexion was full of
+shell-holes--it bore an unmistakable resemblance to those aerial
+photographs of "the battle-field at Blank." Once a week he got drunk
+down-town on white liquor, returned quietly to camp and collapsed upon
+his bunk, joining the company at reveille looking more than ever like a
+white mask of death.
+
+He nursed the astounding delusion that he was astutely "slipping it
+over" on the government--he had spent eighteen years in its service at a
+minute wage, and he was soon to retire (here he usually winked) on the
+impressive income of fifty-five dollars a month. He looked upon it as a
+gorgeous joke that he had played upon the dozens who had bullied and
+scorned him since he was a Georgia country boy of nineteen.
+
+At present there were but two lieutenants--Hopkins and the popular
+Kretching. The latter was considered a good fellow and a fine leader,
+until a year later, when he disappeared with a mess fund of eleven
+hundred dollars and, like so many leaders, proved exceedingly difficult
+to follow.
+
+Eventually there was Captain Dunning, god of this brief but
+self-sufficing microcosm. He was a reserve officer, nervous, energetic,
+and enthusiastic. This latter quality, indeed, often took material form
+and was visible as fine froth in the corners of his mouth. Like most
+executives he saw his charges strictly from the front, and to his
+hopeful eyes his command seemed just such an excellent unit as such an
+excellent war deserved. For all his anxiety and absorption he was having
+the time of his life.
+
+Baptiste, the little Sicilian of the train, fell foul of him the second
+week of drill. The captain had several times ordered the men to be
+clean-shaven when they fell in each morning. One day there was disclosed
+an alarming breech of this rule, surely a case of Teutonic
+connivance--during the night four men had grown hair upon their faces.
+The fact that three of the four understood a minimum of English made a
+practical object-lesson only the more necessary, so Captain Dunning
+resolutely sent a volunteer barber back to the company street for a
+razor. Whereupon for the safety of democracy a half-ounce of hair was
+scraped dry from the cheeks of three Italians and one Pole.
+
+Outside the world of the company there appeared, from time to time, the
+colonel, a heavy man with snarling teeth, who circumnavigated the
+battalion drill-field upon a handsome black horse. He was a West
+Pointer, and, mimetically, a gentleman. He had a dowdy wife and a dowdy
+mind, and spent much of his time in town taking advantage of the army's
+lately exalted social position. Last of all was the general, who
+traversed the roads of the camp preceded by his flag--a figure so
+austere, so removed, so magnificent, as to be scarcely comprehensible.
+
+December. Cool winds at night now, and damp, chilly mornings on the
+drill-grounds. As the heat faded, Anthony found himself increasingly
+glad to be alive. Renewed strangely through his body, he worried little
+and existed in the present with a sort of animal content. It was not
+that Gloria or the life that Gloria represented was less often in his
+thoughts--it was simply that she became, day by day, less real, less
+vivid. For a week they had corresponded passionately, almost
+hysterically--then by an unwritten agreement they had ceased to write
+more than twice, and then once, a week. She was bored, she said; if his
+brigade was to be there a long time she was coming down to join him. Mr.
+Haight was going to be able to submit a stronger brief than he had
+expected, but doubted that the appealed case would come up until late
+spring. Muriel was in the city doing Red Cross work, and they went out
+together rather often. What would Anthony think if _she_ went into the
+Red Cross? Trouble was she had heard that she might have to bathe
+negroes in alcohol, and after that she hadn't felt so patriotic. The
+city was full of soldiers and she'd seen a lot of boys she hadn't laid
+eyes on for years....
+
+Anthony did not want her to come South. He told himself that this was
+for many reasons--he needed a rest from her and she from him. She would
+be bored beyond measure in town, and she would be able to see Anthony
+for only a few hours each day. But in his heart he feared that it was
+because he was attracted to Dorothy. As a matter of fact he lived in
+terror that Gloria should learn by some chance or intention of the
+relation he had formed. By the end of a fortnight the entanglement began
+to give him moments of misery at his own faithlessness. Nevertheless, as
+each day ended he was unable to withstand the lure that would draw him
+irresistibly out of his tent and over to the telephone at the Y.M.C.A.
+
+"Dot."
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"I may be able to get in to-night."
+
+"I'm so glad."
+
+"Do you want to listen to my splendid eloquence for a few starry hours?"
+
+"Oh, you funny--" For an instant he had a memory of five years
+before--of Geraldine. Then--
+
+"I'll arrive about eight."
+
+At seven he would be in a jitney bound for the city, where hundreds of
+little Southern girls were waiting on moonlit porches for their lovers.
+He would be excited already for her warm retarded kisses, for the amazed
+quietude of the glances she gave him--glances nearer to worship than any
+he had ever inspired. Gloria and he had been equals, giving without
+thought of thanks or obligation. To this girl his very caresses were an
+inestimable boon. Crying quietly she had confessed to him that he was
+not the first man in her life; there had been one other--he gathered
+that the affair had no sooner commenced than it had been over.
+
+Indeed, so far as she was concerned, she spoke the truth. She had
+forgotten the clerk, the naval officer, the clothier's son, forgotten
+her vividness of emotion, which is true forgetting. She knew that in
+some opaque and shadowy existence some one had taken her--it was as
+though it had occurred in sleep.
+
+Almost every night Anthony came to town. It was too cool now for the
+porch, so her mother surrendered to them the tiny sitting room, with its
+dozens of cheaply framed chromos, its yard upon yard of decorative
+fringe, and its thick atmosphere of several decades in the proximity of
+the kitchen. They would build a fire--then, happily, inexhaustibly, she
+would go about the business of love. Each evening at ten she would walk
+with him to the door, her black hair in disarray, her face pale without
+cosmetics, paler still under the whiteness of the moon. As a rule it
+would be bright and silver outside; now and then there was a slow warm
+rain, too indolent, almost, to reach the ground.
+
+"Say you love me," she would whisper.
+
+"Why, of course, you sweet baby."
+
+"Am I a baby?" This almost wistfully.
+
+"Just a little baby."
+
+She knew vaguely of Gloria. It gave her pain to think of it, so she
+imagined her to be haughty and proud and cold. She had decided that
+Gloria must be older than Anthony, and that there was no love between
+husband and wife. Sometimes she let herself dream that after the war
+Anthony would get a divorce and they would be married--but she never
+mentioned this to Anthony, she scarcely knew why. She shared his
+company's idea that he was a sort of bank clerk--she thought that he was
+respectable and poor. She would say:
+
+"If I had some money, darlin', I'd give ev'y bit of it to you.... I'd
+like to have about fifty thousand dollars."
+
+"I suppose that'd be plenty," agreed Anthony.
+
+--In her letter that day Gloria had written: "I suppose if we _could_
+settle for a million it would be better to tell Mr. Haight to go ahead
+and settle. But it'd seem a pity...."
+
+... "We could have an automobile," exclaimed Dot, in a final burst of
+triumph.
+
+
+AN IMPRESSIVE OCCASION
+
+Captain Dunning prided himself on being a great reader of character.
+Half an hour after meeting a man he was accustomed to place him in one
+of a number of astonishing categories--fine man, good man, smart fellow,
+theorizer, poet, and "worthless." One day early in February he caused
+Anthony to be summoned to his presence in the orderly tent.
+
+"Patch," he said sententiously, "I've had my eye on you for several
+weeks."
+
+Anthony stood erect and motionless.
+
+"And I think you've got the makings of a good soldier."
+
+He waited for the warm glow, which this would naturally arouse, to
+cool--and then continued:
+
+"This is no child's play," he said, narrowing his brows.
+
+Anthony agreed with a melancholy "No, sir."
+
+"It's a man's game--and we need leaders." Then the climax, swift, sure,
+and electric: "Patch, I'm going to make you a corporal."
+
+At this point Anthony should have staggered slightly backward,
+overwhelmed. He was to be one of the quarter million selected for that
+consummate trust. He was going to be able to shout the technical phrase,
+"Follow me!" to seven other frightened men.
+
+"You seem to be a man of some education," said Captain Dunning.
+
+"Yes, Sir."
+
+"That's good, that's good. Education's a great thing, but don't let it
+go to your head. Keep on the way you're doing and you'll be a
+good soldier."
+
+With these parting words lingering in his ears, Corporal Patch saluted,
+executed a right about face, and left the tent.
+
+Though the conversation amused Anthony, it did generate the idea that
+life would be more amusing as a sergeant or, should he find a less
+exacting medical examiner, as an officer. He was little interested in
+the work, which seemed to belie the army's boasted gallantry. At the
+inspections one did not dress up to look well, one dressed up to keep
+from looking badly.
+
+But as winter wore away--the short, snowless winter marked by damp
+nights and cool, rainy days--he marvelled at how quickly the system had
+grasped him. He was a soldier--all who were not soldiers were civilians.
+The world was divided primarily into those two classifications.
+
+It occurred to him that all strongly accentuated classes, such as the
+military, divided men into two kinds: their own kind--and those without.
+To the clergyman there were clergy and laity, to the Catholic there were
+Catholics and non-Catholics, to the negro there were blacks and whites,
+to the prisoner there were the imprisoned and the free, and to the sick
+man there were the sick and the well.... So, without thinking of it once
+in his lifetime, he had been a civilian, a layman, a non-Catholic, a
+Gentile, white, free, and well....
+
+As the American troops were poured into the French and British trenches
+he began to find the names of many Harvard men among the casualties
+recorded in the Army and Navy Journal. But for all the sweat and blood
+the situation appeared unchanged, and he saw no prospect of the war's
+ending in the perceptible future. In the old chronicles the right wing
+of one army always defeated the left wing of the other, the left wing
+being, meanwhile, vanquished by the enemy's right. After that the
+mercenaries fled. It had been so simple, in those days, almost as if
+prearranged....
+
+Gloria wrote that she was reading a great deal. What a mess they had
+made of their affairs, she said. She had so little to do now that she
+spent her time imagining how differently things might have turned out.
+Her whole environment appeared insecure--and a few years back she had
+seemed to hold all the strings in her own little hand....
+
+In June her letters grew hurried and less frequent. She suddenly ceased
+to write about coming South.
+
+
+DEFEAT
+
+March in the country around was rare with jasmine and jonquils and
+patches of violets in the warming grass. Afterward he remembered
+especially one afternoon of such a fresh and magic glamour that as he
+stood in the rifle-pit marking targets he recited "Atalanta in Calydon"
+to an uncomprehending Pole, his voice mingling with the rip, sing, and
+splatter of the bullets overhead.
+
+"When the hounds of spring ..."
+
+_Spang!_
+
+"Are on winter's traces ..."
+
+_Whirr-r-r-r!_ ...
+
+"The mother of months ..."
+
+_"Hey!_ Come to! Mark three-e-e! ..."
+
+In town the streets were in a sleepy dream again, and together Anthony
+and Dot idled in their own tracks of the previous autumn until he began
+to feel a drowsy attachment for this South--a South, it seemed, more of
+Algiers than of Italy, with faded aspirations pointing back over
+innumerable generations to some warm, primitive Nirvana, without hope or
+care. Here there was an inflection of cordiality, of comprehension, in
+every voice. "Life plays the same lovely and agonizing joke on all of
+us," they seemed to say in their plaintive pleasant cadence, in the
+rising inflection terminating on an unresolved minor.
+
+He liked his barber shop where he was "Hi, corporal!" to a pale,
+emaciated young man, who shaved him and pushed a cool vibrating machine
+endlessly over his insatiable head. He liked "Johnston's Gardens" where
+they danced, where a tragic negro made yearning, aching music on a
+saxophone until the garish hall became an enchanted jungle of barbaric
+rhythms and smoky laughter, where to forget the uneventful passage of
+time upon Dorothy's soft sighs and tender whisperings was the
+consummation of all aspiration, of all content.
+
+There was an undertone of sadness in her character, a conscious evasion
+of all except the pleasurable minutiae of life. Her violet eyes would
+remain for hours apparently insensate as, thoughtless and reckless, she
+basked like a cat in the sun. He wondered what the tired, spiritless
+mother thought of them, and whether in her moments of uttermost cynicism
+she ever guessed at their relationship.
+
+On Sunday afternoons they walked along the countryside, resting at
+intervals on the dry moss in the outskirts of a wood. Here the birds had
+gathered and the clusters of violets and white dogwood; here the hoar
+trees shone crystalline and cool, oblivious to the intoxicating heat
+that waited outside; here he would talk, intermittently, in a sleepy
+monologue, in a conversation of no significance, of no replies.
+
+July came scorching down. Captain Dunning was ordered to detail one of
+his men to learn blacksmithing. The regiment was filling up to war
+strength, and he needed most of his veterans for drill-masters, so he
+selected the little Italian, Baptiste, whom he could most easily spare.
+Little Baptiste had never had anything to do with horses. His fear made
+matters worse. He reappeared in the orderly room one day and told
+Captain Dunning that he wanted to die if he couldn't be relieved. The
+horses kicked at him, he said; he was no good at the work. Finally he
+fell on his knees and besought Captain Dunning, in a mixture of broken
+English and scriptural Italian, to get him out of it. He had not slept
+for three days; monstrous stallions reared and cavorted through
+his dreams.
+
+Captain Dunning reproved the company clerk (who had burst out laughing),
+and told Baptiste he would do what he could. But when he thought it over
+he decided that he couldn't spare a better man. Little Baptiste went
+from bad to worse. The horses seemed to divine his fear and take every
+advantage of it. Two weeks later a great black mare crushed his skull in
+with her hoofs while he was trying to lead her from her stall.
+
+In mid-July came rumors, and then orders, that concerned a change of
+camp. The brigade was to move to an empty cantonment, a hundred miles
+farther south, there to be expanded into a division. At first the men
+thought they were departing for the trenches, and all evening little
+groups jabbered in the company street, shouting to each other in
+swaggering exclamations: "Su-u-ure we are!" When the truth leaked out,
+it was rejected indignantly as a blind to conceal their real
+destination. They revelled in their own importance. That night they told
+their girls in town that they were "going to get the Germans." Anthony
+circulated for a while among the groups--then, stopping a jitney, rode
+down to tell Dot that he was going away.
+
+She was waiting on the dark veranda in a cheap white dress that
+accentuated the youth and softness of her face.
+
+"Oh," she whispered, "I've wanted you so, honey. All this day."
+
+"I have something to tell you."
+
+She drew him down beside her on the swinging seat, not noticing his
+ominous tone.
+
+"Tell me."
+
+"We're leaving next week."
+
+Her arms seeking his shoulders remained poised upon the dark air, her
+chin tipped up. When she spoke the softness was gone from her voice.
+
+"Leaving for France?"
+
+"No. Less luck than that. Leaving for some darn camp in Mississippi."
+
+She shut her eyes and he could see that the lids were trembling.
+
+"Dear little Dot, life is so damned hard."
+
+She was crying upon his shoulder.
+
+"So damned hard, so damned hard," he repeated aimlessly; "it just hurts
+people and hurts people, until finally it hurts them so that they can't
+be hurt ever any more. That's the last and worst thing it does."
+
+Frantic, wild with anguish, she strained him to her breast.
+
+"Oh, God!" she whispered brokenly, "you can't go way from me. I'd die."
+
+He was finding it impossible to pass off his departure as a common,
+impersonal blow. He was too near to her to do more than repeat "Poor
+little Dot. Poor little Dot."
+
+"And then what?" she demanded wearily.
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"You're my whole life, that's all. I'd die for you right now if you said
+so. I'd get a knife and kill myself. You can't leave me here."
+
+Her tone frightened him.
+
+"These things happen," he said evenly.
+
+"Then I'm going with you." Tears were streaming down her checks. Her
+mouth was trembling in an ecstasy of grief and fear.
+
+"Sweet," he muttered sentimentally, "sweet little girl. Don't you see
+we'd just be putting off what's bound to happen? I'll be going to France
+in a few months--"
+
+She leaned away from him and clinching her fists lifted her face toward
+the sky.
+
+"I want to die," she said, as if moulding each word carefully in her
+heart.
+
+"Dot," he whispered uncomfortably, "you'll forget. Things are sweeter
+when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it.
+It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it it
+turned to dust in my hands."
+
+"All right."
+
+Absorbed in himself, he continued:
+
+"I've often thought that if I hadn't got what I wanted things might have
+been different with me. I might have found something in my mind and
+enjoyed putting it in circulation. I might have been content with the
+work of it, and had some sweet vanity out of the success. I suppose that
+at one time I could have had anything I wanted, within reason, but that
+was the only thing I ever wanted with any fervor. God! And that taught
+me you can't have _any_thing, you can't have anything at _all_. Because
+desire just cheats you. It's like a sunbeam skipping here and there
+about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we
+poor fools try to grasp it--but when we do the sunbeam moves on to
+something else, and you've got the inconsequential part, but the glitter
+that made you want it is gone--" He broke off uneasily. She had risen
+and was standing, dry-eyed, picking little leaves from a dark vine.
+
+"Dot--"
+
+"Go way," she said coldly. "What? Why?"
+
+"I don't want just words. If that's all you have for me you'd better
+go."
+
+"Why, Dot--"
+
+"What's death to me is just a lot of words to you. You put 'em together
+so pretty."
+
+"I'm sorry. I was talking about you, Dot."
+
+"Go way from here."
+
+He approached her with arms outstretched, but she held him away.
+
+"You don't want me to go with you," she said evenly; "maybe you're going
+to meet that--that girl--" She could not bring herself to say wife. "How
+do I know? Well, then, I reckon you're not my fellow any more. So
+go way."
+
+For a moment, while conflicting warnings and desires prompted Anthony,
+it seemed one of those rare times when he would take a step prompted
+from within. He hesitated. Then a wave of weariness broke against him.
+It was too late--everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed
+the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.
+The little girl in the white dress dominated him, as she approached
+beauty in the hard symmetry of her desire. The fire blazing in her dark
+and injured heart seemed to glow around her like a flame. With some
+profound and uncharted pride she had made herself remote and so achieved
+her purpose.
+
+"I didn't--mean to seem so callous, Dot."
+
+"It don't matter."
+
+The fire rolled over Anthony. Something wrenched at his bowels, and he
+stood there helpless and beaten.
+
+"Come with me, Dot--little loving Dot. Oh, come with me. I couldn't
+leave you now--"
+
+With a sob she wound her arms around him and let him support her weight
+while the moon, at its perennial labor of covering the bad complexion of
+the world, showered its illicit honey over the drowsy street.
+
+
+THE CATASTROPHE
+
+Early September in Camp Boone, Mississippi. The darkness, alive with
+insects, beat in upon the mosquito-netting, beneath the shelter of which
+Anthony was trying to write a letter. An intermittent chatter over a
+poker game was going on in the next tent, and outside a man was
+strolling up the company street singing a current bit of doggerel about
+"K-K-K-Katy."
+
+With an effort Anthony hoisted himself to his elbow and, pencil in hand,
+looked down at his blank sheet of paper. Then, omitting any heading,
+he began:
+
+_I can't imagine what the matter is, Gloria. I haven't had a line from
+you for two weeks and it's only natural to be worried--_
+
+He threw this away with a disturbed grunt and began again:
+
+_I don't know what to think, Gloria. Your last letter, short, cold,
+without a word of affection or even a decent account of what you've been
+doing, came two weeks ago. It's only natural that I should wonder. If
+your love for me isn't absolutely dead it seems that you'd at least keep
+me from worry--_
+
+Again he crumpled the page and tossed it angrily through a tear in the
+tent wall, realizing simultaneously that he would have to pick it up in
+the morning. He felt disinclined to try again. He could get no warmth
+into the lines--only a persistent jealousy and suspicion. Since
+midsummer these discrepancies in Gloria's correspondence had grown more
+and more noticeable. At first he had scarcely perceived them. He was so
+inured to the perfunctory "dearest" and "darlings" scattered through her
+letters that he was oblivious to their presence or absence. But in this
+last fortnight he had become increasingly aware that there was
+something amiss.
+
+He had sent her a night-letter saying that he had passed his
+examinations for an officers' training-camp, and expected to leave for
+Georgia shortly. She had not answered. He had wired again--when he
+received no word he imagined that she might be out of town. But it
+occurred and recurred to him that she was not out of town, and a series
+of distraught imaginings began to plague him. Supposing Gloria, bored
+and restless, had found some one, even as he had. The thought terrified
+him with its possibility--it was chiefly because he had been so sure of
+her personal integrity that he had considered her so sparingly during
+the year. And now, as a doubt was born, the old angers, the rages of
+possession, swarmed back a thousandfold. What more natural than that she
+should be in love again?
+
+He remembered the Gloria who promised that should she ever want
+anything, she would take it, insisting that since she would act entirely
+for her own satisfaction she could go through such an affair
+unsmirched--it was only the effect on a person's mind that counted,
+anyhow, she said, and her reaction would be the masculine one, of
+satiation and faint dislike.
+
+But that had been when they were first married. Later, with the
+discovery that she could be jealous of Anthony, she had, outwardly at
+least, changed her mind. There were no other men in the world for her.
+This he had known only too surely. Perceiving that a certain
+fastidiousness would restrain her, he had grown lax in preserving the
+completeness of her love--which, after all, was the keystone of the
+entire structure.
+
+Meanwhile all through the summer he had been maintaining Dot in a
+boarding-house down-town. To do this it had been necessary to write to
+his broker for money. Dot had covered her journey south by leaving her
+house a day before the brigade broke camp, informing her mother in a
+note that she had gone to New York. On the evening following Anthony had
+called as though to see her. Mrs. Raycroft was in a state of collapse
+and there was a policeman in the parlor. A questionnaire had ensued,
+from which Anthony had extricated himself with some difficulty.
+
+In September, with his suspicions of Gloria, the company of Dot had
+become tedious, then almost intolerable. He was nervous and irritable
+from lack of sleep; his heart was sick and afraid. Three days ago he had
+gone to Captain Dunning and asked for a furlough, only to be met with
+benignant procrastination. The division was starting overseas, while
+Anthony was going to an officers' training-camp; what furloughs could be
+given must go to the men who were leaving the country.
+
+Upon this refusal Anthony had started to the telegraph office intending
+to wire Gloria to come South--he reached the door and receded
+despairingly, seeing the utter impracticability of such a move. Then he
+had spent the evening quarrelling irritably with Dot, and returned to
+camp morose and angry with the world. There had been a disagreeable
+scene, in the midst of which he had precipitately departed. What was to
+be done with her did not seem to concern him vitally at present--he was
+completely absorbed in the disheartening silence of his wife....
+
+The flap of the tent made a sudden triangle back upon itself, and a dark
+head appeared against the night.
+
+"Sergeant Patch?" The accent was Italian, and Anthony saw by the belt
+that the man was a headquarters orderly.
+
+"Want me?"
+
+"Lady call up headquarters ten minutes ago. Say she have speak with you.
+Ver' important."
+
+Anthony swept aside the mosquito-netting and stood up. It might be a
+wire from Gloria telephoned over.
+
+"She say to get you. She call again ten o'clock."
+
+"All right, thanks." He picked up his hat and in a moment was striding
+beside the orderly through the hot, almost suffocating, darkness. Over
+in the headquarters shack he saluted a dozing night-service officer.
+
+"Sit down and wait," suggested the lieutenant nonchalantly. "Girl seemed
+awful anxious to speak to you."
+
+Anthony's hopes fell away.
+
+"Thank you very much, sir." And as the phone squeaked on the side-wall
+he knew who was calling.
+
+"This is Dot," came an unsteady voice, "I've got to see you."
+
+"Dot, I told you I couldn't get down for several days."
+
+"I've got to see you to-night. It's important."
+
+"It's too late," he said coldly; "it's ten o'clock, and I have to be in
+camp at eleven."
+
+"All right." There was so much wretchedness compressed into the two
+words that Anthony felt a measure of compunction.
+
+"What's the matter?"
+
+"I want to tell you good-by.
+
+"Oh, don't be a little idiot!" he exclaimed. But his spirits rose. What
+luck if she should leave town this very night! What a burden from his
+soul. But he said: "You can't possibly leave before to-morrow."
+
+Out of the corner of his eye he saw the night-service officer regarding
+him quizzically. Then, startlingly, came Dot's next words:
+
+"I don't mean 'leave' that way."
+
+Anthony's hand clutched the receiver fiercely. He felt his nerves
+turning cold as if the heat was leaving his body.
+
+"What?"
+
+Then quickly in a wild broken voice he heard:
+
+"Good-by--oh, good-by!"
+
+Cul-_lup!_ She had hung up the receiver. With a sound that was half a
+gasp, half a cry, Anthony hurried from the headquarters building.
+Outside, under the stars that dripped like silver tassels through the
+trees of the little grove, he stood motionless, hesitating. Had she
+meant to kill herself?--oh, the little fool! He was filled with bitter
+hate toward her. In this d�nouement he found it impossible to realize
+that he had ever begun such an entanglement, such a mess, a sordid
+m�lange of worry and pain.
+
+He found himself walking slowly away, repeating over and over that it
+was futile to worry. He had best go back to his tent and sleep. He
+needed sleep. God! Would he ever sleep again? His mind was in a vast
+clamor and confusion; as he reached the road he turned around in a panic
+and began running, not toward his company but away from it. Men were
+returning now--he could find a taxicab. After a minute two yellow eyes
+appeared around a bend. Desperately he ran toward them.
+
+"Jitney! Jitney!" ... It was an empty Ford.... "I want to go to town."
+
+"Cost you a dollar."
+
+"All right. If you'll just hurry--"
+
+After an interminable time he ran up the steps of a dark ramshackle
+little house, and through the door, almost knocking over an immense
+negress who was walking, candle in hand, along the hall.
+
+"Where's my wife?" he cried wildly.
+
+"She gone to bed."
+
+Up the stairs three at a time, down the creaking passage. The room was
+dark and silent, and with trembling fingers he struck a match. Two wide
+eyes looked up at him from a wretched ball of clothes on the bed.
+
+"Ah, I knew you'd come," she murmured brokenly.
+
+Anthony grew cold with anger.
+
+"So it was just a plan to get me down here, get me in trouble!" he said.
+"God damn it, you've shouted 'wolf' once too often!"
+
+She regarded him pitifully.
+
+"I had to see you. I couldn't have lived. Oh, I had to see you--"
+
+He sat down on the side of the bed and slowly shook his head.
+
+"You're no good," he said decisively, talking unconsciously as Gloria
+might have talked to him. "This sort of thing isn't fair to me,
+you know."
+
+"Come closer." Whatever he might say Dot was happy now. He cared for
+her. She had brought him to her side.
+
+"Oh, God," said Anthony hopelessly. As weariness rolled along its
+inevitable wave his anger subsided, receded, vanished. He collapsed
+suddenly, fell sobbing beside her on the bed.
+
+"Oh, my darling," she begged him, "don't cry! Oh, don't cry!"
+
+She took his head upon her breast and soothed him, mingled her happy
+tears with the bitterness of his. Her hand played gently with his
+dark hair.
+
+"I'm such a little fool," she murmured brokenly, "but I love you, and
+when you're cold to me it seems as if it isn't worth while to go
+on livin'."
+
+After all, this was peace--the quiet room with the mingled scent of
+women's powder and perfume, Dot's hand soft as a warm wind upon his
+hair, the rise and fall of her bosom as she took breath--for a moment it
+was as though it were Gloria there, as though he were at rest in some
+sweeter and safer home than he had ever known.
+
+An hour passed. A clock began to chime in the hall. He jumped to his
+feet and looked at the phosphorescent hands of his wrist watch. It was
+twelve o'clock.
+
+He had trouble in finding a taxi that would take him out at that hour.
+As he urged the driver faster along the road he speculated on the best
+method of entering camp. He had been late several times recently, and he
+knew that were he caught again his name would probably be stricken from
+the list of officer candidates. He wondered if he had not better dismiss
+the taxi and take a chance on passing the sentry in the dark. Still,
+officers often rode past the sentries after midnight....
+
+"Halt!" The monosyllable came from the yellow glare that the headlights
+dropped upon the changing road. The taxi-driver threw out his clutch and
+a sentry walked up, carrying his rifle at the port. With him, by an ill
+chance, was the officer of the guard.
+
+"Out late, sergeant."
+
+"Yes, sir. Got delayed."
+
+"Too bad. Have to take your name."
+
+As the officer waited, note-book and pencil in hand, something not fully
+intended crowded to Anthony's lips, something born of panic, of muddle,
+of despair.
+
+"Sergeant R.A. Foley," he answered breathlessly.
+
+"And the outfit?"
+
+"Company Q, Eighty-third Infantry."
+
+"All right. You'll have to walk from here, sergeant."
+
+Anthony saluted, quickly paid his taxi-driver, and set off for a run
+toward the regiment he had named. When he was out of sight he changed
+his course, and with his heart beating wildly, hurried to his company,
+feeling that he had made a fatal error of judgment.
+
+Two days later the officer who had been in command of the guard
+recognized him in a barber shop down-town. In charge of a military
+policeman he was taken back to the camp, where he was reduced to the
+ranks without trial, and confined for a month to the limits of his
+company street.
+
+With this blow a spell of utter depression overtook him, and within a
+week he was again caught down-town, wandering around in a drunken daze,
+with a pint of bootleg whiskey in his hip pocket. It was because of a
+sort of craziness in his behavior at the trial that his sentence to the
+guard-house was for only three weeks.
+
+
+NIGHTMARE
+
+Early in his confinement the conviction took root in him that he was
+going mad. It was as though there were a quantity of dark yet vivid
+personalities in his mind, some of them familiar, some of them strange
+and terrible, held in check by a little monitor, who sat aloft somewhere
+and looked on. The thing that worried him was that the monitor was sick,
+and holding out with difficulty. Should he give up, should he falter for
+a moment, out would rush these intolerable things--only Anthony could
+know what a state of blackness there would be if the worst of him could
+roam his consciousness unchecked.
+
+The heat of the day had changed, somehow, until it was a burnished
+darkness crushing down upon a devastated land. Over his head the blue
+circles of ominous uncharted suns, of unnumbered centres of fire,
+revolved interminably before his eyes as though he were lying constantly
+exposed to the hot light and in a state of feverish coma. At seven in
+the morning something phantasmal, something almost absurdly unreal that
+he knew was his mortal body, went out with seven other prisoners and two
+guards to work on the camp roads. One day they loaded and unloaded
+quantities of gravel, spread it, raked it--the next day they worked with
+huge barrels of red-hot tar, flooding the gravel with black, shining
+pools of molten heat. At night, locked up in the guard-house, he would
+lie without thought, without courage to compass thought, staring at the
+irregular beams of the ceiling overhead until about three o'clock, when
+he would slip into a broken, troubled sleep.
+
+During the work hours he labored with uneasy haste, attempting, as the
+day bore toward the sultry Mississippi sunset, to tire himself
+physically so that in the evening he might sleep deeply from utter
+exhaustion.... Then one afternoon in the second week he had a feeling
+that two eyes were watching him from a place a few feet beyond one of
+the guards. This aroused him to a sort of terror. He turned his back on
+the eyes and shovelled feverishly, until it became necessary for him to
+face about and go for more gravel. Then they entered his vision again,
+and his already taut nerves tightened up to the breaking-point. The eyes
+were leering at him. Out of a hot silence he heard his name called in a
+tragic voice, and the earth tipped absurdly back and forth to a babel of
+shouting and confusion.
+
+When next he became conscious he was back in the guard-house, and the
+other prisoners were throwing him curious glances. The eyes returned no
+more. It was many days before he realized that the voice must have been
+Dot's, that she had called out to him and made some sort of disturbance.
+He decided this just previous to the expiration of his sentence, when
+the cloud that oppressed him had lifted, leaving him in a deep,
+dispirited lethargy. As the conscious mediator, the monitor who kept
+that fearsome m�nage of horror, grew stronger, Anthony became physically
+weaker. He was scarcely able to get through the two days of toil, and
+when he was released, one rainy afternoon, and returned to his company,
+he reached his tent only to fall into a heavy doze, from which he awoke
+before dawn, aching and unrefreshed. Beside his cot were two letters
+that had been awaiting him in the orderly tent for some time. The first
+was from Gloria; it was short and cool:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_The case is coming to trial late in November. Can you possibly get
+leave?_
+
+_I've tried to write you again and again but it just seems to make
+things worse. I want to see you about several matters, but you know that
+you have once prevented me from coming and I am disinclined to try
+again. In view of a number of things it seems necessary that we have a
+conference. I'm very glad about your appointment._
+
+GLORIA.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He was too tired to try to understand--or to care. Her phrases, her
+intentions, were all very far away in an incomprehensible past. At the
+second letter he scarcely glanced; it was from Dot--an incoherent,
+tear-swollen scrawl, a flood of protest, endearment, and grief. After a
+page he let it slip from his inert hand and drowsed back into a nebulous
+hinterland of his own. At drill-call he awoke with a high fever and
+fainted when he tried to leave his tent--at noon he was sent to the base
+hospital with influenza.
+
+He was aware that this sickness was providential. It saved him from a
+hysterical relapse--and he recovered in time to entrain on a damp
+November day for New York, and for the interminable massacre beyond.
+
+When the regiment reached Camp Mills, Long Island, Anthony's single idea
+was to get into the city and see Gloria as soon as possible. It was now
+evident that an armistice would be signed within the week, but rumor had
+it that in any case troops would continue to be shipped to France until
+the last moment. Anthony was appalled at the notion of the long voyage,
+of a tedious debarkation at a French port, and of being kept abroad for
+a year, possibly, to replace the troops who had seen actual fighting.
+
+His intention had been to obtain a two-day furlough, but Camp Mills
+proved to be under a strict influenza quarantine--it was impossible for
+even an officer to leave except on official business. For a private it
+was out of the question.
+
+The camp itself was a dreary muddle, cold, wind-swept, and filthy, with
+the accumulated dirt incident to the passage through of many divisions.
+Their train came in at seven one night, and they waited in line until
+one while a military tangle was straightened out somewhere ahead.
+Officers ran up and down ceaselessly, calling orders and making a great
+uproar. It turned out that the trouble was due to the colonel, who was
+in a righteous temper because he was a West Pointer, and the war was
+going to stop before he could get overseas. Had the militant governments
+realized the number of broken hearts among the older West Pointers
+during that week, they would indubitably have prolonged the slaughter
+another month. The thing was pitiable!
+
+Gazing out at the bleak expanse of tents extending for miles over a
+trodden welter of slush and snow, Anthony saw the impracticability of
+trudging to a telephone that night. He would call her at the first
+opportunity in the morning.
+
+Aroused in the chill and bitter dawn he stood at reveille and listened
+to a passionate harangue from Captain Dunning:
+
+"You men may think the war is over. Well, let me tell you, it isn't!
+Those fellows aren't going to sign the armistice. It's another trick,
+and we'd be crazy to let anything slacken up here in the company,
+because, let me tell you, we're going to sail from here within a week,
+and when we do we're going to see some real fighting." He paused that
+they might get the full effect of his pronouncement. And then: "If you
+think the war's over, just talk to any one who's been in it and see if
+_they_ think the Germans are all in. They don't. Nobody does. I've
+talked to the people that _know_, and they say there'll be, anyways, a
+year longer of war. _They_ don't think it's over. So you men better not
+get any foolish ideas that it is."
+
+Doubly stressing this final admonition, he ordered the company
+dismissed.
+
+At noon Anthony set off at a run for the nearest canteen telephone. As
+he approached what corresponded to the down-town of the camp, he noticed
+that many other soldiers were running also, that a man near him had
+suddenly leaped into the air and clicked his heels together. The
+tendency to run became general, and from little excited groups here and
+there came the sounds of cheering. He stopped and listened--over the
+cold country whistles were blowing and the chimes of the Garden City
+churches broke suddenly into reverberatory sound.
+
+Anthony began to run again. The cries were clear and distinct now as
+they rose with clouds of frosted breath into the chilly air:
+
+_"Germany's surrendered! Germany's surrendered!"_
+
+
+THE FALSE ARMISTICE
+
+That evening in the opaque gloom of six o'clock Anthony slipped between
+two freight-cars, and once over the railroad, followed the track along
+to Garden City, where he caught an electric train for New York. He stood
+some chance of apprehension--he knew that the military police were often
+sent through the cars to ask for passes, but he imagined that to-night
+the vigilance would be relaxed. But, in any event, he would have tried
+to slip through, for he had been unable to locate Gloria by telephone,
+and another day of suspense would have been intolerable.
+
+After inexplicable stops and waits that reminded him of the night he had
+left New York, over a year before, they drew into the Pennsylvania
+Station, and he followed the familiar way to the taxi-stand, finding it
+grotesque and oddly stimulating to give his own address.
+
+Broadway was a riot of light, thronged as he had never seen it with a
+carnival crowd which swept its glittering way through scraps of paper,
+piled ankle-deep on the sidewalks. Here and there, elevated upon benches
+and boxes, soldiers addressed the heedless mass, each face in which was
+clear cut and distinct under the white glare overhead. Anthony picked
+out half a dozen figures--a drunken sailor, tipped backward and
+supported by two other gobs, was waving his hat and emitting a wild
+series of roars; a wounded soldier, crutch in hand, was borne along in
+an eddy on the shoulders of some shrieking civilians; a dark-haired girl
+sat cross-legged and meditative on top of a parked taxicab. Here surely
+the victory had come in time, the climax had been scheduled with the
+uttermost celestial foresight. The great rich nation had made triumphant
+war, suffered enough for poignancy but not enough for bitterness--hence
+the carnival, the feasting, the triumph. Under these bright lights
+glittered the faces of peoples whose glory had long since passed away,
+whose very civilizations were dead-men whose ancestors had heard the
+news of victory in Babylon, in Nineveh, in Bagdad, in Tyre, a hundred
+generations before; men whose ancestors had seen a flower-decked,
+slave-adorned cortege drift with its wake of captives down the avenues
+of Imperial Rome....
+
+Past the Rialto, the glittering front of the Astor, the jewelled
+magnificence of Times Square ... a gorgeous alley of incandescence
+ahead.... Then--was it years later?--he was paying the taxi-driver in
+front of a white building on Fifty-seventh Street. He was in the
+hall--ah, there was the negro boy from Martinique, lazy, indolent,
+unchanged.
+
+"Is Mrs. Patch in?"
+
+"I have just came on, sah," the man announced with his incongruous
+British accent.
+
+"Take me up--"
+
+Then the slow drone of the elevator, the three steps to the door, which
+swung open at the impetus of his knock.
+
+"Gloria!" His voice was trembling. No answer. A faint string of smoke
+was rising from a cigarette-tray--a number of Vanity Fair sat astraddle
+on the table.
+
+"Gloria!"
+
+He ran into the bedroom, the bath. She was not there. A neglig�e of
+robin's-egg blue laid out upon the bed diffused a faint perfume,
+illusive and familiar. On a chair were a pair of stockings and a street
+dress; an open powder box yawned upon the bureau. She must just
+have gone out.
+
+The telephone rang abruptly and he started--answered it with all the
+sensations of an impostor.
+
+"Hello. Is Mrs. Patch there?"
+
+"No, I'm looking for her myself. Who is this?"
+
+"This is Mr. Crawford."
+
+"This is Mr. Patch speaking. I've just arrived unexpectedly, and I don't
+know where to find her."
+
+"Oh." Mr. Crawford sounded a bit taken aback. "Why, I imagine she's at
+the Armistice Ball. I know she intended going, but I didn't think she'd
+leave so early."
+
+"Where's the Armistice Ball?"
+
+"At the Astor."
+
+"Thanks."
+
+Anthony hung up sharply and rose. Who was Mr. Crawford? And who was it
+that was taking her to the ball? How long had this been going on? All
+these questions asked and answered themselves a dozen times, a dozen
+ways. His very proximity to her drove him half frantic.
+
+In a frenzy of suspicion he rushed here and there about the apartment,
+hunting for some sign of masculine occupation, opening the bathroom
+cupboard, searching feverishly through the bureau drawers. Then he found
+something that made him stop suddenly and sit down on one of the twin
+beds, the corners of his mouth drooping as though he were about to weep.
+There in a corner of her drawer, tied with a frail blue ribbon, were all
+the letters and telegrams he had written her during the year past. He
+was suffused with happy and sentimental shame.
+
+"I'm not fit to touch her," he cried aloud to the four walls. "I'm not
+fit to touch her little hand."
+
+Nevertheless, he went out to look for her.
+
+In the Astor lobby he was engulfed immediately in a crowd so thick as to
+make progress almost impossible. He asked the direction of the ballroom
+from half a dozen people before he could get a sober and intelligible
+answer. Eventually, after a last long wait, he checked his military
+overcoat in the hall.
+
+It was only nine but the dance was in full blast. The panorama was
+incredible. Women, women everywhere--girls gay with wine singing shrilly
+above the clamor of the dazzling confetti-covered throng; girls set off
+by the uniforms of a dozen nations; fat females collapsing without
+dignity upon the floor and retaining self-respect by shouting "Hurraw
+for the Allies!"; three women with white hair dancing hand in hand
+around a sailor, who revolved in a dizzying spin upon the floor,
+clasping to his heart an empty bottle of champagne.
+
+Breathlessly Anthony scanned the dancers, scanned the muddled lines
+trailing in single file in and out among the tables, scanned the
+horn-blowing, kissing, coughing, laughing, drinking parties under the
+great full-bosomed flags which leaned in glowing color over the
+pageantry and the sound.
+
+Then he saw Gloria. She was sitting at a table for two directly across
+the room. Her dress was black, and above it her animated face, tinted
+with the most glamourous rose, made, he thought, a spot of poignant
+beauty on the room. His heart leaped as though to a new music. He
+jostled his way toward her and called her name just as the gray eyes
+looked up and found him. For that instant as their bodies met and
+melted, the world, the revel, the tumbling whimper of the music faded to
+an ecstatic monotone hushed as a song of bees.
+
+"Oh, my Gloria!" he cried.
+
+Her kiss was a cool rill flowing from her heart.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+A MATTER OF AESTHETICS
+
+On the night when Anthony had left for Camp Hooker one year before, all
+that was left of the beautiful Gloria Gilbert--her shell, her young and
+lovely body--moved up the broad marble steps of the Grand Central
+Station with the rhythm of the engine beating in her ears like a dream,
+and out onto Vanderbilt Avenue, where the huge bulk of the Biltmore
+overhung, the street and, down at its low, gleaming entrance, sucked in
+the many-colored opera-cloaks of gorgeously dressed girls. For a moment
+she paused by the taxi-stand and watched them--wondering that but a few
+years before she had been of their number, ever setting out for a
+radiant Somewhere, always just about to have that ultimate passionate
+adventure for which the girls' cloaks were delicate and beautifully
+furred, for which their cheeks were painted and their hearts higher than
+the transitory dome of pleasure that would engulf them, coiffure,
+cloak, and all.
+
+It was growing colder and the men passing had flipped up the collars of
+their overcoats. This change was kind to her. It would have been kinder
+still had everything changed, weather, streets, and people, and had she
+been whisked away, to wake in some high, fresh-scented room, alone, and
+statuesque within and without, as in her virginal and colorful past.
+
+Inside the taxicab she wept impotent tears. That she had not been happy
+with Anthony for over a year mattered little. Recently his presence had
+been no more than what it would awake in her of that memorable June. The
+Anthony of late, irritable, weak, and poor, could do no less than make
+her irritable in turn--and bored with everything except the fact that in
+a highly imaginative and eloquent youth they had come together in an
+ecstatic revel of emotion. Because of this mutually vivid memory she
+would have done more for Anthony than for any other human--so when she
+got into the taxicab she wept passionately, and wanted to call his
+name aloud.
+
+Miserable, lonesome as a forgotten child, she sat in the quiet apartment
+and wrote him a letter full of confused sentiment:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+... _I can almost look down the tracks and see you going but without
+you, dearest, dearest, I can't see or hear or feel or think. Being
+apart--whatever has happened or will happen to us--is like begging for
+mercy from a storm, Anthony; it's like growing old. I want to kiss you
+so--in the back of your neck where your old black hair starts. Because I
+love you and whatever we do or say to each other, or have done, or have
+said, you've got to feel how much I do, how inanimate I am when you're
+gone. I can't even hate the damnable presence of PEOPLE, those people in
+the station who haven't any right to live--I can't resent them even
+though they're dirtying up our world, because I'm engrossed in
+wanting you so._
+
+_If you hated me, if you were covered with sores like a leper, if you
+ran away with another woman or starved me or beat me--how absurd this
+sounds--I'd still want you, I'd still love you. I_ KNOW, _my darling._
+
+_It's late--I have all the windows open and the air outside, is just as
+soft as spring, yet, somehow, much more young and frail than spring. Why
+do they make spring a young girl, why does that illusion dance and yodel
+its way for three months through the world's preposterous barrenness.
+Spring is a lean old plough horse with its ribs showing--it's a pile of
+refuse in a field, parched by the sun and the rain to an ominous
+cleanliness._
+
+_In a few hours you'll wake up, my darling--and you'll be miserable, and
+disgusted with life. You'll be in Delaware or Carolina or somewhere and
+so unimportant. I don't believe there's any one alive who can
+contemplate themselves as an impermanent institution, as a luxury or an
+unnecessary evil. Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of
+life remark the futility of themselves. Perhaps they think that in
+proclaiming the evil of living they somehow salvage their own worth from
+the ruin--but they don't, even you and I...._
+
+_ ... Still I can see you. There's blue haze about the trees where
+you'll be passing, too beautiful to be predominant. No, the fallow
+squares of earth will be most frequent--they'll be along beside the
+track like dirty coarse brown sheets drying in the sun, alive,
+mechanical, abominable. Nature, slovenly old hag, has been sleeping in
+them with every old farmer or negro or immigrant who happened to
+covet her...._
+
+_So you see that now you're gone I've written a letter all full of
+contempt and despair. And that just means that I love you, Anthony, with
+all there is to love with in your_
+
+GLORIA.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When she had addressed the letter she went to her twin bed and lay down
+upon it, clasping Anthony's pillow in her arms as though by sheer force
+of emotion she could metamorphize it into his warm and living body. Two
+o'clock saw her dry-eyed, staring with steady persistent grief into the
+darkness, remembering, remembering unmercifully, blaming herself for a
+hundred fancied unkindnesses, making a likeness of Anthony akin to some
+martyred and transfigured Christ. For a time she thought of him as he,
+in his more sentimental moments, probably thought of himself.
+
+At five she was still awake. A mysterious grinding noise that went on
+every morning across the areaway told her the hour. She heard an alarm
+clock ring, and saw a light make a yellow square on an illusory blank
+wall opposite. With the half-formed resolution of following him South
+immediately, her sorrow grew remote and unreal, and moved off from her
+as the dark moved westward. She fell asleep.
+
+When she awoke the sight of the empty bed beside her brought a renewal
+of misery, dispelled shortly, however, by the inevitable callousness of
+the bright morning. Though she was not conscious of it, there was relief
+in eating breakfast without Anthony's tired and worried face opposite
+her. Now that she was alone she lost all desire to complain about the
+food. She would change her breakfasts, she thought--have a lemonade and
+a tomato sandwich instead of the sempiternal bacon and eggs and toast.
+
+Nevertheless, at noon when she had called up several of her
+acquaintances, including the martial Muriel, and found each one engaged
+for lunch, she gave way to a quiet pity for herself and her loneliness.
+Curled on the bed with pencil and paper she wrote Anthony
+another letter.
+
+Late in the afternoon arrived a special delivery, mailed from some small
+New Jersey town, and the familiarity of the phrasing, the almost audible
+undertone of worry and discontent, were so familiar that they comforted
+her. Who knew? Perhaps army discipline would harden Anthony and accustom
+him to the idea of work. She had immutable faith that the war would be
+over before he was called upon to fight, and meanwhile the suit would be
+won, and they could begin again, this time on a different basis. The
+first thing different would be that she would have a child. It was
+unbearable that she should be so utterly alone.
+
+It was a week before she could stay in the apartment with the
+probability of remaining dry-eyed. There seemed little in the city that
+was amusing. Muriel had been shifted to a hospital in New Jersey, from
+which she took a metropolitan holiday only every other week, and with
+this defection Gloria grew to realize how few were the friends she had
+made in all these years of New York. The men she knew were in the army.
+"Men she knew"?--she had conceded vaguely to herself that all the men
+who had ever been in love with her were her friends. Each one of them
+had at a certain considerable time professed to value her favor above
+anything in life. But now--where were they? At least two were dead, half
+a dozen or more were married, the rest scattered from France to the
+Philippines. She wondered whether any of them thought of her, and how
+often, and in what respect. Most of them must still picture the little
+girl of seventeen or so, the adolescent siren of nine years before.
+
+The girls, too, were gone far afield. She had never been popular in
+school. She had been too beautiful, too lazy, not sufficiently conscious
+of being a Farmover girl and a "Future Wife and Mother" in perpetual
+capital letters. And girls who had never been kissed hinted, with
+shocked expressions on their plain but not particularly wholesome faces,
+that Gloria had. Then these girls had gone east or west or south,
+married and become "people," prophesying, if they prophesied about
+Gloria, that she would come to a bad end--not knowing that no endings
+were bad, and that they, like her, were by no means the mistresses of
+their destinies.
+
+Gloria told over to herself the people who had visited them in the gray
+house at Marietta. It had seemed at the time that they were always
+having company--she had indulged in an unspoken conviction that each
+guest was ever afterward slightly indebted to her. They owed her a sort
+of moral ten dollars apiece, and should she ever be in need she might,
+so to speak, borrow from them this visionary currency. But they were
+gone, scattered like chaff, mysteriously and subtly vanished in essence
+or in fact.
+
+By Christmas, Gloria's conviction that she should join Anthony had
+returned, no longer as a sudden emotion, but as a recurrent need. She
+decided to write him word of her coming, but postponed the announcement
+upon the advice of Mr. Haight, who expected almost weekly that the case
+was coming up for trial.
+
+One day, early in January, as she was walking on Fifth Avenue, bright
+now with uniforms and hung with the flags of the virtuous nations, she
+met Rachael Barnes, whom she had not seen for nearly a year. Even
+Rachael, whom she had grown to dislike, was a relief from ennui, and
+together they went to the Ritz for tea.
+
+After a second cocktail they became enthusiastic. They liked each other.
+They talked about their husbands, Rachael in that tone of public
+vainglory, with private reservations, in which wives are wont to speak.
+
+"Rodman's abroad in the Quartermaster Corps. He's a captain. He was
+bound he would go, and he didn't think he could get into anything else."
+
+"Anthony's in the Infantry." The words in their relation to the cocktail
+gave Gloria a sort of glow. With each sip she approached a warm and
+comforting patriotism.
+
+"By the way," said Rachael half an hour later, as they were leaving,
+"can't you come up to dinner to-morrow night? I'm having two awfully
+sweet officers who are just going overseas. I think we ought to do all
+we can to make it attractive for them."
+
+Gloria accepted gladly. She took down the address--recognizing by its
+number a fashionable apartment building on Park Avenue.
+
+"It's been awfully good to have seen you, Rachael."
+
+"It's been wonderful. I've wanted to."
+
+With these three sentences a certain night in Marietta two summers
+before, when Anthony and Rachael had been unnecessarily attentive to
+each other, was forgiven--Gloria forgave Rachael, Rachael forgave
+Gloria. Also it was forgiven that Rachael had been witness to the
+greatest disaster in the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Patch--
+
+Compromising with events time moves along.
+
+
+THE WILES OF CAPTAIN COLLINS
+
+The two officers were captains of the popular craft, machine gunnery. At
+dinner they referred to themselves with conscious boredom as members of
+the "Suicide Club"--in those days every recondite branch of the service
+referred to itself as the Suicide Club. One of the captains--Rachael's
+captain, Gloria observed--was a tall horsy man of thirty with a pleasant
+mustache and ugly teeth. The other, Captain Collins, was chubby,
+pink-faced, and inclined to laugh with abandon every time he caught
+Gloria's eye. He took an immediate fancy to her, and throughout dinner
+showered her with inane compliments. With her second glass of champagne
+Gloria decided that for the first time in months she was thoroughly
+enjoying herself.
+
+After dinner it was suggested that they all go somewhere and dance. The
+two officers supplied themselves with bottles of liquor from Rachael's
+sideboard--a law forbade service to the military--and so equipped they
+went through innumerable fox trots in several glittering caravanseries
+along Broadway, faithfully alternating partners--while Gloria became
+more and more uproarious and more and more amusing to the pink-faced
+captain, who seldom bothered to remove his genial smile at all.
+
+At eleven o'clock to her great surprise she was in the minority for
+staying out. The others wanted to return to Rachael's apartment--to get
+some more liquor, they said. Gloria argued persistently that Captain
+Collins's flask was half full--she had just seen it--then catching
+Rachael's eye she received an unmistakable wink. She deduced,
+confusedly, that her hostess wanted to get rid of the officers and
+assented to being bundled into a taxicab outside.
+
+Captain Wolf sat on the left with Rachael on his knees. Captain Collins
+sat in the middle, and as he settled himself he slipped his arm about
+Gloria's shoulder. It rested there lifelessly for a moment and then
+tightened like a vise. He leaned over her.
+
+"You're awfully pretty," he whispered.
+
+"Thank you kindly, sir." She was neither pleased nor annoyed. Before
+Anthony came so many arms had done likewise that it had become little
+more than a gesture, sentimental but without significance.
+
+Up in Rachael's long front room a low fire and two lamps shaded with
+orange silk gave all the light, so that the corners were full of deep and
+somnolent shadows. The hostess, moving about in a dark-figured gown of
+loose chiffon, seemed to accentuate the already sensuous atmosphere. For
+a while they were all four together, tasting the sandwiches that waited
+on the tea table--then Gloria found herself alone with Captain Collins
+on the fireside lounge; Rachael and Captain Wolf had withdrawn to the
+other side of the room, where they were conversing in subdued voices.
+
+"I wish you weren't married," said Collins, his face a ludicrous
+travesty of "in all seriousness."
+
+"Why?" She held out her glass to be filled with a high-ball.
+
+"Don't drink any more," he urged her, frowning.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"You'd be nicer--if you didn't."
+
+Gloria caught suddenly the intended suggestion of the remark, the
+atmosphere he was attempting to create. She wanted to laugh--yet she
+realized that there was nothing to laugh at. She had been enjoying the
+evening, and she had no desire to go home--at the same time it hurt her
+pride to be flirted with on just that level.
+
+"Pour me another drink," she insisted.
+
+"Please--"
+
+"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" she cried in exasperation.
+
+"Very well." He yielded with ill grace.
+
+Then his arm was about her again, and again she made no protest. But
+when his pink cheek came close she leaned away.
+
+"You're awfully sweet," he said with an aimless air.
+
+She began to sing softly, wishing now that he would take down his arm.
+Suddenly her eye fell on an intimate scene across the room--Rachael and
+Captain Wolf were engrossed in a long kiss. Gloria shivered
+slightly--she knew not why.... Pink face approached again.
+
+"You shouldn't look at them," he whispered. Almost immediately his other
+arm was around her ... his breath was on her cheek. Again absurdity
+triumphed over disgust, and her laugh was a weapon that needed no
+edge of words.
+
+"Oh, I thought you were a sport," he was saying.
+
+"What's a sport?"
+
+"Why, a person that likes to--to enjoy life."
+
+"Is kissing you generally considered a joyful affair?"
+
+They were interrupted as Rachael and Captain Wolf appeared suddenly
+before them.
+
+"It's late, Gloria," said Rachael--she was flushed and her hair was
+dishevelled. "You'd better stay here all night."
+
+For an instant Gloria thought the officers were being dismissed. Then
+she understood, and, understanding, got to her feet as casually as
+she was able.
+
+Uncomprehendingly Rachael continued:
+
+"You can have the room just off this one. I can lend you everything you
+need."
+
+Collins's eyes implored her like a dog's; Captain Wolf's arm had settled
+familiarly around Rachael's waist; they were waiting.
+
+But the lure of promiscuity, colorful, various, labyrinthine, and ever a
+little odorous and stale, had no call or promise for Gloria. Had she so
+desired she would have remained, without hesitation, without regret; as
+it was she could face coolly the six hostile and offended eyes that
+followed her out into the hall with forced politeness and hollow words.
+
+"_He_ wasn't even sport, enough to try to take me home," she thought in
+the taxi, and then with a quick surge of resentment: "How
+_utterly_ common!"
+
+
+GALLANTRY
+
+In February she had an experience of quite a different sort. Tudor
+Baird, an ancient flame, a young man whom at one time she had fully
+intended to marry, came to New York by way of the Aviation Corps, and
+called upon her. They went several times to the theatre, and within a
+week, to her great enjoyment, he was as much in love with her as ever.
+Quite deliberately she brought it about, realizing too late that she had
+done a mischief. He reached the point of sitting with her in miserable
+silence whenever they went out together.
+
+A Scroll and Keys man at Yale, he possessed the correct reticences of a
+"good egg," the correct notions of chivalry and _noblesse oblige_--and,
+of course but unfortunately, the correct biases and the correct lack of
+ideas--all those traits which Anthony had taught her to despise, but
+which, nevertheless, she rather admired. Unlike the majority of his
+type, she found that he was not a bore. He was handsome, witty in a
+light way, and when she was with him she felt that because of some
+quality he possessed--call it stupidity, loyalty, sentimentality, or
+something not quite as definite as any of the three--he would have done
+anything in his power to please her.
+
+He told her this among other things, very correctly and with a ponderous
+manliness that masked a real suffering. Loving him not at all she grew
+sorry for him and kissed him sentimentally one night because he was so
+charming, a relic of a vanishing generation which lived a priggish and
+graceful illusion and was being replaced by less gallant fools.
+Afterward she was glad she had kissed him, for next day when his plane
+fell fifteen hundred feet at Mineola a piece of a gasolene engine
+smashed through his heart.
+
+
+GLORIA ALONE
+
+When Mr. Haight told her that the trial would not take place until
+autumn she decided that without telling Anthony she would go into the
+movies. When he saw her successful, both histrionically and financially,
+when he saw that she could have her will of Joseph Bloeckman, yielding
+nothing in return, he would lose his silly prejudices. She lay awake
+half one night planning her career and enjoying her successes in
+anticipation, and the next morning she called up "Films Par Excellence."
+Mr. Bloeckman was in Europe.
+
+But the idea had gripped her so strongly this time that she decided to
+go the rounds of the moving picture employment agencies. As so often had
+been the case, her sense of smell worked against her good intentions.
+The employment agency smelt as though it had been dead a very long time.
+She waited five minutes inspecting her unprepossessing competitors--then
+she walked briskly out into the farthest recesses of Central Park and
+remained so long that she caught a cold. She was trying to air the
+employment agency out of her walking suit.
+
+In the spring she began to gather from Anthony's letters--not from any
+one in particular but from their culminative effect--that he did not
+want her to come South. Curiously repeated excuses that seemed to haunt
+him by their very insufficiency occurred with Freudian regularity. He
+set them down in each letter as though he feared he had forgotten them
+the last time, as though it were desperately necessary to impress her
+with them. And the dilutions of his letters with affectionate
+diminutives began to be mechanical and unspontaneous--almost as though,
+having completed the letter, he had looked it over and literally stuck
+them in, like epigrams in an Oscar Wilde play. She jumped to the
+solution, rejected it, was angry and depressed by turns--finally she
+shut her mind to it proudly, and allowed an increasing coolness to creep
+into her end of the correspondence.
+
+Of late she had found a good deal to occupy her attention. Several
+aviators whom she had met through Tudor Baird came into New York to see
+her and two other ancient beaux turned up, stationed at Camp Dix. As
+these men were ordered overseas they, so to speak, handed her down to
+their friends. But after another rather disagreeable experience with a
+potential Captain Collins she made it plain that when any one was
+introduced to her he should be under no misapprehensions as to her
+status and personal intentions.
+
+When summer came she learned, like Anthony, to watch the officers'
+casualty list, taking a sort of melancholy pleasure in hearing of the
+death of some one with whom she had once danced a german and in
+identifying by name the younger brothers of former suitors--thinking, as
+the drive toward Paris progressed, that here at length went the world to
+inevitable and well-merited destruction.
+
+She was twenty-seven. Her birthday fled by scarcely noticed. Years
+before it had frightened her when she became twenty, to some extent when
+she reached twenty-six--but now she looked in the glass with calm
+self-approval seeing the British freshness of her complexion and her
+figure boyish and slim as of old.
+
+She tried not to think of Anthony. It was as though she were writing to
+a stranger. She told her friends that he had been made a corporal and
+was annoyed when they were politely unimpressed. One night she wept
+because she was sorry for him--had he been even slightly responsive she
+would have gone to him without hesitation on the first train-whatever he
+was doing he needed to be taken care of spiritually, and she felt that
+now she would be able to do even that. Recently, without his continual
+drain upon her moral strength she found herself wonderfully revived.
+Before he left she had been inclined through sheer association to brood
+on her wasted opportunities--now she returned to her normal state of
+mind, strong, disdainful, existing each day for each day's worth. She
+bought a doll and dressed it; one week she wept over "Ethan Frome"; the
+next she revelled in some novels of Galsworthy's, whom she liked for his
+power of recreating, by spring in darkness, that illusion of young
+romantic love to which women look forever forward and forever back.
+
+In October Anthony's letters multiplied, became almost frantic--then
+suddenly ceased. For a worried month it needed all her powers of control
+to refrain from leaving immediately for Mississippi. Then a telegram
+told her that he had been in the hospital and that she could expect him
+in New York within ten days. Like a figure in a dream he came back into
+her life across the ballroom on that November evening--and all through
+long hours that held familiar gladness she took him close to her breast,
+nursing an illusion of happiness and security she had not thought that
+she would know again.
+
+
+DISCOMFITURE OF THE GENERALS
+
+After a week Anthony's regiment went back to the Mississippi camp to be
+discharged. The officers shut themselves up in the compartments on the
+Pullman cars and drank the whiskey they had bought in New York, and in
+the coaches the soldiers got as drunk as possible also--and pretended
+whenever the train stopped at a village that they were just returned
+from France, where they had practically put an end to the German army.
+As they all wore overseas caps and claimed that they had not had time to
+have their gold service stripes sewed on, the yokelry of the seaboard
+were much impressed and asked them how they liked the trenches--to which
+they replied "Oh, _boy!_" with great smacking of tongues and shaking of
+heads. Some one took a piece of chalk and scrawled on the side of the
+train, "We won the war--now we're going home," and the officers laughed
+and let it stay. They were all getting what swagger they could out of
+this ignominious return.
+
+As they rumbled on toward camp, Anthony was uneasy lest he should find
+Dot awaiting him patiently at the station. To his relief he neither saw
+nor heard anything of her and thinking that were she still in town she
+would certainly attempt to communicate with him, he concluded that she
+had gone--whither he neither knew nor cared. He wanted only to return to
+Gloria--Gloria reborn and wonderfully alive. When eventually he was
+discharged he left his company on the rear of a great truck with a crowd
+who had given tolerant, almost sentimental, cheers for their officers,
+especially for Captain Dunning. The captain, on his part, had addressed
+them with tears in his eyes as to the pleasure, etc., and the work,
+etc., and time not wasted, etc., and duty, etc. It was very dull and
+human; having given ear to it Anthony, whose mind was freshened by his
+week in New York, renewed his deep loathing for the military profession
+and all it connoted. In their childish hearts two out of every three
+professional officers considered that wars were made for armies and not
+armies for wars. He rejoiced to see general and field-officers riding
+desolately about the barren camp deprived of their commands. He rejoiced
+to hear the men in his company laugh scornfully at the inducements
+tendered them to remain in the army. They were to attend "schools." He
+knew what these "schools" were.
+
+Two days later he was with Gloria in New York.
+
+
+ANOTHER WINTER
+
+Late one February afternoon Anthony came into the apartment and groping
+through the little hall, pitch-dark in the winter dusk, found Gloria
+sitting by the window. She turned as he came in.
+
+"What did Mr. Haight have to say?" she asked listlessly.
+
+"Nothing," he answered, "usual thing. Next month, perhaps."
+
+She looked at him closely; her ear attuned to his voice caught the
+slightest thickness in the dissyllable.
+
+"You've been drinking," she remarked dispassionately.
+
+"Couple glasses."
+
+"Oh."
+
+He yawned in the armchair and there was a moment's silence between them.
+Then she demanded suddenly:
+
+"Did you go to Mr. Haight? Tell me the truth."
+
+"No." He smiled weakly. "As a matter of fact I didn't have time."
+
+"I thought you didn't go.... He sent for you."
+
+"I don't give a damn. I'm sick of waiting around his office. You'd think
+he was doing _me_ a favor." He glanced at Gloria as though expecting
+moral support, but she had turned back to her contemplation of the
+dubious and unprepossessing out-of-doors.
+
+"I feel rather weary of life to-day," he offered tentatively. Still she
+was silent. "I met a fellow and we talked in the Biltmore bar."
+
+The dusk had suddenly deepened but neither of them made any move to turn
+on the lights. Lost in heaven knew what contemplation, they sat there
+until a flurry of snow drew a languid sigh from Gloria.
+
+"What've you been doing?" he asked, finding the silence oppressive.
+
+"Reading a magazine--all full of idiotic articles by prosperous authors
+about how terrible it is for poor people to buy silk shirts. And while I
+was reading it I could think of nothing except how I wanted a gray
+squirrel coat--and how we can't afford one."
+
+"Yes, we can."
+
+"Oh, no."
+
+"Oh, yes! If you want a fur coat you can have one."
+
+Her voice coming through the dark held an implication of scorn.
+
+"You mean we can sell another bond?"
+
+"If necessary. I don't want to go without things. We have spent a lot,
+though, since I've been back."
+
+"Oh, shut up!" she said in irritation.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Because I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about what we've spent
+or what we've done. You came back two months ago and we've been on some
+sort of a party practically every night since. We've both wanted to go
+out, and we've gone. Well, you haven't heard me complain, have you? But
+all you do is whine, whine, whine. I don't care any more what we do or
+what becomes of us and at least I'm consistent. But I will _not_
+tolerate your complaining and calamity-howling----"
+
+"You're not very pleasant yourself sometimes, you know."
+
+"I'm under no obligations to be. You're not making any attempt to make
+things different."
+
+"But I am--"
+
+"Huh! Seems to me I've heard that before. This morning you weren't going
+to touch another thing to drink until you'd gotten a position. And you
+didn't even have the spunk to go to Mr. Haight when he sent for you
+about the suit."
+
+Anthony got to his feet and switched on the lights.
+
+"See here!" he cried, blinking, "I'm getting sick of that sharp tongue
+of yours."
+
+"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
+
+"Do you think _I'm_ particularly happy?" he continued, ignoring her
+question. "Do you think I don't know we're not living as we ought to?"
+
+In an instant Gloria stood trembling beside him.
+
+"I won't _stand_ it!" she burst out. "I won't be lectured to. You and
+your suffering! You're just a pitiful weakling and you always
+have been!"
+
+They faced one another idiotically, each of them unable to impress the
+other, each of them tremendously, achingly, bored. Then she went into
+the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
+
+His return had brought into the foreground all their pre-bellum
+exasperations. Prices had risen alarmingly and in perverse ratio their
+income had shrunk to a little over half of its original size. There had
+been the large retainer's fee to Mr. Haight; there were stocks bought at
+one hundred, now down to thirty and forty and other investments that
+were not paying at all. During the previous spring Gloria had been given
+the alternative of leaving the apartment or of signing a year's lease at
+two hundred and twenty-five a month. She had signed it. Inevitably as
+the necessity for economy had increased they found themselves as a pair
+quite unable to save. The old policy of prevarication was resorted to.
+Weary of their incapabilities they chattered of what they would
+do--oh--to-morrow, of how they would "stop going on parties" and of how
+Anthony would go to work. But when dark came down Gloria, accustomed to
+an engagement every night, would feel the ancient restlessness creeping
+over her. She would stand in the doorway of the bedroom, chewing
+furiously at her fingers and sometimes meeting Anthony's eyes as he
+glanced up from his book. Then the telephone, and her nerves would
+relax, she would answer it with ill-concealed eagerness. Some one was
+coming up "for just a few minutes"--and oh, the weariness of pretense,
+the appearance of the wine table, the revival of their jaded
+spirits--and the awakening, like the mid-point of a sleepless night in
+which they moved.
+
+As the winter passed with the march of the returning troops along Fifth
+Avenue they became more and more aware that since Anthony's return their
+relations had entirely changed. After that reflowering of tenderness and
+passion each of them had returned into some solitary dream unshared by
+the other and what endearments passed between them passed, it seemed,
+from empty heart to empty heart, echoing hollowly the departure of what
+they knew at last was gone.
+
+Anthony had again made the rounds of the metropolitan newspapers and had
+again been refused encouragement by a motley of office boys, telephone
+girls, and city editors. The word was: "We're keeping any vacancies open
+for our own men who are still in France." Then, late in March, his eye
+fell on an advertisement in the morning paper and in consequence he
+found at last the semblance of an occupation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+YOU CAN SELL!!!
+
+_Why not earn while you learn?_
+
+_Our salesmen make $50-$200 weekly_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There followed an address on Madison Avenue, and instructions to appear
+at one o'clock that afternoon. Gloria, glancing over his shoulder after
+one of their usual late breakfasts, saw him regarding it idly.
+
+"Why don't you try it?" she suggested.
+
+"Oh--it's one of these crazy schemes."
+
+"It might not be. At least it'd be experience."
+
+At her urging he went at one o'clock to the appointed address, where he
+found himself one of a dense miscellany of men waiting in front of the
+door. They ranged from a messenger-boy evidently misusing his company's
+time to an immemorial individual with a gnarled body and a gnarled cane.
+Some of the men were seedy, with sunken cheeks and puffy pink
+eyes--others were young; possibly still in high school. After a jostled
+fifteen minutes during which they all eyed one another with apathetic
+suspicion there appeared a smart young shepherd clad in a "waist-line"
+suit and wearing the manner of an assistant rector who herded them
+up-stairs into a large room, which resembled a school-room and contained
+innumerable desks. Here the prospective salesmen sat down--and again
+waited. After an interval a platform at the end of the hall was clouded
+with half a dozen sober but sprightly men who, with one exception, took
+seats in a semicircle facing the audience.
+
+The exception was the man who seemed the soberest, the most sprightly
+and the youngest of the lot, and who advanced to the front of the
+platform. The audience scrutinized him hopefully. He was rather small
+and rather pretty, with the commercial rather than the thespian sort of
+prettiness. He had straight blond bushy brows and eyes that were almost
+preposterously honest, and as he reached the edge of his rostrum he
+seemed to throw these eyes out into the audience, simultaneously
+extending his arm with two fingers outstretched. Then while he rocked
+himself to a state of balance an expectant silence settled over the
+hall. With perfect assurance the young man had taken his listeners in
+hand and his words when they came were steady and confident and of the
+school of "straight from the shoulder."
+
+"Men!"--he began, and paused. The word died with a prolonged echo at the
+end of the hall, the faces regarding him, hopefully, cynically, wearily,
+were alike arrested, engrossed. Six hundred eyes were turned slightly
+upward. With an even graceless flow that reminded Anthony of the rolling
+of bowling balls he launched himself into the sea of exposition.
+
+"This bright and sunny morning you picked up your favorite newspaper and
+you found an advertisement which made the plain, unadorned statement
+that _you_ could sell. That was all it said--it didn't say 'what,' it
+didn't say 'how,' it didn't say 'why.' It just made one single solitary
+assertion that _you_ and _you_ and _you_"--business of pointing--"could
+sell. Now my job isn't to make a success of you, because every man is
+born a success, he makes himself a failure; it's not to teach you how to
+talk, because each man is a natural orator and only makes himself a
+clam; my business is to tell you one thing in a way that will make you
+_know_ it--it's to tell you that _you_ and _you_ and _you_ have the
+heritage of money and prosperity waiting for you to come and claim it."
+
+At this point an Irishman of saturnine appearance rose from his desk
+near the rear of the hall and went out.
+
+"That man thinks he'll go look for it in the beer parlor around the
+corner. (Laughter.) He won't find it there. Once upon a time I looked
+for it there myself (laughter), but that was before I did what every one
+of you men no matter how young or how old, how poor or how rich (a faint
+ripple of satirical laughter), can do. It was before I found--_myself_!
+
+"Now I wonder if any of you men know what a 'Heart Talk' is. A 'Heart
+Talk' is a little book in which I started, about five years ago, to
+write down what I had discovered were the principal reasons for a man's
+failure and the principal reasons for a man's success--from John D.
+Rockerfeller back to John D. Napoleon (laughter), and before that, back
+in the days when Abel sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. There
+are now one hundred of these 'Heart Talks.' Those of you who are
+sincere, who are interested in our proposition, above all who are
+dissatisfied with the way things are breaking for you at present will be
+handed one to take home with you as you go out yonder door this
+afternoon.
+
+"Now in my own pocket I have four letters just received concerning
+'Heart Talks.' These letters have names signed to them that are familiar
+in every house-hold in the U.S.A. Listen to this one from Detroit:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"DEAR MR. CARLETON:
+
+"I want to order three thousand more copies of 'Heart Talks' for
+distribution among my salesmen. They have done more for getting work out
+of the men than any bonus proposition ever considered. I read them
+myself constantly, and I desire to heartily congratulate you on getting
+at the roots of the biggest problem that faces our generation
+to-day--the problem of salesmanship. The rock bottom on which the
+country is founded is the problem of salesmanship. With many
+felicitations I am
+
+"Yours very cordially,
+
+"HENRY W. TERRAL."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He brought the name out in three long booming triumphancies--pausing for
+it to produce its magical effect. Then he read two more letters, one
+from a manufacturer of vacuum cleaners and one from the president of the
+Great Northern Doily Company.
+
+"And now," he continued, "I'm going to tell you in a few words what the
+proposition is that's going to _make_ those of you who go into it in the
+right spirit. Simply put, it's this: 'Heart Talks' have been
+incorporated as a company. We're going to put these little pamphlets
+into the hands of every big business organization, every salesman, and
+every man who _knows_--I don't say 'thinks,' I say _'knows'_--that he
+can sell! We are offering some of the stock of the 'Heart Talks' concern
+upon the market, and in order that the distribution may be as wide as
+possible, and in order also that we can furnish a living, concrete,
+flesh-and-blood example of what salesmanship is, or rather what it may
+be, we're going to give those of you who are the real thing a chance to
+sell that stock. Now, I don't care what you've tried to sell before or
+how you've tried to sell it. It don't matter how old you are or how
+young you are. I only want to know two things--first, do you _want_
+success, and, second, will you work for it?
+
+"My name is Sammy Carleton. Not 'Mr.' Carleton, but just plain Sammy.
+I'm a regular no-nonsense man with no fancy frills about me. I want you
+to call me Sammy.
+
+"Now this is all I'm going to say to you to-day. To-morrow I want those
+of you who have thought it over and have read the copy of 'Heart Talks'
+which will be given to you at the door, to come back to this same room
+at this same time, then we'll, go into the proposition further and I'll
+explain to you what I've found the principles of success to be. I'm
+going to make you _feel_ that _you_ and _you_ and _you_ can sell!"
+
+Mr. Carleton's voice echoed for a moment through the hall and then died
+away. To the stamping of many feet Anthony was pushed and jostled with
+the crowd out of the room.
+
+
+FURTHER ADVENTURES WITH "HEART TALKS"
+
+With an accompaniment of ironic laughter Anthony told Gloria the story
+of his commercial adventure. But she listened without amusement.
+
+"You're going to give up again?" she demanded coldly.
+
+"Why--you don't expect me to--"
+
+"I never expected anything of you."
+
+He hesitated.
+
+"Well--I can't see the slightest benefit in laughing myself sick over
+this sort of affair. If there's anything older than the old story, it's
+the new twist."
+
+It required an astonishing amount of moral energy on Gloria's part to
+intimidate him into returning, and when he reported next day, somewhat
+depressed from his perusal of the senile bromides skittishly set forth
+in "Heart Talks on Ambition," he found only fifty of the original three
+hundred awaiting the appearance of the vital and compelling Sammy
+Carleton. Mr. Carleton's powers of vitality and compulsion were this
+time exercised in elucidating that magnificent piece of speculation--how
+to sell. It seemed that the approved method was to state one's
+proposition and then to say not "And now, will you buy?"--this was not
+the way--oh, no!--the way was to state one's proposition and then,
+having reduced one's adversary to a state of exhaustion, to deliver
+oneself of the categorical imperative: "Now see here! You've taken up my
+time explaining this matter to you. You've admitted my points--all I
+want to ask is how many do you want?"
+
+As Mr. Carleton piled assertion upon assertion Anthony began to feel a
+sort of disgusted confidence in him. The man appeared to know what he
+was talking about. Obviously prosperous, he had risen to the position of
+instructing others. It did not occur to Anthony that the type of man who
+attains commercial success seldom knows how or why, and, as in his
+grandfather's case, when he ascribes reasons, the reasons are generally
+inaccurate and absurd.
+
+Anthony noted that of the numerous old men who had answered the original
+advertisement, only two had returned, and that among the thirty odd who
+assembled on the third day to get actual selling instructions from Mr.
+Carleton, only one gray head was in evidence. These thirty were eager
+converts; with their mouths they followed the working of Mr. Carleton's
+mouth; they swayed in their seats with enthusiasm, and in the intervals
+of his talk they spoke to each other in tense approving whispers. Yet of
+the chosen few who, in the words of Mr. Carleton, "were determined to
+get those deserts that rightly and truly belonged to them," less than
+half a dozen combined even a modicum of personal appearance with that
+great gift of being a "pusher." But they were told that they were all
+natural pushers--it was merely necessary that they should believe with a
+sort of savage passion in what they were selling. He even urged each one
+to buy some stock himself, if possible, in order to increase his own
+sincerity.
+
+On the fifth day then, Anthony sallied into the street with all the
+sensations of a man wanted by the police. Acting according to
+instructions he selected a tall office building in order that he might
+ride to the top story and work downward, stopping in every office that
+had a name on the door. But at the last minute he hesitated. Perhaps it
+would be more practicable to acclimate himself to the chilly atmosphere
+which he felt was awaiting him by trying a few offices on, say, Madison
+Avenue. He went into an arcade that seemed only semi-prosperous, and
+seeing a sign which read Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, he opened the
+door heroically and entered. A starchy young woman looked up
+questioningly.
+
+"Can I see Mr. Weatherbee?" He wondered if his voice sounded tremulous.
+
+She laid her hand tentatively on the telephone-receiver.
+
+"What's the name, please?"
+
+"He wouldn't--ah--know me. He wouldn't know my name."
+
+"What's your business with him? You an insurance agent?"
+
+"Oh, no, nothing like that!" denied Anthony hurriedly. "Oh, no. It's
+a--it's a personal matter." He wondered if he should have said this. It
+had all sounded so simple when Mr. Carleton had enjoined his flock:
+
+"Don't allow yourself to be kept out! Show them you've made up your mind
+to talk to them, and they'll listen."
+
+The girl succumbed to Anthony's pleasant, melancholy face, and in a
+moment the door to the inner room opened and admitted a tall,
+splay-footed man with slicked hair. He approached Anthony with
+ill-concealed impatience.
+
+"You wanted to see me on a personal matter?"
+
+Anthony quailed.
+
+"I wanted to talk to you," he said defiantly.
+
+"About what?"
+
+"It'll take some time to explain."
+
+"Well, what's it about?" Mr. Weatherbee's voice indicated rising
+irritation.
+
+Then Anthony, straining at each word, each syllable, began:
+
+"I don't know whether or not you've ever heard of a series of pamphlets
+called 'Heart Talks'--"
+
+"Good grief!" cried Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, "are you trying to
+touch my heart?"
+
+"No, it's business. 'Heart Talks' have been incorporated and we're
+putting some shares on the market--"
+
+His voice faded slowly off, harassed by a fixed and contemptuous stare
+from his unwilling prey. For another minute he struggled on,
+increasingly sensitive, entangled in his own words. His confidence oozed
+from him in great retching emanations that seemed to be sections of his
+own body. Almost mercifully Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, terminated
+the interview:
+
+"Good grief!" he exploded in disgust, "and you call that a _personal_
+matter!" He whipped about and strode into his private office, banging
+the door behind him. Not daring to look at the stenographer, Anthony in
+some shameful and mysterious way got himself from the room. Perspiring
+profusely he stood in the hall wondering why they didn't come and arrest
+him; in every hurried look he discerned infallibly a glance of scorn.
+
+After an hour and with the help of two strong whiskies he brought
+himself up to another attempt. He walked into a plumber's shop, but when
+he mentioned his business the plumber began pulling on his coat in a
+great hurry, gruffly announcing that he had to go to lunch. Anthony
+remarked politely that it was futile to try to sell a man anything when
+he was hungry, and the plumber heartily agreed.
+
+This episode encouraged Anthony; he tried to think that had the plumber
+not been bound for lunch he would at least have listened.
+
+Passing by a few glittering and formidable bazaars he entered a grocery
+store. A talkative proprietor told him that before buying any stocks he
+was going to see how the armistice affected the market. To Anthony this
+seemed almost unfair. In Mr. Carleton's salesman's Utopia the only
+reason prospective buyers ever gave for not purchasing stock was that
+they doubted it to be a promising investment. Obviously a man in that
+state was almost ludicrously easy game, to be brought down merely by the
+judicious application of the correct selling points. But these men--why,
+actually they weren't considering buying anything at all.
+
+Anthony took several more drinks before he approached his fourth man, a
+real-estate agent; nevertheless, he was floored with a coup as decisive
+as a syllogism. The real-estate agent said that he had three brothers in
+the investment business. Viewing himself as a breaker-up of homes
+Anthony apologized and went out.
+
+After another drink he conceived the brilliant plan of selling the stock
+to the bartenders along Lexington Avenue. This occupied several hours,
+for it was necessary to take a few drinks in each place in order to get
+the proprietor in the proper frame of mind to talk business. But the
+bartenders one and all contended that if they had any money to buy bonds
+they would not be bartenders. It was as though they had all convened and
+decided upon that rejoinder. As he approached a dark and soggy five
+o'clock he found that they were developing a still more annoying
+tendency to turn him off with a jest.
+
+At five, then, with a tremendous effort at concentration he decided that
+he must put more variety into his canvassing. He selected a medium-sized
+delicatessen store, and went in. He felt, illuminatingly, that the thing
+to do was to cast a spell not only over the storekeeper but over all the
+customers as well--and perhaps through the psychology of the herd
+instinct they would buy as an astounded and immediately convinced whole.
+
+"Af'ernoon," he began in a loud thick voice. "Ga l'il prop'sition."
+
+If he had wanted silence he obtained it. A sort of awe descended upon
+the half-dozen women marketing and upon the gray-haired ancient who in
+cap and apron was slicing chicken.
+
+Anthony pulled a batch of papers from his flapping briefcase and waved
+them cheerfully.
+
+"Buy a bon'," he suggested, "good as liberty bon'!" The phrase pleased
+him and he elaborated upon it. "Better'n liberty bon'. Every one these
+bon's worth _two_ liberty bon's." His mind made a hiatus and skipped to
+his peroration, which he delivered with appropriate gestures, these
+being somewhat marred by the necessity of clinging to the counter with
+one or both hands.
+
+"Now see here. You taken up my time. I don't want know _why_ you won't
+buy. I just want you say _why_. Want you say _how many!_"
+
+At this point they should have approached him with check-books and
+fountain pens in hand. Realizing that they must have missed a cue
+Anthony, with the instincts of an actor, went back and repeated
+his finale.
+
+"Now see here! You taken up my time. You followed prop'sition. You
+agreed 'th reasonin'? Now, all I want from _you_ is, how many
+lib'ty bon's?"
+
+"See here!" broke in a new voice. A portly man whose face was adorned
+with symmetrical scrolls of yellow hair had come out of a glass cage in
+the rear of the store and was bearing down upon Anthony. "See
+here, you!"
+
+"How many?" repeated the salesman sternly. "You taken up my time--"
+
+"Hey, you!" cried the proprietor, "I'll have you taken up by the
+police."
+
+"You mos' cert'nly won't!" returned Anthony with fine defiance. "All I
+want know is how many."
+
+From here and there in the store went up little clouds of comment and
+expostulation.
+
+"How terrible!"
+
+"He's a raving maniac."
+
+"He's disgracefully drunk."
+
+The proprietor grasped Anthony's arm sharply.
+
+"Get out, or I'll call a policeman."
+
+Some relics of rationality moved Anthony to nod and replace his bonds
+clumsily in the case.
+
+"How many?" he reiterated doubtfully.
+
+"The whole force if necessary!" thundered his adversary, his yellow
+mustache trembling fiercely.
+
+"Sell 'em all a bon'."
+
+With this Anthony turned, bowed gravely to his late auditors, and
+wabbled from the store. He found a taxicab at the corner and rode home
+to the apartment. There he fell sound asleep on the sofa, and so Gloria
+found him, his breath filling the air with an unpleasant pungency, his
+hand still clutching his open brief case.
+
+Except when Anthony was drinking, his range of sensation had become less
+than that of a healthy old man and when prohibition came in July he
+found that, among those who could afford it, there was more drinking
+than ever before. One's host now brought out a bottle upon the slightest
+pretext. The tendency to display liquor was a manifestation of the same
+instinct that led a man to deck his wife with jewels. To have liquor was
+a boast, almost a badge of respectability.
+
+In the mornings Anthony awoke tired, nervous, and worried. Halcyon
+summer twilights and the purple chill of morning alike left him
+unresponsive. Only for a brief moment every day in the warmth and
+renewed life of a first high-ball did his mind turn to those opalescent
+dreams of future pleasure--the mutual heritage of the happy and the
+damned. But this was only for a little while. As he grew drunker the
+dreams faded and he became a confused spectre, moving in odd crannies of
+his own mind, full of unexpected devices, harshly contemptuous at best
+and reaching sodden and dispirited depths. One night in June he had
+quarrelled violently with Maury over a matter of the utmost triviality.
+He remembered dimly next morning that it had been about a broken pint
+bottle of champagne. Maury had told him to sober up and Anthony's
+feelings had been hurt, so with an attempted gesture of dignity he had
+risen from the table and seizing Gloria's arm half led, half shamed her
+into a taxicab outside, leaving Maury with three dinners ordered and
+tickets for the opera.
+
+This sort of semi-tragic fiasco had become so usual that when they
+occurred he was no longer stirred into making amends. If Gloria
+protested--and of late she was more likely to sink into contemptuous
+silence--he would either engage in a bitter defense of himself or else
+stalk dismally from the apartment. Never since the incident on the
+station platform at Redgate had he laid his hands on her in anger--though
+he was withheld often only by some instinct that itself made him tremble
+with rage. Just as he still cared more for her than for any other
+creature, so did he more intensely and frequently hate her.
+
+So far, the judges of the Appellate Division had failed to hand down a
+decision, but after another postponement they finally affirmed the
+decree of the lower court--two justices dissenting. A notice of appeal
+was served upon Edward Shuttleworth. The case was going to the court of
+last resort, and they were in for another interminable wait. Six months,
+perhaps a year. It had grown enormously unreal to them, remote and
+uncertain as heaven.
+
+Throughout the previous winter one small matter had been a subtle and
+omnipresent irritant--the question of Gloria's gray fur coat. At that
+time women enveloped in long squirrel wraps could be seen every few
+yards along Fifth Avenue. The women were converted to the shape of tops.
+They seemed porcine and obscene; they resembled kept women in the
+concealing richness, the feminine animality of the garment. Yet--Gloria
+wanted a gray squirrel coat.
+
+Discussing the matter--or, rather, arguing it, for even more than in the
+first year of their marriage did every discussion take the form of
+bitter debate full of such phrases as "most certainly," "utterly
+outrageous," "it's so, nevertheless," and the ultra-emphatic
+"regardless"--they concluded that they could not afford it. And so
+gradually it began to stand as a symbol of their growing
+financial anxiety.
+
+To Gloria the shrinkage of their income was a remarkable phenomenon,
+without explanation or precedent--that it could happen at all within the
+space of five years seemed almost an intended cruelty, conceived and
+executed by a sardonic God. When they were married seventy-five hundred
+a year had seemed ample for a young couple, especially when augmented by
+the expectation of many millions. Gloria had failed to realize that it
+was decreasing not only in amount but in purchasing power until the
+payment of Mr. Haight's retaining fee of fifteen thousand dollars made
+the fact suddenly and startlingly obvious. When Anthony was drafted they
+had calculated their income at over four hundred a month, with the
+dollar even then decreasing in value, but on his return to New York they
+discovered an even more alarming condition of affairs. They were
+receiving only forty-five hundred a year from their investments. And
+though the suit over the will moved ahead of them like a persistent
+mirage and the financial danger-mark loomed up in the near distance they
+found, nevertheless, that living within their income was impossible.
+
+So Gloria went without the squirrel coat and every day upon Fifth Avenue
+she was a little conscious of her well-worn, half-length leopard skin,
+now hopelessly old-fashioned. Every other month they sold a bond, yet
+when the bills were paid it left only enough to be gulped down hungrily
+by their current expenses. Anthony's calculations showed that their
+capital would last about seven years longer. So Gloria's heart was very
+bitter, for in one week, on a prolonged hysterical party during which
+Anthony whimsically divested himself of coat, vest, and shirt in a
+theatre and was assisted out by a posse of ushers, they spent twice what
+the gray squirrel coat would have cost.
+
+It was November, Indian summer rather, and a warm, warm night--which was
+unnecessary, for the work of the summer was done. Babe Ruth had smashed
+the home-run record for the first time and Jack Dempsey had broken Jess
+Willard's cheek-bone out in Ohio. Over in Europe the usual number of
+children had swollen stomachs from starvation, and the diplomats were at
+their customary business of making the world safe for new wars. In New
+York City the proletariat were being "disciplined," and the odds on
+Harvard were generally quoted at five to three. Peace had come down in
+earnest, the beginning of new days.
+
+Up in the bedroom of the apartment on Fifty-seventh Street Gloria lay
+upon her bed and tossed from side to side, sitting up at intervals to
+throw off a superfluous cover and once asking Anthony, who was lying
+awake beside her, to bring her a glass of ice-water. "Be sure and put
+ice in it," she said with insistence; "it isn't cold enough the way it
+comes from the faucet."
+
+Looking through the frail curtains she could see the rounded moon over
+the roofs and beyond it on the sky the yellow glow from Times
+Square--and watching the two incongruous lights, her mind worked over an
+emotion, or rather an interwoven complex of emotions, that had occupied
+it through the day, and the day before that and back to the last time
+when she could remember having thought clearly and consecutively about
+anything--which must have been while Anthony was in the army.
+
+She would be twenty-nine in February. The month assumed an ominous and
+inescapable significance--making her wonder, through these nebulous
+half-fevered hours whether after all she had not wasted her faintly
+tired beauty, whether there was such a thing as use for any quality
+bounded by a harsh and inevitable mortality.
+
+Years before, when she was twenty-one, she had written in her diary:
+"Beauty is only to be admired, only to be loved-to be harvested
+carefully and then flung at a chosen lover like a gift of roses. It
+seems to me, so far as I can judge clearly at all, that my beauty should
+be used like that...."
+
+And now, all this November day, all this desolate day, under a sky dirty
+and white, Gloria had been thinking that perhaps she had been wrong. To
+preserve the integrity of her first gift she had looked no more for
+love. When the first flame and ecstasy had grown dim, sunk down,
+departed, she had begun preserving--what? It puzzled her that she no
+longer knew just what she was preserving--a sentimental memory or some
+profound and fundamental concept of honor. She was doubting now whether
+there had been any moral issue involved in her way of life--to walk
+unworried and unregretful along the gayest of all possible lanes and to
+keep her pride by being always herself and doing what it seemed
+beautiful that she should do. From the first little boy in an Eton
+collar whose "girl" she had been, down to the latest casual man whose
+eyes had grown alert and appreciative as they rested upon her, there was
+needed only that matchless candor she could throw into a look or clothe
+with an inconsequent clause--for she had talked always in broken
+clauses--to weave about her immeasurable illusions, immeasurable
+distances, immeasurable light. To create souls in men, to create fine
+happiness and fine despair she must remain deeply proud--proud to be
+inviolate, proud also to be melting, to be passionate and possessed.
+
+She knew that in her breast she had never wanted children. The reality,
+the earthiness, the intolerable sentiment of child-bearing, the menace
+to her beauty--had appalled her. She wanted to exist only as a conscious
+flower, prolonging and preserving itself. Her sentimentality could cling
+fiercely to her own illusions, but her ironic soul whispered that
+motherhood was also the privilege of the female baboon. So her dreams
+were of ghostly children only--the early, the perfect symbols of her
+early and perfect love for Anthony.
+
+In the end then, her beauty was all that never failed her. She had never
+seen beauty like her own. What it meant ethically or aesthetically faded
+before the gorgeous concreteness of her pink-and-white feet, the clean
+perfectness of her body, and the baby mouth that was like the material
+symbol of a kiss.
+
+She would be twenty-nine in February. As the long night waned she grew
+supremely conscious that she and beauty were going to make use of these
+next three months. At first she was not sure for what, but the problem
+resolved itself gradually into the old lure of the screen. She was in
+earnest now. No material want could have moved her as this fear moved
+her. No matter for Anthony, Anthony the poor in spirit, the weak and
+broken man with bloodshot eyes, for whom she still had moments of
+tenderness. No matter. She would be twenty-nine in February--a hundred
+days, so many days; she would go to Bloeckman to-morrow.
+
+With the decision came relief. It cheered her that in some manner the
+illusion of beauty could be sustained, or preserved perhaps in celluloid
+after the reality had vanished. Well--to-morrow.
+
+The next day she felt weak and ill. She tried to go out, and saved
+herself from collapse only by clinging to a mail box near the front
+door. The Martinique elevator boy helped her up-stairs, and she waited
+on the bed for Anthony's return without energy to unhook her brassiere.
+
+For five days she was down with influenza, which, just as the month
+turned the corner into winter, ripened into double pneumonia. In the
+feverish perambulations of her mind she prowled through a house of bleak
+unlighted rooms hunting for her mother. All she wanted was to be a
+little girl, to be efficiently taken care of by some yielding yet
+superior power, stupider and steadier than herself. It seemed that the
+only lover she had ever wanted was a lover in a dream.
+
+
+"ODI PROFANUM VULGUS"
+
+One day in the midst of Gloria's illness there occurred a curious
+incident that puzzled Miss McGovern, the trained nurse, for some time
+afterward. It was noon, but the room in which the patient lay was dark
+and quiet. Miss McGovern was standing near the bed mixing some medicine,
+when Mrs. Patch, who had apparently been sound asleep, sat up and began
+to speak vehemently:
+
+"Millions of people," she said, "swarming like rats, chattering like
+apes, smelling like all hell ... monkeys! Or lice, I suppose. For one
+really exquisite palace ... on Long Island, say--or even in Greenwich ...
+for one palace full of pictures from the Old World and exquisite
+things--with avenues of trees and green lawns and a view of the blue
+sea, and lovely people about in slick dresses ... I'd sacrifice a
+hundred thousand of them, a million of them." She raised her hand feebly
+and snapped her fingers. "I care nothing for them--understand me?"
+
+The look she bent upon Miss McGovern at the conclusion of this speech
+was curiously elfin, curiously intent. Then she gave a short little
+laugh polished with scorn, and tumbling backward fell off again
+to sleep.
+
+Miss McGovern was bewildered. She wondered what were the hundred
+thousand things that Mrs. Patch would sacrifice for her palace. Dollars,
+she supposed--yet it had not sounded exactly like dollars.
+
+
+THE MOVIES
+
+It was February, seven days before her birthday, and the great snow that
+had filled up the cross-streets as dirt fills the cracks in a floor had
+turned to slush and was being escorted to the gutters by the hoses of
+the street-cleaning department. The wind, none the less bitter for being
+casual, whipped in through the open windows of the living room bearing
+with it the dismal secrets of the areaway and clearing the Patch
+apartment of stale smoke in its cheerless circulation.
+
+Gloria, wrapped in a warm kimona, came into the chilly room and taking
+up the telephone receiver called Joseph Bloeckman.
+
+"Do you mean Mr. Joseph _Black_?" demanded the telephone girl at "Films
+Par Excellence."
+
+"Bloeckman, Joseph Bloeckman. B-l-o--"
+
+"Mr. Joseph Bloeckman has changed his name to Black. Do you want him?"
+
+"Why--yes." She remembered nervously that she had once called him
+"Blockhead" to his face.
+
+His office was reached by courtesy of two additional female voices; the
+last was a secretary who took her name. Only with the flow through the
+transmitter of his own familiar but faintly impersonal tone did she
+realize that it had been three years since they had met. And he had
+changed his name to Black.
+
+"Can you see me?" she suggested lightly. "It's on a business matter,
+really. I'm going into the movies at last--if I can."
+
+"I'm awfully glad. I've always thought you'd like it."
+
+"Do you think you can get me a trial?" she demanded with the arrogance
+peculiar to all beautiful women, to all women who have ever at any time
+considered themselves beautiful.
+
+He assured her that it was merely a question of when she wanted the
+trial. Any time? Well, he'd phone later in the day and let her know a
+convenient hour. The conversation closed with conventional padding on
+both sides. Then from three o'clock to five she sat close to the
+telephone--with no result.
+
+But next morning came a note that contented and excited her:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_My dear Gloria:_
+
+_Just by luck a matter came to my attention that I think will be just
+suited to you. I would like to see you start with something that would
+bring you notice. At the same time if a very beautiful girl of your sort
+is put directly into a picture next to one of the rather shop-worn stars
+with which every company is afflicted, tongues would very likely wag.
+But there is a "flapper" part in a Percy B. Debris production that I
+think would be just suited to you and would bring you notice. Willa
+Sable plays opposite Gaston Mears in a sort of character part and your
+part I believe would be her younger sister._
+
+_Anyway Percy B. Debris who is directing the picture says if you'll come
+to the studios day after to-morrow (Thursday) he will run off a test. If
+ten o'clock is suited to you I will meet you there at that time._
+
+_With all good wishes_
+
+_Ever Faithfully_
+
+JOSEPH BLACK.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gloria had decided that Anthony was to know nothing of this until she
+had obtained a definite position, and accordingly she was dressed and
+out of the apartment next morning before he awoke. Her mirror had given
+her, she thought, much the same account as ever. She wondered if there
+were any lingering traces of her sickness. She was still slightly under
+weight, and she had fancied, a few days before, that her cheeks were a
+trifle thinner--but she felt that those were merely transitory
+conditions and that on this particular day she looked as fresh as ever.
+She had bought and charged a new hat, and as the day was warm she had
+left the leopard skin coat at home.
+
+At the "Films Par Excellence" studios she was announced over the
+telephone and told that Mr. Black would be down directly. She looked
+around her. Two girls were being shown about by a little fat man in a
+slash-pocket coat, and one of them had indicated a stack of thin
+parcels, piled breast-high against the wall, and extending along for
+twenty feet.
+
+"That's studio mail," explained the fat man. "Pictures of the stars who
+are with 'Films Par Excellence.'"
+
+"Oh."
+
+"Each one's autographed by Florence Kelley or Gaston Mears or Mack
+Dodge--" He winked confidentially. "At least when Minnie McGlook out in
+Sauk Center gets the picture she wrote for, she _thinks_ it's
+autographed."
+
+"Just a stamp?"
+
+"Sure. It'd take 'em a good eight-hour day to autograph half of 'em.
+They say Mary Pickford's studio mail costs her fifty thousand a year."
+
+"Say!"
+
+"Sure. Fifty thousand. But it's the best kinda advertising there is--"
+
+They drifted out of earshot and almost immediately Bloeckman
+appeared--Bloeckman, a dark suave gentleman, gracefully engaged in the
+middle forties, who greeted her with courteous warmth and told her she
+had not changed a bit in three years. He led the way into a great hall,
+as large as an armory and broken intermittently with busy sets and
+blinding rows of unfamiliar light. Each piece of scenery was marked in
+large white letters "Gaston Mears Company," "Mack Dodge Company," or
+simply "Films Par Excellence."
+
+"Ever been in a studio before?"
+
+"Never have."
+
+She liked it. There was no heavy closeness of greasepaint, no scent of
+soiled and tawdry costumes which years before had revolted her behind
+the scenes of a musical comedy. This work was done in the clean
+mornings; the appurtenances seemed rich and gorgeous and new. On a set
+that was joyous with Manchu hangings a perfect Chinaman was going
+through a scene according to megaphone directions as the great
+glittering machine ground out its ancient moral tale for the edification
+of the national mind.
+
+A red-headed man approached them and spoke with familiar deference to
+Bloeckman, who answered:
+
+"Hello, Debris. Want you to meet Mrs. Patch.... Mrs. Patch wants to go
+into pictures, as I explained to you.... All right, now, where do
+we go?"
+
+Mr. Debris--the great Percy B. Debris, thought Gloria--showed them to a
+set which represented the interior of an office. Some chairs were drawn
+up around the camera, which stood in front of it, and the three of
+them sat down.
+
+"Ever been in a studio before?" asked Mr. Debris, giving her a glance
+that was surely the quintessence of keenness. "No? Well, I'll explain
+exactly what's going to happen. We're going to take what we call a test
+in order to see how your features photograph and whether you've got
+natural stage presence and how you respond to coaching. There's no need
+to be nervous over it. I'll just have the camera-man take a few hundred
+feet in an episode I've got marked here in the scenario. We can tell
+pretty much what we want to from that."
+
+He produced a typewritten continuity and explained to her the episode
+she was to enact. It developed that one Barbara Wainwright had been
+secretly married to the junior partner of the firm whose office was
+there represented. Entering the deserted office one day by accident she
+was naturally interested in seeing where her husband worked. The
+telephone rang and after some hesitation she answered it. She learned
+that her husband had been struck by an automobile and instantly killed.
+She was overcome. At first she was unable to realize the truth, but
+finally she succeeded in comprehending it, and went into a dead faint on
+the floor.
+
+"Now that's all we want," concluded Mr. Debris. "I'm going to stand here
+and tell you approximately what to do, and you're to act as though I
+wasn't here, and just go on do it your own way. You needn't be afraid
+we're going to judge this too severely. We simply want to get a general
+idea of your screen personality."
+
+"I see."
+
+"You'll find make-up in the room in back of the set. Go light on it.
+Very little red."
+
+"I see," repeated Gloria, nodding. She touched her lips nervously with
+the tip of her tongue.
+
+
+THE TEST
+
+As she came into the set through the real wooden door and closed it
+carefully behind her, she found herself inconveniently dissatisfied with
+her clothes. She should have bought a "misses'" dress for the
+occasion--she could still wear them, and it might have been a good
+investment if it had accentuated her airy youth.
+
+Her mind snapped sharply into the momentous present as Mr. Debris's
+voice came from the glare of the white lights in front.
+
+"You look around for your husband.... Now--you don't see him ... you're
+curious about the office...."
+
+She became conscious of the regular sound of the camera. It worried her.
+She glanced toward it involuntarily and wondered if she had made up her
+face correctly. Then, with a definite effort she forced herself to
+act--and she had never felt that the gestures of her body were so banal,
+so awkward, so bereft of grace or distinction. She strolled around the
+office, picking up articles here and there and looking at them inanely.
+Then she scrutinized the ceiling, the floor, and thoroughly inspected an
+inconsequential lead pencil on the desk. Finally, because she could
+think of nothing else to do, and less than nothing to express, she
+forced a smile.
+
+"All right. Now the phone rings. Ting-a-ling-a-ling! Hesitate, and then
+answer it."
+
+She hesitated--and then, too quickly, she thought, picked up the
+receiver.
+
+"Hello."
+
+Her voice was hollow and unreal. The words rang in the empty set like
+the ineffectualities of a ghost. The absurdities of their requirements
+appalled her--Did they expect that on an instant's notice she could put
+herself in the place of this preposterous and unexplained character?
+
+"... No ... no.... Not yet! Now listen: 'John Sumner has just been
+knocked over by an automobile and instantly killed!'"
+
+Gloria let her baby mouth drop slowly open. Then:
+
+"Now hang up! With a bang!"
+
+She obeyed, clung to the table with her eyes wide and staring. At length
+she was feeling slightly encouraged and her confidence increased.
+
+"My God!" she cried. Her voice was good, she thought. "Oh, my God!"
+
+"Now faint."
+
+She collapsed forward to her knees and throwing her body outward on the
+ground lay without breathing.
+
+"All right!" called Mr. Debris. "That's enough, thank you. That's
+plenty. Get up--that's enough."
+
+Gloria arose, mustering her dignity and brushing off her skirt.
+
+"Awful!" she remarked with a cool laugh, though her heart was bumping
+tumultuously. "Terrible, wasn't it?"
+
+"Did you mind it?" said Mr. Debris, smiling blandly. "Did it seem hard?
+I can't tell anything about it until I have it run off."
+
+"Of course not," she agreed, trying to attach some sort of meaning to
+his remark--and failing. It was just the sort of thing he would have
+said had he been trying not to encourage her.
+
+A few moments later she left the studio. Bloeckman had promised that she
+should hear the result of the test within the next few days. Too proud
+to force any definite comment she felt a baffling uncertainty and only
+now when the step had at last been taken did she realize how the
+possibility of a successful screen career had played in the back of her
+mind for the past three years. That night she tried to tell over to
+herself the elements that might decide for or against her. Whether or
+not she had used enough make-up worried her, and as the part was that of
+a girl of twenty, she wondered if she had not been just a little too
+grave. About her acting she was least of all satisfied. Her entrance had
+been abominable--in fact not until she reached the phone had she
+displayed a shred of poise--and then the test had been over. If they had
+only realized! She wished that she could try it again. A mad plan to
+call up in the morning and ask for a new trial took possession of her,
+and as suddenly faded. It seemed neither politic nor polite to ask
+another favor of Bloeckman.
+
+The third day of waiting found her in a highly nervous condition. She
+had bitten the insides of her mouth until they were raw and smarting,
+and burnt unbearably when she washed them with listerine. She had
+quarrelled so persistently with Anthony that he had left the apartment
+in a cold fury. But because he was intimidated by her exceptional
+frigidity, he called up an hour afterward, apologized and said he was
+having dinner at the Amsterdam Club, the only one in which he still
+retained membership.
+
+It was after one o'clock and she had breakfasted at eleven, so, deciding
+to forego luncheon, she started for a walk in the Park. At three there
+would be a mail. She would be back by three.
+
+It was an afternoon of premature spring. Water was drying on the walks
+and in the Park little girls were gravely wheeling white doll-buggies up
+and down under the thin trees while behind them followed bored
+nursery-maids in two's, discussing with each other those tremendous
+secrets that are peculiar to nursery-maids.
+
+Two o'clock by her little gold watch. She should have a new watch, one
+made in a platinum oblong and incrusted with diamonds--but those cost
+even more than squirrel coats and of course they were out of her reach
+now, like everything else--unless perhaps the right letter was awaiting
+her ... in about an hour ... fifty-eight minutes exactly. Ten to get
+there left forty-eight ... forty-seven now ...
+
+Little girls soberly wheeling their buggies along the damp sunny walks.
+The nursery-maids chattering in pairs about their inscrutable secrets.
+Here and there a raggedy man seated upon newspapers spread on a drying
+bench, related not to the radiant and delightful afternoon but to the
+dirty snow that slept exhausted in obscure corners, waiting for
+extermination....
+
+Ages later, coming into the dim hall she saw the Martinique elevator boy
+standing incongruously in the light of the stained-glass window.
+
+"Is there any mail for us?" she asked.
+
+"Up-stays, madame."
+
+The switchboard squawked abominably and Gloria waited while he
+ministered to the telephone. She sickened as the elevator groaned its
+way up--the floors passed like the slow lapse of centuries, each one
+ominous, accusing, significant. The letter, a white leprous spot, lay
+upon the dirty tiles of the hall....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_My dear Gloria:_
+
+_We had the test run off yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Debris seemed to
+think that for the part he had in mind he needed a younger woman. He
+said that the acting was not bad, and that there was a small character
+part supposed to be a very haughty rich widow that he thought
+you might----_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Desolately Gloria raised her glance until it fell out across the
+areaway. But she found she could not see the opposite wall, for her gray
+eyes were full of tears. She walked into the bedroom, the letter
+crinkled tightly in her hand, and sank down upon her knees before the
+long mirror on the wardrobe floor. This was her twenty-ninth birthday,
+and the world was melting away before her eyes. She tried to think that
+it had been the make-up, but her emotions were too profound, too
+overwhelming for any consolation that the thought conveyed.
+
+She strained to see until she could feel the flesh on her temples pull
+forward. Yes--the cheeks were ever so faintly thin, the corners of the
+eyes were lined with tiny wrinkles. The eyes were different. Why, they
+were different! ... And then suddenly she knew how tired her eyes were.
+
+"Oh, my pretty face," she whispered, passionately grieving. "Oh, my
+pretty face! Oh, I don't want to live without my pretty face! Oh, what's
+_happened?_"
+
+Then she slid toward the mirror and, as in the test, sprawled face
+downward upon the floor--and lay there sobbing. It was the first awkward
+movement she had ever made.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+NO MATTER!
+
+Within another year Anthony and Gloria had become like players who had
+lost their costumes, lacking the pride to continue on the note of
+tragedy--so that when Mrs. and Miss Hulme of Kansas City cut them dead
+in the Plaza one evening, it was only that Mrs. and Miss Hulme, like
+most people, abominated mirrors of their atavistic selves.
+
+Their new apartment, for which they paid eighty-five dollars a month,
+was situated on Claremont Avenue, which is two blocks from the Hudson in
+the dim hundreds. They had lived there a month when Muriel Kane came to
+see them late one afternoon.
+
+It was a reproachless twilight on the summer side of spring. Anthony lay
+upon the lounge looking up One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street toward
+the river, near which he could just see a single patch of vivid green
+trees that guaranteed the brummagem umbrageousness of Riverside Drive.
+Across the water were the Palisades, crowned by the ugly framework of
+the amusement park--yet soon it would be dusk and those same iron
+cobwebs would be a glory against the heavens, an enchanted palace set
+over the smooth radiance of a tropical canal.
+
+The streets near the apartment, Anthony had found, were streets where
+children played--streets a little nicer than those he had been used to
+pass on his way to Marietta, but of the same general sort, with an
+occasional hand organ or hurdy-gurdy, and in the cool of the evening
+many pairs of young girls walking down to the corner drug-store for ice
+cream soda and dreaming unlimited dreams under the low heavens.
+
+Dusk in the streets now, and children playing, shouting up incoherent
+ecstatic words that faded out close to the open window--and Muriel, who
+had come to find Gloria, chattering to him from an opaque gloom over
+across the room.
+
+"Light the lamp, why don't we?" she suggested. "It's getting _ghostly_
+in here."
+
+With a tired movement he arose and obeyed; the gray window-panes
+vanished. He stretched himself. He was heavier now, his stomach was a
+limp weight against his belt; his flesh had softened and expanded. He
+was thirty-two and his mind was a bleak and disordered wreck.
+
+"Have a little drink, Muriel?"
+
+"Not me, thanks. I don't use it anymore. What're you doing these days,
+Anthony?" she asked curiously.
+
+"Well, I've been pretty busy with this lawsuit," he answered
+indifferently. "It's gone to the Court of Appeals--ought to be settled
+up one way or another by autumn. There's been some objection as to
+whether the Court of Appeals has jurisdiction over the matter."
+
+Muriel made a clicking sound with her tongue and cocked her head on one
+side.
+
+"Well, you tell'em! I never heard of anything taking so long."
+
+"Oh, they all do," he replied listlessly; "all will cases. They say it's
+exceptional to have one settled under four or five years."
+
+"Oh ..." Muriel daringly changed her tack, "why don't you go to work,
+you la-azy!"
+
+"At what?" he demanded abruptly.
+
+"Why, at anything, I suppose. You're still a young man."
+
+"If that's encouragement, I'm much obliged," he answered dryly--and then
+with sudden weariness: "Does it bother you particularly that I don't
+want to work?"
+
+"It doesn't bother me--but, it does bother a lot of people who claim--"
+
+"Oh, God!" he said brokenly, "it seems to me that for three years I've
+heard nothing about myself but wild stories and virtuous admonitions.
+I'm tired of it. If you don't want to see us, let us alone. I don't
+bother my former friends.' But I need no charity calls, and no criticism
+disguised as good advice--" Then he added apologetically: "I'm
+sorry--but really, Muriel, you mustn't talk like a lady slum-worker even
+if you are visiting the lower middle classes." He turned his bloodshot
+eyes on her reproachfully--eyes that had once been a deep, clear blue,
+that were weak now, strained, and half-ruined from reading when he
+was drunk.
+
+"Why do you say such awful things?" she protested. You talk as if you
+and Gloria were in the middle classes."
+
+"Why pretend we're not? I hate people who claim to be great aristocrats
+when they can't even keep up the appearances of it."
+
+"Do you think a person has to have money to be aristocratic?"
+
+Muriel ... the horrified democrat ...!
+
+"Why, of course. Aristocracy's only an admission that certain traits
+which we call fine--courage and honor and beauty and all that sort of
+thing--can best be developed in a favorable environment, where you don't
+have the warpings of ignorance and necessity."
+
+Muriel bit her lower lip and waved her head from side to side.
+
+"Well, all _I_ say is that if a person comes from a good family they're
+always nice people. That's the trouble with you and Gloria. You think
+that just because things aren't going your way right now all your old
+friends are trying to avoid you. You're too sensitive--"
+
+"As a matter of fact," said Anthony, "you know nothing at all about it.
+With me it's simply a matter of pride, and for once Gloria's reasonable
+enough to agree that we oughtn't go where we're not wanted. And people
+don't want us. We're too much the ideal bad examples."
+
+"Nonsense! You can't park your pessimism in my little sun parlor. I
+think you ought to forget all those morbid speculations and go to work."
+
+"Here I am, thirty-two. Suppose I did start in at some idiotic business.
+Perhaps in two years I might rise to fifty dollars a week--with luck.
+That's _if_ I could get a job at all; there's an awful lot of
+unemployment. Well, suppose I made fifty a week. Do you think I'd be any
+happier? Do you think that if I don't get this money of my grandfather's
+life will be _endurable?_"
+
+Muriel smiled complacently.
+
+"Well," she said, "that may be clever but it isn't common sense."
+
+A few minutes later Gloria came in seeming to bring with her into the
+room some dark color, indeterminate and rare. In a taciturn way she was
+happy to see Muriel. She greeted Anthony with a casual "Hi!"
+
+"I've been talking philosophy with your husband," cried the
+irrepressible Miss Kane.
+
+"We took up some fundamental concepts," said Anthony, a faint smile
+disturbing his pale cheeks, paler still under two days' growth of beard.
+
+Oblivious to his irony Muriel rehashed her contention. When she had
+done, Gloria said quietly:
+
+"Anthony's right. It's no fun to go around when you have the sense that
+people are looking at you in a certain way."
+
+He broke in plaintively:
+
+"Don't you think that when even Maury Noble, who was my best friend,
+won't come to see us it's high time to stop calling people up?" Tears
+were standing in his eyes.
+
+"That was your fault about Maury Noble," said Gloria coolly.
+
+"It wasn't."
+
+"It most certainly was."
+
+Muriel intervened quickly:
+
+"I met a girl who knew Maury, the other day, and she says he doesn't
+drink any more. He's getting pretty cagey."
+
+"Doesn't?"
+
+"Practically not at all. He's making _piles_ of money. He's sort of
+changed since the war. He's going to marry a girl in Philadelphia who
+has millions, Ceci Larrabee--anyhow, that's what Town Tattle said."
+
+"He's thirty-three," said Anthony, thinking aloud. But it's odd to
+imagine his getting married. I used to think he was so brilliant."
+
+"He was," murmured Gloria, "in a way."
+
+"But brilliant people don't settle down in business--or do they? Or what
+do they do? Or what becomes of everybody you used to know and have so
+much in common with?"
+
+"You drift apart," suggested Muriel with the appropriate dreamy look.
+
+"They change," said Gloria. "All the qualities that they don't use in
+their daily lives get cobwebbed up."
+
+"The last thing he said to me," recollected Anthony, "was that he was
+going to work so as to forget that there was nothing worth working for."
+
+Muriel caught at this quickly.
+
+"That's what _you_ ought to do," she exclaimed triumphantly. "Of course
+I shouldn't think anybody would want to work for nothing. But it'd give
+you something to do. What do you do with yourselves, anyway? Nobody ever
+sees you at Montmartre or--or anywhere. Are you economizing?"
+
+Gloria laughed scornfully, glancing at Anthony from the corners of her
+eyes.
+
+"Well," he demanded, "what are you laughing at?" "You know what I'm
+laughing at," she answered coldly.
+
+"At that case of whiskey?"
+
+"Yes"--she turned to Muriel--"he paid seventy-five dollars for a case of
+whiskey yesterday."
+
+"What if I did? It's cheaper that way than if you get it by the bottle.
+You needn't pretend that you won't drink any of it."
+
+"At least I don't drink in the daytime."
+
+"That's a fine distinction!" he cried, springing to his feet in a weak
+rage. "What's more, I'll be damned if you can hurl that at me every
+few minutes!"
+
+"It's true."
+
+"It is _not!_ And I'm getting sick of this eternal business of
+criticising me before visitors!" He had worked himself up to such a
+state that his arms and shoulders were visibly trembling. "You'd think
+everything was my fault. You'd think you hadn't encouraged me to spend
+money--and spent a lot more on yourself than I ever did by a long shot."
+
+Now Gloria rose to her feet.
+
+"I _won't_ let you talk to me that way!"
+
+"All right, then; by Heaven, you don't have to!"
+
+In a sort of rush he left the room. The two women heard his steps in the
+hall and then the front door banged. Gloria sank back into her chair.
+Her face was lovely in the lamplight, composed, inscrutable.
+
+"Oh--!" cried Muriel in distress. "Oh, what _is_ the matter?"
+
+"Nothing particularly. He's just drunk."
+
+"Drunk? Why, he's perfectly sober. He talked----"
+
+Gloria shook her head.
+
+"Oh, no, he doesn't show it any more unless he can hardly stand up, and
+he talks all right until he gets excited. He talks much better than he
+does when he's sober. But he's been sitting here all day
+drinking--except for the time it took him to walk to the corner for a
+newspaper."
+
+"Oh, how terrible!" Muriel was sincerely moved. Her eyes filled with
+tears. "Has this happened much?"
+
+"Drinking, you mean?"
+
+"No, this--leaving you?"
+
+"Oh, yes. Frequently. He'll come in about midnight--and weep and ask me
+to forgive him."
+
+"And do you?"
+
+"I don't know. We just go on."
+
+The two women sat there in the lamplight and looked at each other, each
+in a different way helpless before this thing. Gloria was still pretty,
+as pretty as she would ever be again--her cheeks were flushed and she
+was wearing a new dress that she had bought--imprudently--for fifty
+dollars. She had hoped she could persuade Anthony to take her out
+to-night, to a restaurant or even to one of the great, gorgeous moving
+picture palaces where there would be a few people to look at her, at
+whom she could bear to look in turn. She wanted this because she knew
+her cheeks were flushed and because her dress was new and becomingly
+fragile. Only very occasionally, now, did they receive any invitations.
+But she did not tell these things to Muriel.
+
+"Gloria, dear, I wish we could have dinner together, but I promised a
+man and it's seven-thirty already. I've got to _tear_."
+
+"Oh, I couldn't, anyway. In the first place I've been ill all day. I
+couldn't eat a thing."
+
+After she had walked with Muriel to the door, Gloria came back into the
+room, turned out the lamp, and leaning her elbows on the window sill
+looked out at Palisades Park, where the brilliant revolving circle of
+the Ferris wheel was like a trembling mirror catching the yellow
+reflection of the moon. The street was quiet now; the children had gone
+in--over the way she could see a family at dinner. Pointlessly,
+ridiculously, they rose and walked about the table; seen thus, all that
+they did appeared incongruous--it was as though they were being jiggled
+carelessly and to no purpose by invisible overhead wires.
+
+She looked at her watch--it was eight o'clock. She had been pleased for
+a part of the day--the early afternoon--in walking along that Broadway
+of Harlem, One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, with her nostrils alert
+to many odors, and her mind excited by the extraordinary beauty of some
+Italian children. It affected her curiously--as Fifth Avenue had
+affected her once, in the days when, with the placid confidence of
+beauty, she had known that it was all hers, every shop and all it held,
+every adult toy glittering in a window, all hers for the asking. Here on
+One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street there were Salvation Army bands and
+spectrum-shawled old ladies on door-steps and sugary, sticky candy in
+the grimy hands of shiny-haired children--and the late sun striking down
+on the sides of the tall tenements. All very rich and racy and savory,
+like a dish by a provident French chef that one could not help enjoying,
+even though one knew that the ingredients were probably left-overs....
+
+Gloria shuddered suddenly as a river siren came moaning over the dusky
+roofs, and leaning back in till the ghostly curtains fell from her
+shoulder, she turned on the electric lamp. It was growing late. She knew
+there was some change in her purse, and she considered whether she would
+go down and have some coffee and rolls where the liberated subway made a
+roaring cave of Manhattan Street or eat the devilled ham and bread in
+the kitchen. Her purse decided for her. It contained a nickel and
+two pennies.
+
+After an hour the silence of the room had grown unbearable, and she
+found that her eyes were wandering from her magazine to the ceiling,
+toward which she stared without thought. Suddenly she stood up,
+hesitated for a moment, biting at her finger--then she went to the
+pantry, took down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured herself
+a drink. She filled up the glass with ginger ale, and returning to her
+chair finished an article in the magazine. It concerned the last
+revolutionary widow, who, when a young girl, had married an ancient
+veteran of the Continental Army and who had died in 1906. It seemed
+strange and oddly romantic to Gloria that she and this woman had been
+contemporaries.
+
+She turned a page and learned that a candidate for Congress was being
+accused of atheism by an opponent. Gloria's surprise vanished when she
+found that the charges were false. The candidate had merely denied the
+miracle of the loaves and fishes. He admitted, under pressure, that he
+gave full credence to the stroll upon the water.
+
+Finishing her first drink, Gloria got herself a second. After slipping
+on a neglig�e and making herself comfortable on the lounge, she became
+conscious that she was miserable and that the tears were rolling down
+her cheeks. She wondered if they were tears of self-pity, and tried
+resolutely not to cry, but this existence without hope, without
+happiness, oppressed her, and she kept shaking her head from side to
+side, her mouth drawn down tremulously in the corners, as though she
+were denying an assertion made by some one, somewhere. She did not know
+that this gesture of hers was years older than history, that, for a
+hundred generations of men, intolerable and persistent grief has offered
+that gesture, of denial, of protest, of bewilderment, to something more
+profound, more powerful than the God made in the image of man, and
+before which that God, did he exist, would be equally impotent. It is a
+truth set at the heart of tragedy that this force never explains, never
+answers--this force intangible as air, more definite than death.
+
+
+RICHARD CARAMEL
+
+Early in the summer Anthony resigned from his last club, the Amsterdam.
+He had come to visit it hardly twice a year, and the dues were a
+recurrent burden. He had joined it on his return from Italy because it
+had been his grandfather's club and his father's, and because it was a
+club that, given the opportunity, one indisputably joined--but as a
+matter of fact he had preferred the Harvard Club, largely because of
+Dick and Maury. However, with the decline of his fortunes, it had seemed
+an increasingly desirable bauble to cling to.... It was relinquished at
+the last, with some regret....
+
+His companions numbered now a curious dozen. Several of them he had met
+in a place called "Sammy's," on Forty-third Street, where, if one
+knocked on the door and were favorably passed on from behind a grating,
+one could sit around a great round table drinking fairly good whiskey.
+It was here that he encountered a man named Parker Allison, who had been
+exactly the wrong sort of rounder at Harvard, and who was running
+through a large "yeast" fortune as rapidly as possible. Parker Allison's
+notion of distinction consisted in driving a noisy red-and-yellow
+racing-car up Broadway with two glittering, hard-eyed girls beside him.
+He was the sort who dined with two girls rather than with one--his
+imagination was almost incapable of sustaining a dialogue.
+
+Besides Allison there was Pete Lytell, who wore a gray derby on the side
+of his head. He always had money and he was customarily cheerful, so
+Anthony held aimless, long-winded conversation with him through many
+afternoons of the summer and fall. Lytell, he found, not only talked but
+reasoned in phrases. His philosophy was a series of them, assimilated
+here and there through an active, thoughtless life. He had phrases about
+Socialism--the immemorial ones; he had phrases pertaining to the
+existence of a personal deity--something about one time when he had been
+in a railroad accident; and he had phrases about the Irish problem, the
+sort of woman he respected, and the futility of prohibition. The only
+time his conversation ever rose superior to these muddled clauses, with
+which he interpreted the most rococo happenings in a life that had been
+more than usually eventful, was when he got down to the detailed
+discussion of his most animal existence: he knew, to a subtlety, the
+foods, the liquor, and the women that he preferred.
+
+He was at once the commonest and the most remarkable product of
+civilization. He was nine out of ten people that one passes on a city
+street--and he was a hairless ape with two dozen tricks. He was the hero
+of a thousand romances of life and art--and he was a virtual moron,
+performing staidly yet absurdly a series of complicated and infinitely
+astounding epics over a span of threescore years.
+
+With such men as these two Anthony Patch drank and discussed and drank
+and argued. He liked them because they knew nothing about him, because
+they lived in the obvious and had not the faintest conception of the
+inevitable continuity of life. They sat not before a motion picture with
+consecutive reels, but at a musty old-fashioned travelogue with all
+values stark and hence all implications confused. Yet they themselves
+were not confused, because there was nothing in them to be
+confused--they changed phrases from month to month as they
+changed neckties.
+
+Anthony, the courteous, the subtle, the perspicacious, was drunk each
+day--in Sammy's with these men, in the apartment over a book, some book
+he knew, and, very rarely, with Gloria, who, in his eyes, had begun to
+develop the unmistakable outlines of a quarrelsome and unreasonable
+woman. She was not the Gloria of old, certainly--the Gloria who, had she
+been sick, would have preferred to inflict misery upon every one around
+her, rather than confess that she needed sympathy or assistance. She was
+not above whining now; she was not above being sorry for herself. Each
+night when she prepared for bed she smeared her face with some new
+unguent which she hoped illogically would give back the glow and
+freshness to her vanishing beauty. When Anthony was drunk he taunted her
+about this. When he was sober he was polite to her, on occasions even
+tender; he seemed to show for short hours a trace of that old quality of
+understanding too well to blame--that quality which was the best of him
+and had worked swiftly and ceaselessly toward his ruin.
+
+But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around
+him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid
+than despair, of incessant passage up or down, which in every metropolis
+is most in evidence through the unstable middle class. Unable to live
+with the rich he thought that his next choice would have been to live
+with the very poor. Anything was better than this cup of perspiration
+and tears.
+
+The sense of the enormous panorama of life, never strong in Anthony, had
+become dim almost to extinction. At long intervals now some incident,
+some gesture of Gloria's, would take his fancy--but the gray veils had
+come down in earnest upon him. As he grew older those things
+faded--after that there was wine.
+
+There was a kindliness about intoxication--there was that indescribable
+gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded
+evenings. After a few high-balls there was magic in the tall glowing
+Arabian night of the Bush Terminal Building--its summit a peak of sheer
+grandeur, gold and dreaming against the inaccessible sky. And Wall
+Street, the crass, the banal--again it was the triumph of gold, a
+gorgeous sentient spectacle; it was where the great kings kept the money
+for their wars....
+
+... The fruit of youth or of the grape, the transitory magic of the
+brief passage from darkness to darkness--the old illusion that truth and
+beauty were in some way entwined.
+
+As he stood in front of Delmonico's lighting a cigarette one night he
+saw two hansoms drawn up close to the curb, waiting for a chance drunken
+fare. The outmoded cabs were worn and dirty--the cracked patent leather
+wrinkled like an old man's face, the cushions faded to a brownish
+lavender; the very horses were ancient and weary, and so were the
+white-haired men who sat aloft, cracking their whips with a grotesque
+affectation of gallantry. A relic of vanished gaiety!
+
+Anthony Patch walked away in a sudden fit of depression, pondering the
+bitterness of such survivals. There was nothing, it seemed, that grew
+stale so soon as pleasure.
+
+On Forty-second Street one afternoon he met Richard Caramel for the
+first time in many months, a prosperous, fattening Richard Caramel,
+whose face was filling out to match the Bostonian brow.
+
+"Just got in this week from the coast. Was going to call you up, but I
+didn't know your new address."
+
+"We've moved."
+
+Richard Caramel noticed that Anthony was wearing a soiled shirt, that
+his cuffs were slightly but perceptibly frayed, that his eyes were set
+in half-moons the color of cigar smoke.
+
+"So I gathered," he said, fixing his friend with his bright-yellow eye.
+"But where and how is Gloria? My God, Anthony, I've been hearing the
+dog-gonedest stories about you two even out in California--and when I
+get back to New York I find you've sunk absolutely out of sight. Why
+don't you pull yourself together?"
+
+"Now, listen," chattered Anthony unsteadily, "I can't stand a long
+lecture. We've lost money in a dozen ways, and naturally people have
+talked--on account of the lawsuit, but the thing's coming to a final
+decision this winter, surely--"
+
+"You're talking so fast that I can't understand you," interrupted Dick
+calmly.
+
+"Well, I've said all I'm going to say," snapped Anthony. "Come and see
+us if you like--or don't!"
+
+With this he turned and started to walk off in the crowd, but Dick
+overtook him immediately and grasped his arm.
+
+"Say, Anthony, don't fly off the handle so easily! You know Gloria's my
+cousin, and you're one of my oldest friends, so it's natural for me to
+be interested when I hear that you're going to the dogs--and taking her
+with you."
+
+"I don't want to be preached to."
+
+"Well, then, all right--How about coming up to my apartment and having a
+drink? I've just got settled. I've bought three cases of Gordon gin from
+a revenue officer."
+
+As they walked along he continued in a burst of exasperation:
+
+"And how about your grandfather's money--you going to get it?"
+
+"Well," answered Anthony resentfully, "that old fool Haight seems
+hopeful, especially because people are tired of reformers right now--you
+know it might make a slight difference, for instance, if some judge
+thought that Adam Patch made it harder for him to get liquor."
+
+"You can't do without money," said Dick sententiously. "Have you tried
+to write any--lately?"
+
+Anthony shook his head silently.
+
+"That's funny," said Dick. "I always thought that you and Maury would
+write some day, and now he's grown to be a sort of tight-fisted
+aristocrat, and you're--"
+
+"I'm the bad example."
+
+"I wonder why?"
+
+"You probably think you know," suggested Anthony, with an effort at
+concentration. "The failure and the success both believe in their hearts
+that they have accurately balanced points of view, the success because
+he's succeeded, and the failure because he's failed. The successful man
+tells his son to profit by his father's good fortune, and the failure
+tells _his_ son to profit by his father's mistakes."
+
+"I don't agree with you," said the author of "A Shave-tail in France."
+"I used to listen to you and Maury when we were young, and I used to be
+impressed because you were so consistently cynical, but now--well, after
+all, by God, which of us three has taken to the--to the intellectual
+life? I don't want to sound vainglorious, but--it's me, and I've always
+believed that moral values existed, and I always will."
+
+"Well," objected Anthony, who was rather enjoying himself, "even
+granting that, you know that in practice life never presents problems as
+clear cut, does it?"
+
+"It does to me. There's nothing I'd violate certain principles for."
+
+"But how do you know when you're violating them? You have to guess at
+things just like most people do. You have to apportion the values when
+you look back. You finish up the portrait then--paint in the details
+and shadows."
+
+Dick shook his head with a lofty stubbornness. "Same old futile cynic,"
+he said. "It's just a mode of being sorry for yourself. You don't do
+anything--so nothing matters."
+
+"Oh, I'm quite capable of self-pity," admitted Anthony, "nor am I
+claiming that I'm getting as much fun out of life as you are."
+
+"You say--at least you used to--that happiness is the only thing worth
+while in life. Do you think you're any happier for being a pessimist?"
+
+Anthony grunted savagely. His pleasure in the conversation began to
+wane. He was nervous and craving for a drink.
+
+"My golly!" he cried, "where do you live? I can't keep walking forever."
+
+"Your endurance is all mental, eh?" returned Dick sharply. "Well, I live
+right here."
+
+He turned in at the apartment house on Forty-ninth Street, and a few
+minutes later they were in a large new room with an open fireplace and
+four walls lined with books. A colored butler served them gin rickeys,
+and an hour vanished politely with the mellow shortening of their drinks
+and the glow of a light mid-autumn fire.
+
+"The arts are very old," said Anthony after a while. With a few glasses
+the tension of his nerves relaxed and he found that he could
+think again.
+
+"Which art?"
+
+"All of them. Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner
+or later. For instance, the beautiful word, the colored and glittering
+word, and the beautiful simile belong in prose now. To get attention
+poetry has got to strain for the unusual word, the harsh, earthy word
+that's never been beautiful before. Beauty, as the sum of several
+beautiful parts, reached its apotheosis in Swinburne. It can't go any
+further--except in the novel, perhaps."
+
+Dick interrupted him impatiently:
+
+"You know these new novels make me tired. My God! Everywhere I go some
+silly girl asks me if I've read 'This Side of Paradise.' Are our girls
+really like that? If it's true to life, which I don't believe, the next
+generation is going to the dogs. I'm sick of all this shoddy realism. I
+think there's a place for the romanticist in literature."
+
+Anthony tried to remember what he had read lately of Richard Caramel's.
+There was "A Shave-tail in France," a novel called "The Land of Strong
+Men," and several dozen short stories, which were even worse. It had
+become the custom among young and clever reviewers to mention Richard
+Caramel with a smile of scorn. "Mr." Richard Caramel, they called him.
+His corpse was dragged obscenely through every literary supplement. He
+was accused of making a great fortune by writing trash for the movies.
+As the fashion in books shifted he was becoming almost a byword
+of contempt.
+
+While Anthony was thinking this, Dick had got to his feet and seemed to
+be hesitating at an avowal.
+
+"I've gathered quite a few books," he said suddenly.
+
+"So I see."
+
+"I've made an exhaustive collection of good American stuff, old and new.
+I don't mean the usual Longfellow-Whittier thing--in fact, most of
+it's modern."
+
+He stepped to one of the walls and, seeing that it was expected of him,
+Anthony arose and followed.
+
+"Look!"
+
+Under a printed tag _Americana_ he displayed six long rows of books,
+beautifully bound and, obviously, carefully chosen.
+
+"And here are the contemporary novelists."
+
+Then Anthony saw the joker. Wedged in between Mark Twain and Dreiser
+were eight strange and inappropriate volumes, the works of Richard
+Caramel--"The Demon Lover," true enough ... but also seven others that
+were execrably awful, without sincerity or grace.
+
+Unwillingly Anthony glanced at Dick's face and caught a slight
+uncertainty there.
+
+"I've put my own books in, of course," said Richard Caramel hastily,
+"though one or two of them are uneven--I'm afraid I wrote a little too
+fast when I had that magazine contract. But I don't believe in false
+modesty. Of course some of the critics haven't paid so much attention to
+me since I've been established--but, after all, it's not the critics
+that count. They're just sheep."
+
+For the first time in so long that he could scarcely remember, Anthony
+felt a touch of the old pleasant contempt for his friend. Richard
+Caramel continued:
+
+"My publishers, you know, have been advertising me as the Thackeray of
+America--because of my New York novel."
+
+"Yes," Anthony managed to muster, "I suppose there's a good deal in what
+you say."
+
+He knew that his contempt was unreasonable. He, knew that he would have
+changed places with Dick unhesitatingly. He himself had tried his best
+to write with his tongue in his cheek. Ah, well, then--can a man
+disparage his life-work so readily? ...
+
+--And that night while Richard Caramel was hard at toil, with great
+hittings of the wrong keys and screwings up of his weary, unmatched
+eyes, laboring over his trash far into those cheerless hours when the
+fire dies down, and the head is swimming from the effect of prolonged
+concentration--Anthony, abominably drunk, was sprawled across the back
+seat of a taxi on his way to the flat on Claremont Avenue.
+
+
+THE BEATING
+
+As winter approached it seemed that a sort of madness seized upon
+Anthony. He awoke in the morning so nervous that Gloria could feel him
+trembling in the bed before he could muster enough vitality to stumble
+into the pantry for a drink. He was intolerable now except under the
+influence of liquor, and as he seemed to decay and coarsen under her
+eyes, Gloria's soul and body shrank away from him; when he stayed out
+all night, as he did several times, she not only failed to be sorry but
+even felt a measure of relief. Next day he would be faintly repentant,
+and would remark in a gruff, hang-dog fashion that he guessed he was
+drinking a little too much.
+
+For hours at a time he would sit in the great armchair that had been in
+his apartment, lost in a sort of stupor--even his interest in reading
+his favorite books seemed to have departed, and though an incessant
+bickering went on between husband and wife, the one subject upon which
+they ever really conversed was the progress of the will case. What
+Gloria hoped in the tenebrous depths of her soul, what she expected that
+great gift of money to bring about, is difficult to imagine. She was
+being bent by her environment into a grotesque similitude of a
+housewife. She who until three years before had never made coffee,
+prepared sometimes three meals a day. She walked a great deal in the
+afternoons, and in the evenings she read--books, magazines, anything she
+found at hand. If now she wished for a child, even a child of the
+Anthony who sought her bed blind drunk, she neither said so nor gave any
+show or sign of interest in children. It is doubtful if she could have
+made it clear to any one what it was she wanted, or indeed what there
+was to want--a lonely, lovely woman, thirty now, retrenched behind some
+impregnable inhibition born and coexistent with her beauty.
+
+One afternoon when the snow was dirty again along Riverside Drive,
+Gloria, who had been to the grocer's, entered the apartment to find
+Anthony pacing the floor in a state of aggravated nervousness. The
+feverish eyes he turned on her were traced with tiny pink lines that
+reminded her of rivers on a map. For a moment she received the
+impression that he was suddenly and definitely old.
+
+"Have you any money?" he inquired of her precipitately.
+
+"What? What do you mean?"
+
+"Just what I said. Money! Money! Can't you speak English?"
+
+She paid no attention but brushed by him and into the pantry to put the
+bacon and eggs in the ice-box. When his drinking had been unusually
+excessive he was invariably in a whining mood. This time he followed her
+and, standing in the pantry door, persisted in his question.
+
+"You heard what I said. Have you any money?"
+
+She turned about from the ice-box and faced him.
+
+"Why, Anthony, you must be crazy! You know I haven't any money--except a
+dollar in change."
+
+He executed an abrupt about-face and returned to the living room, where
+he renewed his pacing. It was evident that he had something portentous
+on his mind--he quite obviously wanted to be asked what was the matter.
+Joining him a moment later she sat upon the long lounge and began taking
+down her hair. It was no longer bobbed, and it had changed in the last
+year from a rich gold dusted with red to an unresplendent light brown.
+She had bought some shampoo soap and meant to wash it now; she had
+considered putting a bottle of peroxide into the rinsing water.
+
+"--Well?" she implied silently.
+
+"That darn bank!" he quavered. "They've had my account for over ten
+years--ten _years_. Well, it seems they've got some autocratic rule that
+you have to keep over five hundred dollars there or they won't carry
+you. They wrote me a letter a few months ago and told me I'd been
+running too low. Once I gave out two bum checks--remember? that night in
+Reisenweber's?--but I made them good the very next day. Well, I promised
+old Halloran--he's the manager, the greedy Mick--that I'd watch out. And
+I thought I was going all right; I kept up the stubs in my check-book
+pretty regular. Well, I went in there to-day to cash a check, and
+Halloran came up and told me they'd have to close my account. Too many
+bad checks, he said, and I never had more than five hundred to my
+credit--and that only for a day or so at a time. And by God! What do you
+think he said then?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"He said this was a good time to do it because I didn't have a damn
+penny in there!"
+
+"You didn't?"
+
+"That's what he told me. Seems I'd given these Bedros people a check for
+sixty for that last case of liquor--and I only had forty-five dollars in
+the bank. Well, the Bedros people deposited fifteen dollars to my
+account and drew the whole thing out."
+
+In her ignorance Gloria conjured up a spectre of imprisonment and
+disgrace.
+
+"Oh, they won't do anything," he assured her. "Bootlegging's too risky a
+business. They'll send me a bill for fifteen dollars and I'll pay it."
+
+"Oh." She considered a moment. "--Well, we can sell another bond."
+
+He laughed sarcastically.
+
+"Oh, yes, that's always easy. When the few bonds we have that are paying
+any interest at all are only worth between fifty and eighty cents on the
+dollar. We lose about half the bond every time we sell."
+
+"What else can we do?"
+
+"Oh, we'll sell something--as usual. We've got paper worth eighty
+thousand dollars at par." Again he laughed unpleasantly. "Bring about
+thirty thousand on the open market."
+
+"I distrusted those ten per cent investments."
+
+"The deuce you did!" he said. "You pretended you did, so you could claw
+at me if they went to pieces, but you wanted to take a chance as much
+as I did."
+
+She was silent for a moment as if considering, then:
+
+"Anthony," she cried suddenly, "two hundred a month is worse than
+nothing. Let's sell all the bonds and put the thirty thousand dollars in
+the bank--and if we lose the case we can live in Italy for three years,
+and then just die." In her excitement as she talked she was aware of a
+faint flush of sentiment, the first she had felt in many days.
+
+"Three years," he said nervously, "three years! You're crazy. Mr.
+Haight'll take more than that if we lose. Do you think he's working
+for charity?"
+
+"I forgot that."
+
+"--And here it is Saturday," he continued, "and I've only got a dollar
+and some change, and we've got to live till Monday, when I can get to my
+broker's.... And not a drink in the house," he added as a significant
+afterthought.
+
+"Can't you call up Dick?"
+
+"I did. His man says he's gone down to Princeton to address a literary
+club or some such thing. Won't be back till Monday."
+
+"Well, let's see--Don't you know some friend you might go to?"
+
+"I tried a couple of fellows. Couldn't find anybody in. I wish I'd sold
+that Keats letter like I started to last week."
+
+"How about those men you play cards with in that Sammy place?"
+
+"Do you think I'd ask _them?_" His voice rang with righteous horror.
+Gloria winced. He would rather contemplate her active discomfort than
+feel his own skin crawl at asking an inappropriate favor. "I thought of
+Muriel," he suggested.
+
+"She's in California."
+
+"Well, how about some of those men who gave you such a good time while I
+was in the army? You'd think they might be glad to do a little favor
+for you."
+
+She looked at him contemptuously, but he took no notice.
+
+"Or how about your old friend Rachael--or Constance Merriam?"
+
+"Constance Merriam's been dead a year, and I wouldn't ask Rachael."
+
+"Well, how about that gentleman who was so anxious to help you once that
+he could hardly restrain himself, Bloeckman?"
+
+"Oh--!" He had hurt her at last, and he was not too obtuse or too
+careless to perceive it.
+
+"Why not him?" he insisted callously.
+
+"Because--he doesn't like me any more," she said with difficulty, and
+then as he did not answer but only regarded her cynically: "If you want
+to know why, I'll tell you. A year ago I went to Bloeckman--he's changed
+his name to Black--and asked him to put me into pictures."
+
+"You went to Bloeckman?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded incredulously, the smile fading
+from his face.
+
+"Because you were probably off drinking somewhere. He had them give me a
+test, and they decided that I wasn't young enough for anything except a
+character part."
+
+"A character part?"
+
+"The 'woman of thirty' sort of thing. I wasn't thirty, and I didn't
+think I--looked thirty."
+
+"Why, damn him!" cried Anthony, championing her violently with a curious
+perverseness of emotion, "why--"
+
+"Well, that's why I can't go to him."
+
+"Why, the insolence!" insisted Anthony nervously, "the insolence!"
+
+"Anthony, that doesn't matter now; the thing is we've got to live over
+Sunday and there's nothing in the house but a loaf of bread and a
+half-pound of bacon and two eggs for breakfast." She handed him the
+contents of her purse. "There's seventy, eighty, a dollar fifteen. With
+what you have that makes about two and a half altogether, doesn't it?
+Anthony, we can get along on that. We can buy lots of food with
+that--more than we can possibly eat."
+
+Jingling the change in his hand he shook his head. "No. I've got to have
+a drink. I'm so darn nervous that I'm shivering." A thought struck him.
+"Perhaps Sammy'd cash a check. And then Monday I could rush down to the
+bank with the money." "But they've closed your account."
+
+"That's right, that's right--I'd forgotten. I'll tell you what: I'll go
+down to Sammy's and I'll find somebody there who'll lend me something. I
+hate like the devil to ask them, though...." He snapped his fingers
+suddenly. "I know what I'll do. I'll hock my watch. I can get twenty
+dollars on it, and get it back Monday for sixty cents extra. It's been
+hocked before--when I was at Cambridge."
+
+He had put on his overcoat, and with a brief good-by he started down the
+hall toward the outer door.
+
+Gloria got to her feet. It had suddenly occurred to her where he would
+probably go first.
+
+"Anthony!" she called after him, "hadn't you better leave two dollars
+with me? You'll only need car-fare."
+
+The outer door slammed--he had pretended not to hear her. She stood for
+a moment looking after him; then she went into the bathroom among her
+tragic unguents and began preparations for washing her hair.
+
+Down at Sammy's he found Parker Allison and Pete Lytell sitting alone at
+a table, drinking whiskey sours. It was just after six o'clock, and
+Sammy, or Samuele Bendiri, as he had been christened, was sweeping an
+accumulation of cigarette butts and broken glass into a corner.
+
+"Hi, Tony!" called Parker Allison to Anthony. Sometimes he addressed him
+as Tony, at other times it was Dan. To him all Anthonys must sail under
+one of these diminutives.
+
+"Sit down. What'll you have?"
+
+On the subway Anthony had counted his money and found that he had almost
+four dollars. He could pay for two rounds at fifty cents a drink--which
+meant that he would have six drinks. Then he would go over to Sixth
+Avenue and get twenty dollars and a pawn ticket in exchange for
+his watch.
+
+"Well, roughnecks," he said jovially, "how's the life of crime?"
+
+"Pretty good," said Allison. He winked at Pete Lytell. "Too bad you're a
+married man. We've got some pretty good stuff lined up for about eleven
+o'clock, when the shows let out. Oh, boy! Yes, sir--too bad he's
+married--isn't it, Pete?"
+
+"'Sa shame."
+
+At half past seven, when they had completed the six rounds, Anthony
+found that his intentions were giving audience to his desires. He was
+happy and cheerful now--thoroughly enjoying himself. It seemed to him
+that the story which Pete had just finished telling was unusually and
+profoundly humorous--and he decided, as he did every day at about this
+point, that they were "damn good fellows, by golly!" who would do a lot
+more for him than any one else he knew. The pawnshops would remain open
+until late Saturday nights, and he felt that if he took just one more
+drink he would attain a gorgeous rose-colored exhilaration.
+
+Artfully, he fished in his vest pockets, brought up his two quarters,
+and stared at them as though in surprise.
+
+"Well, I'll be darned," he protested in an aggrieved tone, "here I've
+come out without my pocketbook."
+
+"Need some cash?" asked Lytell easily.
+
+"I left my money on the dresser at home. And I wanted to buy you another
+drink."
+
+"Oh--knock it." Lytell waved the suggestion away disparagingly. "I guess
+we can blow a good fella to all the drinks he wants. What'll you
+have--same?"
+
+"I tell you," suggested Parker Allison, "suppose we send Sammy across
+the street for some sandwiches and eat dinner here."
+
+The other two agreed.
+
+"Good idea."
+
+"Hey, Sammy, wantcha do somep'm for us...."
+
+Just after nine o'clock Anthony staggered to his feet and, bidding them
+a thick good night, walked unsteadily to the door, handing Sammy one of
+his two quarters as he passed out. Once in the street he hesitated
+uncertainly and then started in the direction of Sixth Avenue, where he
+remembered to have frequently passed several loan offices. He went by a
+news-stand and two drug-stores--and then he realized that he was
+standing in front of the place which he sought, and that it was shut and
+barred. Unperturbed he continued; another one, half a block down, was
+also closed--so were two more across the street, and a fifth in the
+square below. Seeing a faint light in the last one, he began to knock on
+the glass door; he desisted only when a watchman appeared in the back of
+the shop and motioned him angrily to move on. With growing
+discouragement, with growing befuddlement, he crossed the street and
+walked back toward Forty-third. On the corner near Sammy's he paused
+undecided--if he went back to the apartment, as he felt his body
+required, he would lay himself open to bitter reproach; yet, now that
+the pawnshops were closed, he had no notion where to get the money. He
+decided finally that he might ask Parker Allison, after all--but he
+approached Sammy's only to find the door locked and the lights out. He
+looked at his watch; nine-thirty. He began walking.
+
+Ten minutes later he stopped aimlessly at the corner of Forty-third
+Street and Madison Avenue, diagonally across from the bright but nearly
+deserted entrance to the Biltmore Hotel. Here he stood for a moment, and
+then sat down heavily on a damp board amid some debris of construction
+work. He rested there for almost half an hour, his mind a shifting
+pattern of surface thoughts, chiefest among which were that he must
+obtain some money and get home before he became too sodden to find
+his way.
+
+Then, glancing over toward the Biltmore, he saw a man standing directly
+under the overhead glow of the porte-coch�re lamps beside a woman in an
+ermine coat. As Anthony watched, the couple moved forward and signalled
+to a taxi. Anthony perceived by the infallible identification that lurks
+in the walk of a friend that it was Maury Noble.
+
+He rose to his feet.
+
+"Maury!" he shouted.
+
+Maury looked in his direction, then turned back to the girl just as the
+taxi came up into place. With the chaotic idea of borrowing ten dollars,
+Anthony began to run as fast as he could across Madison Avenue and along
+Forty-third Street.
+
+As he came up Maury was standing beside the yawning door of the taxicab.
+His companion turned and looked curiously at Anthony.
+
+"Hello, Maury!" he said, holding out his hand. "How are you?"
+
+"Fine, thank you."
+
+Their hands dropped and Anthony hesitated. Maury made no move to
+introduce him, but only stood there regarding him with an inscrutable
+feline silence.
+
+"I wanted to see you--" began Anthony uncertainly. He did not feel that
+he could ask for a loan with the girl not four feet away, so he broke
+off and made a perceptible motion of his head as if to beckon Maury
+to one side.
+
+"I'm in rather a big hurry, Anthony."
+
+"I know--but can you, can you--" Again he hesitated.
+
+"I'll see you some other time," said Maury. "It's important."
+
+"I'm sorry, Anthony."
+
+Before Anthony could make up his mind to blurt out his request, Maury
+had turned coolly to the girl, helped her into the car and, with a
+polite "good evening," stepped in after her. As he nodded from the
+window it seemed to Anthony that his expression had not changed by a
+shade or a hair. Then with a fretful clatter the taxi moved off, and
+Anthony was left standing there alone under the lights.
+
+Anthony went on into the Biltmore, for no reason in particular except
+that the entrance was at hand, and ascending the wide stair found a seat
+in an alcove. He was furiously aware that he had been snubbed; he was as
+hurt and angry as it was possible for him to be when in that condition.
+Nevertheless, he was stubbornly preoccupied with the necessity of
+obtaining some money before he went home, and once again he told over on
+his fingers the acquaintances he might conceivably call on in this
+emergency. He thought, eventually, that he might approach Mr. Howland,
+his broker, at his home.
+
+After a long wait he found that Mr. Howland was out. He returned to the
+operator, leaning over her desk and fingering his quarter as though
+loath to leave unsatisfied.
+
+"Call Mr. Bloeckman," he said suddenly. His own words surprised him. The
+name had come from some crossing of two suggestions in his mind.
+
+"What's the number, please?"
+
+Scarcely conscious of what he did, Anthony looked up Joseph Bloeckman in
+the telephone directory. He could find no such person, and was about to
+close the book when it flashed into his mind that Gloria had mentioned a
+change of name. It was the matter of a minute to find Joseph Black--then
+he waited in the booth while central called the number.
+
+"Hello-o. Mr. Bloeckman--I mean Mr. Black in?"
+
+"No, he's out this evening. Is there any message?" The intonation was
+cockney; it reminded him of the rich vocal deferences of Bounds.
+
+"Where is he?"
+
+"Why, ah, who is this, please, sir?"
+
+"This Mr. Patch. Matter of vi'al importance." "Why, he's with a party at
+the Boul' Mich', sir." "Thanks."
+
+Anthony got his five cents change and started for the Boul' Mich', a
+popular dancing resort on Forty-fifth Street. It was nearly ten but the
+streets were dark and sparsely peopled until the theatres should eject
+their spawn an hour later. Anthony knew the Boul' Mich', for he had been
+there with Gloria during the year before, and he remembered the
+existence of a rule that patrons must be in evening dress. Well, he
+would not go up-stairs--he would send a boy up for Bloeckman and wait for
+him in the lower hall. For a moment he did not doubt that the whole
+project was entirely natural and graceful. To his distorted imagination
+Bloeckman had become simply one of his old friends.
+
+The entrance hall of the Boul' Mich' was warm. There were high yellow
+lights over a thick green carpet, from the centre of which a white
+stairway rose to the dancing floor.
+
+Anthony spoke to the hallboy:
+
+"I want to see Mr. Bloeckman--Mr. Black," he said. "He's up-stairs--have
+him paged."
+
+The boy shook his head.
+
+"'Sagainsa rules to have him paged. You know what table he's at?"
+
+"No. But I've got see him."
+
+"Wait an' I'll getcha waiter."
+
+After a short interval a head waiter appeared, bearing a card on which
+were charted the table reservations. He darted a cynical look at
+Anthony--which, however, failed of its target. Together they bent over
+the cardboard and found the table without difficulty--a party of eight,
+Mr. Black's own.
+
+"Tell him Mr. Patch. Very, very important."
+
+Again he waited, leaning against the banister and listening to the
+confused harmonies of "Jazz-mad" which came floating down the stairs. A
+check-girl near him was singing:
+
+_"Out in--the shimmee sanitarium
+The jazz-mad nuts reside.
+Out in--the shimmee sanitarium
+I left my blushing bride.
+She went and shook herself insane,
+So let her shiver back again--"_
+
+Then he saw Bloeckman descending the staircase, and took a step forward
+to meet him and shake hands.
+
+"You wanted to see me?" said the older man coolly.
+
+"Yes," answered Anthony, nodding, "personal matter. Can you jus' step
+over here?"
+
+Regarding him narrowly Bloeckman followed Anthony to a half bend made by
+the staircase where they were beyond observation or earshot of any one
+entering or leaving the restaurant.
+
+"Well?" he inquired.
+
+"Wanted talk to you."
+
+"What about?"
+
+Anthony only laughed--a silly laugh; he intended it to sound casual.
+
+"What do you want to talk to me about?" repeated Bloeckman.
+
+"Wha's hurry, old man?" He tried to lay his hand in a friendly gesture
+upon Bloeckman's shoulder, but the latter drew away slightly.
+"How've been?"
+
+"Very well, thanks.... See here, Mr. Patch, I've got a party up-stairs.
+They'll think it's rude if I stay away too long. What was it you wanted
+to see me about?"
+
+For the second time that evening Anthony's mind made an abrupt jump, and
+what he said was not at all what he had intended to say.
+
+"Un'erstand you kep' my wife out of the movies." "What?" Bloeckman's
+ruddy face darkened in parallel planes of shadows.
+
+"You heard me."
+
+"Look here, Mr. Patch," said Bloeckman, evenly and without changing his
+expression, "you're drunk. You're disgustingly and insultingly drunk."
+
+"Not too drunk talk to you," insisted Anthony with a leer. "Firs' place,
+my wife wants nothin' whatever do with you. Never did. Un'erstand me?"
+
+"Be quiet!" said the older man angrily. "I should think you'd respect
+your wife enough not to bring her into the conversation under these
+circumstances."
+
+"Never you min' how I expect my wife. One thing--you leave her alone.
+You go to hell!"
+
+"See here--I think you're a little crazy!" exclaimed Bloeckman. He took
+two paces forward as though to pass by, but Anthony stepped in his way.
+
+"Not so fas', you Goddam Jew."
+
+For a moment they stood regarding each other, Anthony swaying gently
+from side to side, Bloeckman almost trembling with fury.
+
+"Be careful!" he cried in a strained voice.
+
+Anthony might have remembered then a certain look Bloeckman had given
+him in the Biltmore Hotel years before. But he remembered nothing,
+nothing----
+
+"I'll say it again, you God----"
+
+Then Bloeckman struck out, with all the strength in the arm of a
+well-conditioned man of forty-five, struck out and caught Anthony
+squarely in the mouth. Anthony cracked up against the staircase,
+recovered himself and made a wild drunken swing at his opponent, but
+Bloeckman, who took exercise every day and knew something of sparring,
+blocked it with ease and struck him twice in the face with two swift
+smashing jabs. Anthony gave a little grunt and toppled over onto the
+green plush carpet, finding, as he fell, that his mouth was full of
+blood and seemed oddly loose in front. He struggled to his feet, panting
+and spitting, and then as he started toward Bloeckman, who stood a few
+feet away, his fists clenched but not up, two waiters who had appeared
+from nowhere seized his arms and held him, helpless. In back of them a
+dozen people had miraculously gathered.
+
+"I'll kill him," cried Anthony, pitching and straining from side to
+side. "Let me kill----"
+
+"Throw him out!" ordered Bloeckman excitedly, just as a small man with a
+pockmarked face pushed his way hurriedly through the spectators.
+
+"Any trouble, Mr. Black?"
+
+"This bum tried to blackmail me!" said Bloeckman, and then, his voice
+rising to a faintly shrill note of pride: "He got what was coming
+to him!"
+
+The little man turned to a waiter.
+
+"Call a policeman!" he commanded.
+
+"Oh, no," said Bloeckman quickly. "I can't be bothered. Just throw him
+out in the street.... Ugh! What an outrage!" He turned and with
+conscious dignity walked toward the wash-room just as six brawny hands
+seized upon Anthony and dragged him toward the door. The "bum" was
+propelled violently to the sidewalk, where he landed on his hands and
+knees with a grotesque slapping sound and rolled over slowly onto
+his side.
+
+The shock stunned him. He lay there for a moment in acute distributed
+pain. Then his discomfort became centralized in his stomach, and he
+regained consciousness to discover that a large foot was prodding him.
+
+"You've got to move on, y' bum! Move on!"
+
+It was the bulky doorman speaking. A town car had stopped at the curb
+and its occupants had disembarked--that is, two of the women were
+standing on the dashboard, waiting in offended delicacy until this
+obscene obstacle should be removed from their path.
+
+"Move on! Or else I'll _throw_ y'on!"
+
+"Here--I'll get him."
+
+This was a new voice; Anthony imagined that it was somehow more
+tolerant, better disposed than the first. Again arms were about him,
+half lifting, half dragging him into a welcome shadow four doors up the
+street and propping him against the stone front of a millinery shop.
+
+"Much obliged," muttered Anthony feebly. Some one pushed his soft hat
+down upon his head and he winced.
+
+"Just sit still, buddy, and you'll feel better. Those guys sure give you
+a bump."
+
+"I'm going back and kill that dirty--" He tried to get to his feet but
+collapsed backward against the wall.
+
+"You can't do nothin' now," came the voice. "Get 'em some other time.
+I'm tellin' you straight, ain't I? I'm helpin' you."
+
+Anthony nodded.
+
+"An' you better go home. You dropped a tooth to-night, buddy. You know
+that?"
+
+Anthony explored his mouth with his tongue, verifying the statement.
+Then with an effort he raised his hand and located the gap.
+
+"I'm agoin' to get you home, friend. Whereabouts do you live--"
+
+"Oh, by God! By God!" interrupted Anthony, clenching his fists
+passionately. "I'll show the dirty bunch. You help me show 'em and I'll
+fix it with you. My grandfather's Adam Patch, of Tarrytown"--
+
+"Who?"
+
+"Adam Patch, by God!"
+
+"You wanna go all the way to Tarrytown?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Well, you tell me where to go, friend, and I'll get a cab."
+
+Anthony made out that his Samaritan was a short, broad-shouldered
+individual, somewhat the worse for wear.
+
+"Where d'you live, hey?"
+
+Sodden and shaken as he was, Anthony felt that his address would be poor
+collateral for his wild boast about his grandfather.
+
+"Get me a cab," he commanded, feeling in his pockets.
+
+A taxi drove up. Again Anthony essayed to rise, but his ankle swung
+loose, as though it were in two sections. The Samaritan must needs help
+him in--and climb in after him.
+
+"See here, fella," said he, "you're soused and you're bunged up, and you
+won't be able to get in your house 'less somebody carries you in, so I'm
+going with you, and I know you'll make it all right with me. Where
+d'you live?"
+
+With some reluctance Anthony gave his address. Then, as the cab moved
+off, he leaned his head against the man's shoulder and went into a
+shadowy, painful torpor. When he awoke, the man had lifted him from the
+cab in front of the apartment on Claremont Avenue and was trying to set
+him on his feet.
+
+"Can y' walk?"
+
+"Yes--sort of. You better not come in with me." Again he felt helplessly
+in his pockets. "Say," he continued, apologetically, swaying dangerously
+on his feet, "I'm afraid I haven't got a cent."
+
+"Huh?"
+
+"I'm cleaned out."
+
+"Sa-a-ay! Didn't I hear you promise you'd fix it with me? Who's goin' to
+pay the taxi bill?" He turned to the driver for confirmation. "Didn't
+you hear him say he'd fix it? All that about his grandfather?"
+
+"Matter of fact," muttered Anthony imprudently, "it was you did all the
+talking; however, if you come round, to-morrow--"
+
+At this point the taxi-driver leaned from his cab and said ferociously:
+
+"Ah, poke him one, the dirty cheap skate. If he wasn't a bum they
+wouldn'ta throwed him out."
+
+In answer to this suggestion the fist of the Samaritan shot out like a
+battering-ram and sent Anthony crashing down against the stone steps of
+the apartment-house, where he lay without movement, while the tall
+buildings rocked to and fro above him....
+
+After a long while he awoke and was conscious that it had grown much
+colder. He tried to move himself but his muscles refused to function. He
+was curiously anxious to know the time, but he reached for his watch,
+only to find the pocket empty. Involuntarily his lips formed an
+immemorial phrase:
+
+"What a night!"
+
+Strangely enough, he was almost sober. Without moving his head he looked
+up to where the moon was anchored in mid-sky, shedding light down into
+Claremont Avenue as into the bottom of a deep and uncharted abyss. There
+was no sign or sound of life save for the continuous buzzing in his own
+ears, but after a moment Anthony himself broke the silence with a
+distinct and peculiar murmur. It was the sound that he had consistently
+attempted to make back there in the Boul' Mich', when he had been face
+to face with Bloeckman--the unmistakable sound of ironic laughter. And
+on his torn and bleeding lips it was like a pitiful retching of
+the soul.
+
+Three weeks later the trial came to an end. The seemingly endless spool
+of legal red tape having unrolled over a period of four and a half
+years, suddenly snapped off. Anthony and Gloria and, on the other side,
+Edward Shuttleworth and a platoon of beneficiaries testified and lied
+and ill-behaved generally in varying degrees of greed and desperation.
+Anthony awoke one morning in March realizing that the verdict was to be
+given at four that afternoon, and at the thought he got up out of his
+bed and began to dress. With his extreme nervousness there was mingled
+an unjustified optimism as to the outcome. He believed that the decision
+of the lower court would be reversed, if only because of the reaction,
+due to excessive prohibition, that had recently set in against reforms
+and reformers. He counted more on the personal attacks that they had
+levelled at Shuttleworth than on the more sheerly legal aspects of the
+proceedings.
+
+Dressed, he poured himself a drink of whiskey and then went into
+Gloria's room, where he found her already wide awake. She had been in
+bed for a week, humoring herself, Anthony fancied, though the doctor had
+said that she had best not be disturbed.
+
+"Good morning," she murmured, without smiling. Her eyes seemed unusually
+large and dark.
+
+"How do you feel?" he asked grudgingly. "Better?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Much?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Do you feel well enough to go down to court with me this afternoon?"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"Yes. I want to. Dick said yesterday that if the weather was nice he was
+coming up in his car and take me for a ride in Central Park--and look,
+the room's all full of sunshine."
+
+Anthony glanced mechanically out the window and then sat down upon the
+bed.
+
+"God, I'm nervous!" he exclaimed.
+
+"Please don't sit there," she said quickly.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"You smell of whiskey. I can't stand it."
+
+He got up absent-mindedly and left the room. A little later she called
+to him and he went out and brought her some potato salad and cold
+chicken from the delicatessen.
+
+At two o'clock Richard Caramel's car arrived at the door and, when he
+phoned up, Anthony took Gloria down in the elevator and walked with her
+to the curb.
+
+She told her cousin that it was sweet of him to take her riding. "Don't
+be simple," Dick replied disparagingly. "It's nothing."
+
+But he did not mean that it was nothing and this was a curious thing.
+Richard Caramel had forgiven many people for many offenses. But he had
+never forgiven his cousin, Gloria Gilbert, for a statement she had made
+just prior to her wedding, seven years before. She had said that she did
+not intend to read his book.
+
+Richard Caramel remembered this--he had remembered it well for seven
+years.
+
+"What time will I expect you back?" asked Anthony.
+
+"We won't come back," she answered, "we'll meet you down there at four."
+
+"All right," he muttered, "I'll meet you."
+
+Up-stairs he found a letter waiting for him. It was a mimeographed
+notice urging "the boys" in condescendingly colloquial language to pay
+the dues of the American Legion. He threw it impatiently into the
+waste-basket and sat down with his elbows on the window sill, looking
+down blindly into the sunny street.
+
+Italy--if the verdict was in their favor it meant Italy. The word had
+become a sort of talisman to him, a land where the intolerable anxieties
+of life would fall away like an old garment. They would go to the
+watering-places first and among the bright and colorful crowds forget
+the gray appendages of despair. Marvellously renewed, he would walk
+again in the Piazza di Spanga at twilight, moving in that drifting
+flotsam of dark women and ragged beggars, of austere, barefooted friars.
+The thought of Italian women stirred him faintly--when his purse hung
+heavy again even romance might fly back to perch upon it--the romance of
+blue canals in Venice, of the golden green hills of Fiesole after rain,
+and of women, women who changed, dissolved, melted into other women and
+receded from his life, but who were always beautiful and always young.
+
+But it seemed to him that there should be a difference in his attitude.
+All the distress that he had ever known, the sorrow and the pain, had
+been because of women. It was something that in different ways they did
+to him, unconsciously, almost casually--perhaps finding him
+tender-minded and afraid, they killed the things in him that menaced
+their absolute sway.
+
+Turning about from the window he faced his reflection in the mirror,
+contemplating dejectedly the wan, pasty face, the eyes with their
+crisscross of lines like shreds of dried blood, the stooped and flabby
+figure whose very sag was a document in lethargy. He was thirty
+three--he looked forty. Well, things would be different.
+
+The door-bell rang abruptly and he started as though he had been dealt a
+blow. Recovering himself, he went into the hall and opened the outer
+dour. It was Dot.
+
+
+THE ENCOUNTER
+
+He retreated before her into the living room, comprehending only a word
+here and there in the slow flood of sentences that poured from her
+steadily, one after the other, in a persistent monotone. She was
+decently and shabbily dressed--a somehow pitiable little hat adorned
+with pink and blue flowers covered and hid her dark hair. He gathered
+from her words that several days before she had seen an item in the
+paper concerning the lawsuit, and had obtained his address from the
+clerk of the Appellate Division. She had called up the apartment and had
+been told that Anthony was out by a woman to whom she had refused to
+give her name.
+
+In a living room he stood by the door regarding her with a sort of
+stupefied horror as she rattled on.... His predominant sensation was
+that all the civilization and convention around him was curiously
+unreal.... She was in a milliner's shop on Sixth Avenue, she said. It
+was a lonesome life. She had been sick for a long while after he left
+for Camp Mills; her mother had come down and taken her home again to
+Carolina.... She had come to New York with the idea of finding Anthony.
+
+She was appallingly in earnest. Her violet eyes were red with tears; her
+soft intonation was ragged with little gasping sobs.
+
+That was all. She had never changed. She wanted him now, and if she
+couldn't have him she must die....
+
+"You'll have to get out," he said at length, speaking with tortuous
+intensity. "Haven't I enough to worry me now without you coming here? My
+_God_! You'll have to get _out!"_
+
+Sobbing, she sat down in a chair.
+
+"I love you," she cried; "I don't care what you say to me! I love you."
+
+"I don't care!" he almost shrieked; "get out--oh, get out! Haven't you
+done me harm enough? Haven't--you--done--_enough?"_
+
+"Hit me!" she implored him--wildly, stupidly. "Oh, hit me, and I'll kiss
+the hand you hit me with!"
+
+His voice rose until it was pitched almost at a scream. "I'll kill you!"
+he cried. "If you don't get out I'll kill you, I'll kill you!"
+
+There was madness in his eyes now, but, unintimidated, Dot rose and took
+a step toward him.
+
+"Anthony! Anthony!--"
+
+He made a little clicking sound with his teeth and drew back as though
+to spring at her--then, changing his purpose, he looked wildly about him
+on the floor and wall.
+
+"I'll kill you!" he was muttering in short, broken gasps. "I'll _kill_
+you!" He seemed to bite at the word as though to force it into
+materialization. Alarmed at last she made no further movement forward,
+but meeting his frantic eyes took a step back toward the door. Anthony
+began to race here and there on his side of the room, still giving out
+his single cursing cry. Then he found what he had been seeking--a stiff
+oaken chair that stood beside the table. Uttering a harsh, broken shout,
+he seized it, swung it above his head and let it go with all his raging
+strength straight at the white, frightened face across the room ... then
+a thick, impenetrable darkness came down upon him and blotted out
+thought, rage, and madness together--with almost a tangible snapping
+sound the face of the world changed before his eyes....
+
+Gloria and Dick came in at five and called his name. There was no
+answer--they went into the living room and found a chair with its back
+smashed lying in the doorway, and they noticed that all about the room
+there was a sort of disorder--the rugs had slid, the pictures and
+bric-�-brac were upset upon the centre table. The air was sickly sweet
+with cheap perfume.
+
+They found Anthony sitting in a patch of sunshine on the floor of his
+bedroom. Before him, open, were spread his three big stamp-books, and
+when they entered he was running his hands through a great pile of
+stamps that he had dumped from the back of one of them. Looking up and
+seeing Dick and Gloria he put his head critically on one side and
+motioned them back.
+
+"Anthony!" cried Gloria tensely, "we've won! They reversed the
+decision!"
+
+"Don't come in," he murmured wanly, "you'll muss them. I'm sorting, and
+I know you'll step in them. Everything always gets mussed."
+
+"What are you doing?" demanded Dick in astonishment. "Going back to
+childhood? Don't you realize you've won the suit? They've reversed the
+decision of the lower courts. You're worth thirty millions!"
+
+Anthony only looked at him reproachfully.
+
+"Shut the door when you go out." He spoke like a pert child.
+
+With a faint horror dawning in her eyes, Gloria gazed at him--
+
+"Anthony!" she cried, "what is it? What's the matter? Why didn't you
+come--why, what _is_ it?"
+
+"See here," said Anthony softly, "you two get out--now, both of you. Or
+else I'll tell my grandfather."
+
+He held up a handful of stamps and let them come drifting down about him
+like leaves, varicolored and bright, turning and fluttering gaudily upon
+the sunny air: stamps of England and Ecuador, Venezuela and
+Spain--Italy....
+
+
+TOGETHER WITH THE SPARROWS
+
+That exquisite heavenly irony which has tabulated the demise of so many
+generations of sparrows doubtless records the subtlest verbal
+inflections of the passengers of such ships as _The Berengaria_. And
+doubtless it was listening when the young man in the plaid cap crossed
+the deck quickly and spoke to the pretty girl in yellow.
+
+"That's him," he said, pointing to a bundled figure seated in a wheel
+chair near the rail. "That's Anthony Patch. First time he's been
+on deck."
+
+"Oh--that's him?"
+
+"Yes. He's been a little crazy, they say, ever since he got his money,
+four or five months ago. You see, the other fellow, Shuttleworth, the
+religious fellow, the one that didn't get the money, he locked himself
+up in a room in a hotel and shot himself--
+
+"Oh, he did--"
+
+"But I guess Anthony Patch don't care much. He got his thirty million.
+And he's got his private physician along in case he doesn't feel just
+right about it. Has _she_ been on deck?" he asked.
+
+The pretty girl in yellow looked around cautiously.
+
+"She was here a minute ago. She had on a Russian-sable coat that must
+have cost a small fortune." She frowned and then added decisively: "I
+can't stand her, you know. She seems sort of--sort of dyed and
+_unclean_, if you know what I mean. Some people just have that look
+about them whether they are or not."
+
+"Sure, I know," agreed the man with the plaid cap. "She's not
+bad-looking, though." He paused. "Wonder what he's thinking about--his
+money, I guess, or maybe he's got remorse about that fellow
+Shuttleworth."
+
+"Probably...."
+
+But the man in the plaid cap was quite wrong. Anthony Patch, sitting
+near the rail and looking out at the sea, was not thinking of his money,
+for he had seldom in his life been really preoccupied with material
+vainglory, nor of Edward Shuttleworth, for it is best to look on the
+sunny side of these things. No--he was concerned with a series of
+reminiscences, much as a general might look back upon a successful
+campaign and analyze his victories. He was thinking of the hardships,
+the insufferable tribulations he had gone through. They had tried to
+penalize him for the mistakes of his youth. He had been exposed to
+ruthless misery, his very craving for romance had been punished, his
+friends had deserted him--even Gloria had turned against him. He had
+been alone, alone--facing it all.
+
+Only a few months before people had been urging him to give in, to
+submit to mediocrity, to go to work. But he had known that he was
+justified in his way of life--and he had stuck it out stanchly. Why, the
+very friends who had been most unkind had come to respect him, to know
+he had been right all along. Had not the Lacys and the Merediths and the
+Cartwright-Smiths called on Gloria and him at the Ritz-Carlton just a
+week before they sailed?
+
+Great tears stood in his eyes, and his voice was tremulous as he
+whispered to himself.
+
+"I showed them," he was saying. "It was a hard fight, but I didn't give
+up and I came through!"
+
+
diff --git a/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_GreatGatsby.txt b/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_GreatGatsby.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d85cf4a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_GreatGatsby.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,3349 @@
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+
+
+IN MY YOUNGER and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
+
+“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
+
+He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
+
+And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
+
+* * *
+
+My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.
+
+I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
+
+The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weatherbeaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
+
+It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
+
+“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
+
+I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
+
+And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
+
+There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Mæcenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
+
+It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
+
+I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion, inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
+
+Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
+
+Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away; for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
+
+Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
+
+And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
+
+He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
+
+His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
+
+“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
+
+We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
+
+“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
+
+Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.
+
+“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
+
+We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
+
+The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
+
+The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
+
+The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
+
+“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.”
+
+She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
+
+At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
+
+I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
+
+I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
+
+“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
+
+“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
+
+“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
+
+“I’d like to.”
+
+“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“Well, you ought to see her. She’s——”
+
+Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
+
+“What you doing, Nick?”
+
+“I’m a bond man.”
+
+“Who with?”
+
+I told him.
+
+“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
+
+This annoyed me.
+
+“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
+
+“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
+
+At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
+
+“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
+
+“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
+
+“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, “I’m absolutely in training.”
+
+Her host looked at her incredulously.
+
+“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
+
+I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
+
+“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
+
+“I don’t know a single——”
+
+“You must know Gatsby.”
+
+“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
+
+Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
+
+Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
+
+“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
+
+“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
+
+“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
+
+Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
+
+“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
+
+We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
+
+“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a——”
+
+“I hate that word hulking,” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
+
+“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
+
+Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening, too, would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
+
+“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
+
+I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
+
+“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by this man Goddard?”
+
+“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
+
+“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
+
+“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we——”
+
+“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
+
+“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
+
+“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
+
+“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
+
+There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
+
+“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
+
+“That’s why I came over to-night.”
+
+“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose——”
+
+“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
+
+“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
+
+For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
+
+The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
+
+“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
+
+This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
+
+Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
+
+“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—” I said.
+
+“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
+
+“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
+
+“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
+
+“I don’t.”
+
+“Why—” she said hesitantly, “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
+
+“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
+
+Miss Baker nodded.
+
+“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
+
+Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
+
+“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gayety.
+
+She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
+
+“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
+
+The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
+
+The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
+
+Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
+
+“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
+
+“I wasn’t back from the war.”
+
+“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
+
+Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
+
+“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
+
+“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
+
+“Very much.”
+
+“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
+
+“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
+
+The instant her voice broke off ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributary emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
+
+* * *
+
+Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from The Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
+
+When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
+
+“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
+
+Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
+
+“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
+
+“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament to-morrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
+
+“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
+
+I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
+
+“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you?”
+
+“If you’ll get up.”
+
+“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
+
+“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact, I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing——”
+
+“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
+
+“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
+
+“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
+
+“Her family.”
+
+“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
+
+Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
+
+“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
+
+“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white——”
+
+“Did you give Nick a little heart-to-heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
+
+“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know——”
+
+“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
+
+I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!
+
+“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
+
+“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
+
+“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
+
+“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
+
+Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.
+
+Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
+
+Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
+
+I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far way, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+
+
+ABOUT HALF WAY between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
+
+But above the gray land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.
+
+The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
+
+The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car.
+
+“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”
+
+I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
+
+I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside.
+
+The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anæmic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
+
+“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. “How’s business?”
+
+“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you going to sell me that car?”
+
+“Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.”
+
+“Works pretty slow, don’t he?”
+
+“No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.”
+
+“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant——”
+
+His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
+
+“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.”
+
+“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
+
+“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+“I’ll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level.”
+
+She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.
+
+We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a gray, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.
+
+“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.
+
+“Awful.”
+
+“It does her good to get away.”
+
+“Doesn’t her husband object?”
+
+“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”
+
+So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.
+
+She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a moving-picture magazine, and in the station drug-store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Up-stairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with gray upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.
+
+“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.”
+
+We backed up to a gray old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
+
+“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.
+
+“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”
+
+“I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got that kind?”
+
+The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.
+
+“That’s no police dog,” said Tom.
+
+“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”
+
+“I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is it?”
+
+“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.”
+
+The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the weatherproof coat with rapture.
+
+“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.
+
+“That dog? That dog’s a boy.”
+
+“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”
+
+We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner.
+
+“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.”
+
+“No, you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?”
+
+“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.”
+
+“Well, I’d like to, but——”
+
+We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases, and went haughtily in.
+
+“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.”
+
+The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator-boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog-biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
+
+I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drug-store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.
+
+Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment-door.
+
+The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
+
+Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to every one in the room. He informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married.
+
+Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.
+
+“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.”
+
+“What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee.
+
+“Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own homes.”
+
+“I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.”
+
+Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.
+
+“It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like.”
+
+“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs. McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could make something of it.”
+
+We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face.
+
+“I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of all the back hair.”
+
+“I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think it’s——”
+
+Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again, whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet.
+
+“You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.”
+
+“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to keep after them all the time.”
+
+She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
+
+“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee.
+
+Tom looked at him blankly.
+
+“Two of them we have framed down-stairs.”
+
+“Two what?” demanded Tom.
+
+“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”
+
+The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.
+
+“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired.
+
+“I live at West Egg.”
+
+“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?”
+
+“I live next door to him.”
+
+“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his money comes from.”
+
+“Really?”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.”
+
+This absorbing information about my neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine:
+
+“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
+
+“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.”
+
+“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?”
+
+“Do what?” she asked, startled.
+
+“You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented. “George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump, or something like that.”
+
+Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear:
+
+“Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.”
+
+“Can’t they?”
+
+“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.”
+
+“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?”
+
+The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.
+
+“You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.”
+
+Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.
+
+“When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.”
+
+“It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.”
+
+“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.”
+
+“Really.”
+
+“Just last year. I went over there with another girl.”
+
+“Stay long?”
+
+“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gypped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”
+
+The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.
+
+“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s ’way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”
+
+“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.”
+
+“I know I didn’t.”
+
+“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.”
+
+“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.”
+
+Myrtle considered.
+
+“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.”
+
+“You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine.
+
+“Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.”
+
+She pointed suddenly at me, and every one looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I had played no part in her past.
+
+“The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out.” She looked around to see who was listening. “‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.”
+
+“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.”
+
+The bottle of whiskey—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the Park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
+
+Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
+
+“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirt-front pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’”
+
+She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter.
+
+“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ash-trays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.”
+
+It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the remains of the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon.
+
+The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face, discussing in impassioned voices whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
+
+“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai——”
+
+Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.
+
+Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.
+
+“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Anywhere.”
+
+“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was touching it.”
+
+“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”
+
+. . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.
+
+“Beauty and the Beast . . . Loneliness . . . Old Grocery Horse . . . Brook’n Bridge. . . .”
+
+Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for the four o’clock train.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+
+
+THERE WAS MUSIC from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
+
+Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb.
+
+At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors d’œuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.
+
+By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
+
+The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light.
+
+Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.
+
+I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.
+
+I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand.
+
+Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.
+
+As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.
+
+I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.
+
+Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to some one before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.
+
+“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.
+
+“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to——”
+
+She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps.
+
+“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”
+
+That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before.
+
+“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”
+
+“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble.
+
+“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her.
+
+“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?”
+
+It was for Lucille, too.
+
+“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”
+
+“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.
+
+“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”
+
+“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.”
+
+“Who doesn’t?” I inquired.
+
+“Gatsby. Somebody told me——”
+
+The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
+
+“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”
+
+A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly.
+
+“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “it’s more that he was a German spy during the war.”
+
+One of the men nodded in confirmation.
+
+“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively.
+
+“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”
+
+She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world.
+
+The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the country-side—East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety.
+
+“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”
+
+We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.
+
+The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
+
+A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
+
+“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.
+
+“About what?”
+
+He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
+
+“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”
+
+“The books?”
+
+He nodded.
+
+“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.”
+
+Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the “Stoddard Lectures.”
+
+“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”
+
+He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse.
+
+“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”
+
+Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.
+
+“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.”
+
+“Has it?”
+
+“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re——”
+
+“You told us.”
+
+We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.
+
+There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individualistically or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
+
+I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound.
+
+At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.
+
+“Your face is familiar,” he said, politely. “Weren’t you in the Third Division during the war?”
+
+“Why, yes. I was in the ninth machine-gun battalion.”
+
+“I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”
+
+We talked for a moment about some wet, gray little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning.
+
+“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.”
+
+“What time?”
+
+“Any time that suits you best.”
+
+It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.
+
+“Having a gay time now?” she inquired.
+
+“Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
+
+For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
+
+“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.
+
+“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
+
+“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”
+
+He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.
+
+Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself, a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn.
+
+“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”
+
+When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years.
+
+“Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?”
+
+“He’s just a man named Gatsby.”
+
+“Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”
+
+“Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.”
+
+A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next remark it faded away.
+
+“However, I don’t believe it.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.”
+
+Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound.
+
+“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”
+
+There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden.
+
+“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladimir Tostoff’s latest work, which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the papers, you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody laughed.
+
+“The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as Vladimir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World.”
+
+The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as the fraternal hilarity increased. When the Jazz History of the World was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that some one would arrest their falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s head for one link.
+
+“I beg your pardon.”
+
+Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us.
+
+“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”
+
+“With me?” she exclaimed in surprise.
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore her evening-dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.
+
+I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and intriguing sounds had issued from a long, many-windowed room which overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate, who was now engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who implored me to join him, I went inside.
+
+The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly, that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an inky color, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and went off into a deep vinous sleep.
+
+“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a girl at my elbow.
+
+I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s party, the quartet from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent way, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—at intervals she appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed: “You promised!” into his ear.
+
+The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised voices.
+
+“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to go home.”
+
+“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”
+
+“We’re always the first ones to leave.”
+
+“So are we.”
+
+“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly. “The orchestra left half an hour ago.”
+
+In spite of this wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives were lifted, kicking, into the night.
+
+As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say good-by.
+
+Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she lingered for a moment to shake hands.
+
+“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long were we in there?”
+
+“Why, about an hour.”
+
+“It was . . . simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully in my face. “Please come and see me. . . . Phone book. . . . Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard. . . . My aunt. . . .” She was hurrying off as she talked—her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her party at the door.
+
+Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were clustered around him. I wanted to explain that I’d hunted for him early in the evening and to apologize for not having known him in the garden.
+
+“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’t give it another thought, old sport.” The familiar expression held no more familiarity than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’t forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock.”
+
+Then the butler, behind his shoulder:
+
+“Philadelphia wants you on the ’phone, sir.”
+
+“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there. . . . Good night.”
+
+“Good night.”
+
+“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired it all the time. “Good night, old sport. . . . Good night.”
+
+But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to the already violent confusion of the scene.
+
+A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tire and from the tire to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.
+
+“See!” he explained. “It went in the ditch.”
+
+The fact was infinitely astonishing to him, and I recognized first the unusual quality of wonder, and then the man—it was the late patron of Gatsby’s library.
+
+“How’d it happen?”
+
+He shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively.
+
+“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?”
+
+“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It happened, and that’s all I know.”
+
+“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.”
+
+“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even trying.”
+
+An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.
+
+“Do you want to commit suicide?”
+
+“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even trying!”
+
+“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving. There’s another man in the car.”
+
+The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained “Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.
+
+Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant groaning of the horns, the apparition stood swaying for a moment before he perceived the man in the duster.
+
+“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?”
+
+“Look!”
+
+Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel—he stared at it for a moment, and then looked upward as though he suspected that it had dropped from the sky.
+
+“It came off,” some one explained.
+
+He nodded.
+
+“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.”
+
+A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders, he remarked in a determined voice:
+
+“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?”
+
+At least a dozen men, some of them a little better off than he was, explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any physical bond.
+
+“Back out,” he suggested after a moment. “Put her in reverse.”
+
+“But the wheel’s off!”
+
+He hesitated.
+
+“No harm in trying,” he said.
+
+The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before, and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden. A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
+
+* * *
+
+Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me infinitely less than my personal affairs.
+
+Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I let it blow quietly away.
+
+I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel, and over 33d Street to the Pennsylvania Station.
+
+I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
+
+Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theater district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes outlined unintelligible gestures inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying toward gayety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well.
+
+For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.
+
+Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.
+
+It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat.
+
+“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”
+
+“I am careful.”
+
+“No, you’re not.”
+
+“Well, other people are,” she said lightly.
+
+“What’s that got to do with it?”
+
+“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.”
+
+“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.”
+
+“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.”
+
+Her gray, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint mustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free.
+
+Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+
+
+ON SUNDAY MORNING while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn.
+
+“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.”
+
+Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old time-table now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the gray names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him.
+
+From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.
+
+Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls.
+
+From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don S. Schwartze (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day.
+
+A man named Klipspringer was there so often and so long that he became known as “the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russell Betty and the Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewers and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square.
+
+Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be.
+
+In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten.
+
+All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer.
+
+* * *
+
+At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.
+
+“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.”
+
+He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.
+
+He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
+
+“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport!” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
+
+I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.
+
+I had talked with him perhaps six times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate road-house next door.
+
+And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg Village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit.
+
+“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”
+
+A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.
+
+“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.”
+
+So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavored conversation in his halls.
+
+“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”
+
+He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all.
+
+“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.
+
+“San Francisco.”
+
+“I see.”
+
+“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
+
+His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
+
+“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”
+
+With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.
+
+“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”
+
+Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.
+
+He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm.
+
+“That’s the one from Montenegro.”
+
+To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi de Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”
+
+“Turn it.”
+
+“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”
+
+“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”
+
+It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.
+
+Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
+
+“I’m going to make a big request of you to-day,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”
+
+“At lunch?”
+
+“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”
+
+“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”
+
+“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.”
+
+I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn.
+
+He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.
+
+With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.
+
+“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.
+
+“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”
+
+“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”
+
+“I was able to do the commissioner a favor once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.”
+
+Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.
+
+A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their somber holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.
+
+“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all. . . .”
+
+Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
+
+* * *
+
+Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.
+
+“Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfsheim.”
+
+A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness.
+
+“—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?”
+
+“What?” I inquired politely.
+
+But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.
+
+“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.”
+
+Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
+
+“Highballs?” asked the head waiter.
+
+“This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!”
+
+“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfsheim: “It’s too hot over there.”
+
+“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, “but full of memories.”
+
+“What place is that?” I asked.
+
+“The old Metropole.
+
+“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfsheim gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair.
+
+“‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’
+
+“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.”
+
+“Did he go?” I asked innocently.
+
+“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfsheim’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”
+
+“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.
+
+“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”
+
+The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me:
+
+“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.”
+
+“No?” Mr. Wolfsheim seemed disappointed.
+
+“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, “I had a wrong man.”
+
+A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfsheim, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table.
+
+“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.”
+
+There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
+
+“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?”
+
+“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.”
+
+Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfsheim at the table.
+
+“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“He’s an Oggsford man.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”
+
+“I’ve heard of it.”
+
+“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”
+
+“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.
+
+“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.”
+
+I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.
+
+“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me.
+
+“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”
+
+“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”
+
+When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfsheim drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.
+
+“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.”
+
+“Don’t hurry, Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfsheim raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
+
+“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”
+
+As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
+
+“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.”
+
+“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“A dentist?”
+
+“Meyer Wolfsheim? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”
+
+“Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated.
+
+The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.
+
+“How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute.
+
+“He just saw the opportunity.”
+
+“Why isn’t he in jail?”
+
+“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”
+
+I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.
+
+“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to some one.”
+
+When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction.
+
+“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.”
+
+“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”
+
+They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.
+
+“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?”
+
+“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”
+
+I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
+
+* * *
+
+One October day in nineteen-seventeen——
+
+(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)—I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber nobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way.
+
+The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways, for an hour!”
+
+When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the curb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away.
+
+“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”
+
+I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross and make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at some time, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I didn’t realize it was the same man.
+
+That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumors were circulating about her—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say good-by to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town, who couldn’t get into the army at all.
+
+By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début after the Armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Seelbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
+
+I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.
+
+“’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how I do enjoy it.”
+
+“What’s the matter, Daisy?”
+
+I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.
+
+“Here, deares’.” She groped around in a waste-basket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em down-stairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’”
+
+She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up into a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
+
+But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas.
+
+I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.
+
+The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue, and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers. . . .
+
+Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car.
+
+* * *
+
+When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of little girls, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:
+
+“I’m the Sheik of Araby.
+
+Your love belongs to me.
+
+At night when you’re asleep
+
+Into your tent I’ll creep——”
+
+“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.
+
+“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”
+
+Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendor.
+
+“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.”
+
+The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.
+
+“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?”
+
+“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s a regular tough underneath it all.”
+
+Something worried me.
+
+“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
+
+“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad:
+
+“‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’
+
+“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”
+
+It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.”
+
+“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me.
+
+“Does she want to see Gatsby?”
+
+“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.”
+
+We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+
+
+WHEN I CAME HOME to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar.
+
+At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn.
+
+“Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said.
+
+“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car.”
+
+“It’s too late.”
+
+“Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming-pool? I haven’t made use of it all summer.”
+
+“I’ve got to go to bed.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness.
+
+“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call up Daisy to-morrow and invite her over here to tea.”
+
+“Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
+
+“What day would suit you?”
+
+“What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.”
+
+“How about the day after tomorrow?”
+
+He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance:
+
+“I want to get the grass cut,” he said.
+
+We both looked at the grass—there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass.
+
+“There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.
+
+“Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?”
+
+“Not very much.”
+
+This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.
+
+“I thought you didn’t if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport?”
+
+“Trying to.”
+
+“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.”
+
+I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there.
+
+“I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.”
+
+“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfsheim.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home.
+
+The evening had made me light-headed and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea.
+
+“Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her.
+
+“What?”
+
+“Don’t bring Tom.”
+
+“Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently.
+
+The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers.
+
+The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby, in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-colored tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
+
+“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.
+
+“The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.”
+
+“What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing.
+
+“Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?”
+
+I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop.
+
+“Will they do?” I asked.
+
+“Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “. . . old sport.”
+
+The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering toward the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home.
+
+“Why’s that?”
+
+“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”
+
+“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”
+
+He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.
+
+Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile.
+
+“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”
+
+The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.
+
+“Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?”
+
+“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.”
+
+“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.”
+
+“Does the gasoline affect his nose?”
+
+“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?”
+
+We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted.
+
+“Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed.
+
+“What’s funny?”
+
+She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
+
+With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
+
+For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:
+
+“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”
+
+A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room.
+
+Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair.
+
+“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
+
+“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said.
+
+My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head.
+
+“It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically.
+
+I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor.
+
+“We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be.
+
+“Five years next November.”
+
+The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray.
+
+Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet.
+
+“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.
+
+“I’ll be back.”
+
+“I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.”
+
+He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way.
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.”
+
+“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s embarrassed too.”
+
+“She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.
+
+“Just as much as you are.”
+
+“Don’t talk so loud.”
+
+“You’re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only that, but you’re rude. Daisy’s sitting in there all alone.”
+
+He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other room.
+
+I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his nervous circuit of the house half an hour before—and ran for a huge black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby’s gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period” craze a decade before, and there was a story that he’d agreed to pay five years’ taxes on all the neighboring cottages if the owners would have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the heart out of his plan to Found a Family—he went into an immediate decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on the door. Americans, while occasionally willing to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry.
+
+After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer’s automobile rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’ dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from a large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too.
+
+I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.
+
+“Oh, hello old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.
+
+“It’s stopped raining.”
+
+“Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.”
+
+“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.
+
+“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.”
+
+“You’re sure you want me to come?”
+
+“Absolutely, old sport.”
+
+Daisy went up-stairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
+
+“My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.”
+
+I agreed that it was splendid.
+
+“Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”
+
+“I thought you inherited your money.”
+
+“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.”
+
+I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply.
+
+“Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?”
+
+Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.
+
+“That huge place there?” she cried pointing.
+
+“Do you like it?”
+
+“I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.”
+
+“I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.”
+
+Instead of taking the short cut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.
+
+And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter.
+
+We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms, with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a dishevelled man in pajamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall.
+
+He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs.
+
+His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh.
+
+“It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t—when I try to——”
+
+He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.
+
+Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.
+
+“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”
+
+He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-colored disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of Indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily.
+
+“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.”
+
+* * *
+
+After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming-pool, and the hydroplane and the mid-summer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound.
+
+“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.”
+
+Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.
+
+I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
+
+“Who’s this?”
+
+“That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.”
+
+The name sounded faintly familiar.
+
+“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.”
+
+There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen.
+
+“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.”
+
+“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.”
+
+They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver.
+
+“Yes. . . . Well, I can’t talk now. . . . I can’t talk now, old sport. . . . I said a small town. . . . He must know what a small town is. . . . Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town. . . .”
+
+He rang off.
+
+“Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window.
+
+The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.
+
+“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”
+
+I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.
+
+“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.”
+
+He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a sport shirt, open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue.
+
+“Did we interrupt your exercises?” inquired Daisy politely.
+
+“I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up. . . .”
+
+“Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?”
+
+“I don’t play well. I don’t—I hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac——”
+
+“We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The gray windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light.
+
+In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.
+
+When Klipspringer had played The Love Nest he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
+
+“I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac——”
+
+“Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!”
+
+“In the morning,
+
+In the evening,
+
+Ain’t we got fun——”
+
+Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air
+
+“One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer
+
+The rich get richer and the poor get—children.
+
+In the meantime,
+
+In between time——”
+
+As I went over to say good-by I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
+
+As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song.
+
+They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+
+
+ABOUT THIS TIME an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say.
+
+“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely.
+
+“Why—any statement to give out.”
+
+It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.”
+
+It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipe-line to Canada” attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota isn’t easy to say.
+
+James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.
+
+I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.
+
+For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others because they were hysterical about things which in his overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.
+
+But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.
+
+An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before, to the small Lutheran college of St. Olaf in southern Minnesota. He stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor’s work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore.
+
+Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields, of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and, suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him from his money. The none too savory ramifications by which Ella Kaye, the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and sent him to sea in a yacht, were common knowledge to the turgid sub-journalism of 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz’s destiny in Little Girl Bay.
+
+To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody—he had probably discovered that people liked him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast Gatsby left too.
+
+He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent. It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died.
+
+I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a gray, florid man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he formed the habit of letting liquor alone.
+
+And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man.
+
+* * *
+
+He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumors about his antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of misconceptions away.
+
+It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before.
+
+They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously.
+
+“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.”
+
+As though they cared!
+
+“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.”
+
+He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks. . . . I’m sorry——
+
+“Did you have a nice ride?”
+
+“Very good roads around here.”
+
+“I suppose the automobiles——”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger.
+
+“I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”
+
+“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.”
+
+“About two weeks ago.”
+
+“That’s right. You were with Nick here.”
+
+“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.
+
+“That so?”
+
+Tom turned to me.
+
+“You live near here, Nick?”
+
+“Next door.”
+
+“That so?”
+
+Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial.
+
+“We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?”
+
+“Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.”
+
+“Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.”
+
+“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.”
+
+“You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of you.”
+
+This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.
+
+“Come along,” he said—but to her only.
+
+“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.”
+
+Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go, and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t.
+
+“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said.
+
+“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.
+
+Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.
+
+“We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.
+
+“I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.”
+
+The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside.
+
+“My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?”
+
+“She says she does want him.”
+
+“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.”
+
+Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses.
+
+“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?”
+
+Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door.
+
+Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-colored, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.
+
+They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.
+
+“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green——”
+
+“Look around,” suggested Gatsby.
+
+“I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous——”
+
+“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.”
+
+Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.
+
+“We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.”
+
+“Perhaps you know that lady,” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.
+
+“She’s lovely,” said Daisy.
+
+“The man bending over her is her director.”
+
+He took them ceremoniously from group to group:
+
+“Mrs. Buchanan . . . and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.”
+
+“Oh, no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.”
+
+But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby, for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening.
+
+“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.”
+
+Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.
+
+“Well, I liked him anyhow.”
+
+“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.”
+
+Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative fox-trot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”
+
+Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.”
+
+“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” . . . She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time.
+
+We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.
+
+“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”
+
+The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.
+
+“Wha’?”
+
+A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club to-morrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence:
+
+“Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.”
+
+“I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly.
+
+“We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’”
+
+“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.”
+
+“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.”
+
+“Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet.
+
+“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”
+
+It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek.
+
+“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.”
+
+But the rest offended her—and inarguably, because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigor that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short-cut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.
+
+I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, that rouged and powdered in an invisible glass.
+
+“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?”
+
+“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.
+
+“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.”
+
+“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly.
+
+He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet.
+
+“Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.”
+
+A breeze stirred the gray haze of Daisy’s fur collar.
+
+“At least they’re more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.
+
+“You didn’t look so interested.”
+
+“Well, I was.”
+
+Tom laughed and turned to me.
+
+“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?”
+
+Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose, her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
+
+“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.”
+
+“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.”
+
+“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drug-stores, a lot of drug-stores. He built them up himself.”
+
+The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
+
+“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.
+
+Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where Three O’Clock in the Morning, a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.
+
+I stayed late that night, Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guest-rooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired.
+
+“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately.
+
+“Of course she did.”
+
+“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.”
+
+He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression.
+
+“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.”
+
+“You mean about the dance?”
+
+“The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.”
+
+He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago.
+
+“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours——”
+
+He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favors and crushed flowers.
+
+“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.”
+
+“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!”
+
+He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
+
+“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.”
+
+He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was. . . .
+
+. . . One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
+
+His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
+
+Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+
+
+IT WAS WHEN CURIOSITY about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.
+
+“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”
+
+“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way.
+
+“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.”
+
+“Who?” he demanded rudely.
+
+“Carraway.”
+
+“Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.”
+
+Abruptly he slammed the door.
+
+My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all.
+
+Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
+
+“Going away?” I inquired.
+
+“No, old sport.”
+
+“I hear you fired all your servants.”
+
+“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”
+
+So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.
+
+“They’re some people Wolfsheim wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”
+
+“I see.”
+
+He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house to-morrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.
+
+The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book slapped to the floor.
+
+“Oh, my!” she gasped.
+
+I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but every one near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same.
+
+“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! . . . Hot! . . . Hot! . . . Hot! . . . Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it . . . ?”
+
+My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That any one should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart!
+
+. . . Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.
+
+“The master’s body!” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!”
+
+What he really said was: “Yes . . . Yes . . . I’ll see.”
+
+He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats.
+
+“Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life.
+
+The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
+
+“We can’t move,” they said together.
+
+Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine.
+
+“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired.
+
+Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone.
+
+Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.
+
+“The rumor is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.”
+
+We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all. . . . I’m under no obligations to you at all . . . and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!”
+
+“Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically.
+
+“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.”
+
+Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.
+
+“Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir. . . . Nick. . . .”
+
+“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.
+
+As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.
+
+“You know I love you,” she murmured.
+
+“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan.
+
+Daisy looked around doubtfully.
+
+“You kiss Nick too.”
+
+“What a low, vulgar girl!”
+
+“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.
+
+“Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.”
+
+The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.
+
+“The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.”
+
+Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before.
+
+“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.
+
+“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.”
+
+“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.”
+
+“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”
+
+“Where’s Daddy?”
+
+“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”
+
+Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.
+
+“Come, Pammy.”
+
+“Good-by, sweetheart!”
+
+With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.
+
+Gatsby took up his drink.
+
+“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.
+
+We drank in long, greedy swallows.
+
+“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year.
+
+“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.”
+
+I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.
+
+“I’m right across from you.”
+
+“So you are.”
+
+Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles.
+
+“There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.”
+
+We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gayety with the cold ale.
+
+“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?”
+
+“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”
+
+“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”
+
+Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, molding its senselessness into forms.
+
+“I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.”
+
+“Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”
+
+Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.
+
+“You always look so cool,” she repeated.
+
+She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as some one he knew a long time ago.
+
+“You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man——”
+
+“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.”
+
+He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.
+
+“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.”
+
+His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive.
+
+“Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let any one smoke a cigarette first?”
+
+“Everybody smoked all through lunch.”
+
+“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.”
+
+He didn’t answer.
+
+“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”
+
+They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
+
+“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.
+
+“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”
+
+“Oh.”
+
+A pause.
+
+“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads——”
+
+“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.
+
+“I’ll get some whiskey,” answered Tom. He went inside.
+
+Gatsby turned to me rigidly:
+
+“I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.”
+
+“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated.
+
+“Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.
+
+That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it. . . . High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl. . . .
+
+Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.
+
+“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.”
+
+“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”
+
+The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.
+
+“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.
+
+“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drug-store. You can buy anything at a drug-store nowadays.”
+
+A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face.
+
+“Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”
+
+He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.
+
+“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”
+
+She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind.
+
+“Did you see that?” demanded Tom.
+
+“See what?”
+
+He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.
+
+“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science——”
+
+He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of the theoretical abyss.
+
+“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known——”
+
+“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.
+
+“What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”
+
+“About Gatsby.”
+
+“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.”
+
+“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.
+
+“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.”
+
+“Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”
+
+“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.”
+
+“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.
+
+“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!”
+
+We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.
+
+“We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.
+
+“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.”
+
+Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
+
+“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?”
+
+“I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“I’m all run down.”
+
+“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on the phone.”
+
+With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.
+
+“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.”
+
+“How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.”
+
+“It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.
+
+“Like to buy it?”
+
+“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money on the other.”
+
+“What do you want money for, all of a sudden?”
+
+“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go West.”
+
+“Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled.
+
+“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”
+
+The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a waving hand.
+
+“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.
+
+“I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering you about the car.”
+
+“What do I owe you?”
+
+“Dollar twenty.”
+
+The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he just got some poor girl with child.
+
+“I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon.”
+
+That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ashheaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away.
+
+In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.
+
+* * *
+
+There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easy-going blue coupé.
+
+“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when every one’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”
+
+The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside.
+
+“Where are we going?” she cried.
+
+“How about the movies?”
+
+“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly, “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”
+
+“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”
+
+Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out of his life forever.
+
+But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlor of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.
+
+The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny . . .
+
+The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.
+
+“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and every one laughed.
+
+“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.
+
+“There aren’t any more.”
+
+“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe——”
+
+“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”
+
+He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table.
+
+“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.”
+
+There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me”—but this time no one laughed.
+
+“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.
+
+“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.
+
+“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.
+
+“What is?”
+
+“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”
+
+“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”
+
+As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below.
+
+“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.
+
+“Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered, “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”
+
+“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.
+
+“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Mississippi.”
+
+“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.”
+
+“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.
+
+“That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter that I use to-day.”
+
+The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.
+
+“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.”
+
+“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”
+
+“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.”
+
+“He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.”
+
+“Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.”
+
+Jordan smiled.
+
+“He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.”
+
+Tom and I looked at each other blankly.
+
+“Biloxi?”
+
+“First place, we didn’t have any president——”
+
+Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.
+
+“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”
+
+“Not exactly.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”
+
+“Yes—I went there.”
+
+A pause. Then Tom’s voice incredulous and insulting:
+
+“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”
+
+Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice, but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.
+
+“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.
+
+“I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”
+
+“It was in nineteen-nineteen. I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”
+
+Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby.
+
+“It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the Armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.”
+
+I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before.
+
+Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.
+
+“Open the whiskey, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself. . . . Look at the mint!”
+
+“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.”
+
+“Go on,” Gatsby said politely.
+
+“What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?”
+
+They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.
+
+“He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.”
+
+“Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out. . . . Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.”
+
+Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.
+
+“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.
+
+“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.”
+
+Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.
+
+“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention.
+
+“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?”
+
+“That’s a good idea.” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”
+
+“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”
+
+“Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.”
+
+“You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.
+
+Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.
+
+“She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!”
+
+At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.
+
+“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”
+
+“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.”
+
+Tom turned to Daisy sharply.
+
+“You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?”
+
+“Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes”—but there was no laughter in his eyes—“to think that you didn’t know.”
+
+“Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair.
+
+“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”
+
+“No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.
+
+“She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.”
+
+“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.”
+
+Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.
+
+“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.”
+
+She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?”
+
+“You never loved him.”
+
+She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.
+
+“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.
+
+“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.
+
+“No.”
+
+From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air.
+
+“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone. . . . “Daisy?”
+
+“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancor was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.
+
+“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.”
+
+Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.
+
+“You loved me too?” he repeated.
+
+“Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’re things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.”
+
+The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
+
+“I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now——”
+
+“Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”
+
+“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.
+
+She turned to her husband.
+
+“As if it mattered to you,” she said.
+
+“Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.”
+
+“You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.”
+
+“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?”
+
+“Daisy’s leaving you.”
+
+“Nonsense.”
+
+“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.
+
+“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.”
+
+“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”
+
+“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfsheim—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further to-morrow.”
+
+“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily.
+
+“I found out what your ‘drug-stores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of side-street drug-stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”
+
+“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”
+
+“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.”
+
+“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.”
+
+“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfsheim scared him into shutting his mouth.”
+
+That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.
+
+“That drug-store business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”
+
+I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.
+
+It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.
+
+The voice begged again to go.
+
+“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”
+
+Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.
+
+“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”
+
+She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.
+
+“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”
+
+They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.
+
+After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel.
+
+“Want any of this stuff? Jordan? . . . Nick?”
+
+I didn’t answer.
+
+“Nick?” He asked again.
+
+“What?”
+
+“Want any?”
+
+“No . . . I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”
+
+I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.
+
+It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the for-midable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
+
+So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
+
+* * *
+
+The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbor was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead.
+
+“I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after to-morrow, and then we’re going to move away.”
+
+Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When any one spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colorless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own.
+
+So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, down-stairs in the garage.
+
+“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!”
+
+A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over.
+
+The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its color—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust.
+
+Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
+
+* * *
+
+We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away.
+
+“Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.”
+
+He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes.
+
+“We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.”
+
+I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan.
+
+“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.
+
+He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging wire basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.
+
+The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.
+
+Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a work-table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:
+
+“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”
+
+Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.
+
+“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o——”
+
+“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o——”
+
+“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.
+
+“r” said the policeman, “o——”
+
+“g——”
+
+“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?”
+
+“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”
+
+“Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.”
+
+“Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring.
+
+“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”
+
+“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”
+
+“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.
+
+“One goin’ each way. Well, she”—his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped half way and fell to his side—“she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.”
+
+“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.
+
+“Hasn’t got any name.”
+
+A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.
+
+“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”
+
+“See the accident?” asked the policeman.
+
+“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.”
+
+“Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.”
+
+Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his gasping cries:
+
+“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!”
+
+Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.
+
+“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing gruffness.
+
+Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.
+
+“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.”
+
+Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes.
+
+“What’s all that?” he demanded.
+
+“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it. . . . It was a yellow car.”
+
+Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
+
+“And what color’s your car?”
+
+“It’s a blue car, a coupé.”
+
+“We’ve come straight from New York,” I said.
+
+Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away.
+
+“Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct——”
+
+Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back.
+
+“If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.”
+
+Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
+
+Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.
+
+“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”
+
+* * *
+
+The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
+
+“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly.
+
+“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do to-night.”
+
+A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases.
+
+“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”
+
+“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.”
+
+Jordan put her hand on my arm.
+
+“Won’t you come in, Nick?”
+
+“No, thanks.”
+
+I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more.
+
+“It’s only half-past nine,” she said.
+
+I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate.
+
+I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon.
+
+“What are you doing?” I inquired.
+
+“Just standing here, old sport.”
+
+Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfsheim’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery.
+
+“Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+He hesitated.
+
+“Was she killed?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.”
+
+He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.
+
+“I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.”
+
+I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.
+
+“Who was the woman?” he inquired.
+
+“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?”
+
+“Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth.
+
+“Was Daisy driving?”
+
+“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.”
+
+“It ripped her open——”
+
+“Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.
+
+“She’ll be all right to-morrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.”
+
+“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”
+
+“I don’t trust him, old sport.”
+
+“How long are you going to wait?”
+
+“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”
+
+A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the second floor.
+
+“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.”
+
+I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill.
+
+Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.
+
+They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.
+
+As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive.
+
+“Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.
+
+“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”
+
+He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+
+
+I COULDN’T SLEEP all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.
+
+Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.
+
+“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”
+
+His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.
+
+“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.”
+
+“Go away now, old sport?”
+
+“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”
+
+He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.
+
+It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.
+
+She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender, but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motor-cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.
+
+But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.
+
+He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretenses. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.
+
+But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.
+
+When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.
+
+* * *
+
+“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her . . . Well, there I was, ’way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?”
+
+On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.
+
+* * *
+
+He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the Armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
+
+For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the Beale Street Blues while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the gray tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.
+
+Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality—that was close at hand.
+
+That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.
+
+* * *
+
+It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with gray-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.
+
+“I don’t think she ever loved him,” Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”
+
+He sat down gloomily.
+
+“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”
+
+Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.
+
+“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”
+
+What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?
+
+He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.
+
+He left, feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with the people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
+
+The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
+
+It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavor in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.
+
+“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”
+
+“Don’t do it to-day,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”
+
+I looked at my watch and stood up.
+
+“Twelve minutes to my train.”
+
+I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.
+
+“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.
+
+“Do, old sport.”
+
+“I’ll call you about noon.”
+
+We walked slowly down the steps.
+
+“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.
+
+“I suppose so.”
+
+“Well, good-by.”
+
+We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.
+
+“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
+
+I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them good-by.
+
+I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.
+
+“Good-by,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”
+
+* * *
+
+Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
+
+“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”
+
+Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.
+
+“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
+
+“How could it have mattered then?”
+
+Silence for a moment. Then:
+
+“However—I want to see you.”
+
+“I want to see you, too.”
+
+“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”
+
+“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various——”
+
+We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
+
+I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
+
+* * *
+
+When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.
+
+They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.
+
+Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and every one who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally some one said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.
+
+About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.
+
+But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.
+
+“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?”
+
+“Twelve years.”
+
+“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?”
+
+The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.
+
+“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”
+
+“Don’t belong to any.”
+
+“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”
+
+“That was a long time ago.”
+
+The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.
+
+“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.
+
+“Which drawer?”
+
+“That drawer—that one.”
+
+Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.
+
+“This?” he inquired, holding it up.
+
+Wilson stared and nodded.
+
+“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.”
+
+“You mean your wife bought it?”
+
+“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”
+
+Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air.
+
+“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.
+
+“Who did?”
+
+“I have a way of finding out.”
+
+“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.”
+
+“He murdered her.”
+
+“It was an accident, George.”
+
+Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”
+
+“I know,” he said definitely, “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.”
+
+Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car.
+
+“How could she of been like that?”
+
+“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h——”
+
+He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand.
+
+“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”
+
+This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light.
+
+Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small gray clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.
+
+“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’”
+
+Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.
+
+“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.
+
+“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.
+
+* * *
+
+By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.
+
+His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked some one the way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.
+
+* * *
+
+At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if any one phoned word was to be brought to him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair.
+
+Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees.
+
+No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was any one to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.
+
+The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfsheim’s protégés—heard the shots—afterward he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed any one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I, hurried down to the pool.
+
+There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water.
+
+It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+
+
+AFTER TWO YEARS I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Some one with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
+
+Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there.
+
+But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg Village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.
+
+I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
+
+“Left no address?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Say when they’d be back?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”
+
+“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
+
+I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you——”
+
+Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.
+
+“Will you ring again?”
+
+“I’ve rung them three times.”
+
+“It’s very important.”
+
+“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
+
+I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
+
+“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”
+
+Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall.
+
+Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
+
+Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
+
+Yours truly
+
+MEYER WOLFSHEIM
+
+and then hasty addenda beneath:
+
+Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all.
+
+When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.
+
+“This is Slagle speaking . . .”
+
+“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar.
+
+“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”
+
+“There haven’t been any wires.”
+
+“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns——”
+
+“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”
+
+There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation . . . then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
+
+* * *
+
+I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.
+
+It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse gray beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.
+
+“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”
+
+“I didn’t know how to reach you.”
+
+His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.
+
+“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”
+
+“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.
+
+“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr. ——”
+
+“Carraway.”
+
+“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”
+
+I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away.
+
+After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendor of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.
+
+“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby——”
+
+“Gatz is my name.”
+
+“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr. ——?”
+
+“We were close friends.”
+
+“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”
+
+He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.
+
+“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”
+
+“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.
+
+He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.
+
+That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.
+
+“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.
+
+“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”
+
+I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sight-seeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.
+
+“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”
+
+“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”
+
+His tone made me suspicious.
+
+“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”
+
+“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is——”
+
+“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”
+
+“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my very best to get away.”
+
+I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:
+
+“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.——”
+
+I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.
+
+After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.
+
+The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.
+
+“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfsheim’s gone to Chicago.”
+
+The first part of this was obviously untrue, for some one had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.
+
+“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”
+
+“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”
+
+At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.
+
+“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”
+
+“But I know he’s there.”
+
+She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.
+
+“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”
+
+I mentioned Gatsby.
+
+“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”
+
+She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.
+
+“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”
+
+“Did you start him in business?” I inquired.
+
+“Start him! I made him.”
+
+“Oh.”
+
+“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was an Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join up in the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”—he held up two bulbous fingers—“always together.”
+
+I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.
+
+“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”
+
+“I’d like to come.”
+
+“Well, come then.”
+
+The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.
+
+“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.
+
+“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”
+
+“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.”
+
+I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up.
+
+“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.
+
+For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.
+
+“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that, my own rule is to let everything alone.”
+
+When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me.
+
+“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.”
+
+It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.
+
+“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.”
+
+“Very well. Had you seen him lately?”
+
+“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”
+
+He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy.
+
+“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.”
+
+He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last fly-leaf was printed the word SCHEDULE and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:
+
+
+
+“I come across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?”
+
+“It just shows you.”
+
+“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.”
+
+He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use.
+
+A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.
+
+* * *
+
+About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and I in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of some one splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before.
+
+I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.
+
+I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard some one murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.
+
+We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.
+
+“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.
+
+“Neither could anybody else.”
+
+“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.”
+
+He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.
+
+“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
+
+* * *
+
+One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.
+
+When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.
+
+That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
+
+Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.
+
+After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.
+
+There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair.
+
+She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the color of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say good-by.
+
+“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”
+
+We shook hands.
+
+“Oh, and do you remember”—she added—“a conversation we had once about driving a car?”
+
+“Why—not exactly.”
+
+“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”
+
+“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”
+
+She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.
+
+One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewelry store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand.
+
+“What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?”
+
+“Yes. You know what I think of you.”
+
+“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”
+
+“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”
+
+He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm.
+
+“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.”
+
+There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true.
+
+“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful——”
+
+I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . .
+
+I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever.
+
+* * *
+
+Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train.
+
+I spent my Saturday nights in New York, because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.
+
+On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.
+
+Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an æsthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
+
+And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
+
+Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
+
+So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
+
+
diff --git a/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_ThisSideOfParadise.txt b/FitzgeraldNovels/Fitzgerald_ThisSideOfParadise.txt
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+      THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
+
+      By F. Scott Fitzgerald
+
+
+                          ... Well this side of Paradise!... There’s
+                          little comfort in the wise. —Rupert Brooke.
+
+                           Experience is the name so many people give
+                           to their mistakes. —Oscar Wilde.
+                                 To SIGOURNEY FAY
+
+
+        
+      BOOK ONE—The Romantic Egotist
+
+      CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice
+
+
+      Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the
+      stray inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His father,
+      an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a
+      habit of drowsing over the Encyclopedia Britannica, grew wealthy
+      at thirty through the death of two elder brothers, successful
+      Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world
+      was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O’Hara. In
+      consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity his height
+      of just under six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial
+      moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For
+      many years he hovered in the background of his family’s life, an
+      unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless,
+      silky hair, continually occupied in “taking care” of his wife,
+      continually harassed by the idea that he didn’t and couldn’t
+      understand her.
+
+      But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on
+      her father’s estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the
+      Sacred Heart Convent—an educational extravagance that in her
+      youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally
+      wealthy—showed the exquisite delicacy of her features, the
+      consummate art and simplicity of her clothes. A brilliant
+      education she had—her youth passed in renaissance glory, she was
+      versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by
+      name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal Vitori and
+      Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have
+      had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to
+      prefer whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened
+      in two senses during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice
+      O’Hara absorbed the sort of education that will be quite
+      impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of
+      things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming
+      about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all
+      ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped
+      the inferior roses to produce one perfect bud.
+
+      In her less important moments she returned to America, met
+      Stephen Blaine and married him—this almost entirely because she
+      was a little bit weary, a little bit sad. Her only child was
+      carried through a tiresome season and brought into the world on a
+      spring day in ninety-six.
+
+      When Amory was five he was already a delightful companion for
+      her. He was an auburn-haired boy, with great, handsome eyes which
+      he would grow up to in time, a facile imaginative mind and a
+      taste for fancy dress. From his fourth to his tenth year he did
+      the country with his mother in her father’s private car, from
+      Coronado, where his mother became so bored that she had a nervous
+      breakdown in a fashionable hotel, down to Mexico City, where she
+      took a mild, almost epidemic consumption. This trouble pleased
+      her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic part of her
+      atmosphere—especially after several astounding bracers.
+
+      So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying
+      governesses on the beach at Newport, or being spanked or tutored
+      or read to from “Do and Dare,” or “Frank on the Mississippi,”
+      Amory was biting acquiescent bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing
+      a natural repugnance to chamber music and symphonies, and
+      deriving a highly specialized education from his mother.
+
+      “Amory.”
+
+      “Yes, Beatrice.” (Such a quaint name for his mother; she
+      encouraged it.)
+
+      “Dear, don’t _think_ of getting out of bed yet. I’ve always
+      suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous.
+      Clothilde is having your breakfast brought up.”
+
+      “All right.”
+
+      “I am feeling very old to-day, Amory,” she would sigh, her face a
+      rare cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands
+      as facile as Bernhardt’s. “My nerves are on edge—on edge. We must
+      leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for
+      sunshine.”
+
+      Amory’s penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled
+      hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about
+      her.
+
+      “Amory.”
+
+      “Oh, _yes_.”
+
+      “I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and
+      just relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish.”
+
+      She fed him sections of the “Fetes Galantes” before he was ten;
+      at eleven he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of
+      Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone
+      in the hotel at Hot Springs, he sampled his mother’s apricot
+      cordial, and as the taste pleased him, he became quite tipsy.
+      This was fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette in his
+      exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian reaction. Though
+      this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly amused her and
+      became part of what in a later generation would have been termed
+      her “line.”
+
+      “This son of mine,” he heard her tell a room full of awestruck,
+      admiring women one day, “is entirely sophisticated and quite
+      charming—but delicate—we’re all delicate; _here_, you know.” Her
+      hand was radiantly outlined against her beautiful bosom; then
+      sinking her voice to a whisper, she told them of the apricot
+      cordial. They rejoiced, for she was a brave raconteuse, but many
+      were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night against the
+      possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara....
+
+      These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids,
+      the private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a
+      physician. When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted
+      specialists glared at each other hunched around his bed; when he
+      took scarlet fever the number of attendants, including physicians
+      and nurses, totalled fourteen. However, blood being thicker than
+      broth, he was pulled through.
+
+      The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the Blaines of
+      Lake Geneva; they had quite enough relatives to serve in place of
+      friends, and an enviable standing from Pasadena to Cape Cod. But
+      Beatrice grew more and more prone to like only new acquaintances,
+      as there were certain stories, such as the history of her
+      constitution and its many amendments, memories of her years
+      abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat at regular
+      intervals. Like Freudian dreams, they must be thrown off, else
+      they would sweep in and lay siege to her nerves. But Beatrice was
+      critical about American women, especially the floating population
+      of ex-Westerners.
+
+      “They have accents, my dear,” she told Amory, “not Southern
+      accents or Boston accents, not an accent attached to any
+      locality, just an accent”—she became dreamy. “They pick up old,
+      moth-eaten London accents that are down on their luck and have to
+      be used by some one. They talk as an English butler might after
+      several years in a Chicago grand-opera company.” She became
+      almost incoherent—“Suppose—time in every Western woman’s life—she
+      feels her husband is prosperous enough for her to
+      have—accent—they try to impress _me_, my dear—”
+
+      Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties, she
+      considered her soul quite as ill, and therefore important in her
+      life. She had once been a Catholic, but discovering that priests
+      were infinitely more attentive when she was in process of losing
+      or regaining faith in Mother Church, she maintained an
+      enchantingly wavering attitude. Often she deplored the bourgeois
+      quality of the American Catholic clergy, and was quite sure that
+      had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental cathedrals
+      her soul would still be a thin flame on the mighty altar of Rome.
+      Still, next to doctors, priests were her favorite sport.
+
+      “Ah, Bishop Wiston,” she would declare, “I do not want to talk of
+      myself. I can imagine the stream of hysterical women fluttering
+      at your doors, beseeching you to be simpatico”—then after an
+      interlude filled by the clergyman—“but my mood—is—oddly
+      dissimilar.”
+
+      Only to bishops and above did she divulge her clerical romance.
+      When she had first returned to her country there had been a
+      pagan, Swinburnian young man in Asheville, for whose passionate
+      kisses and unsentimental conversations she had taken a decided
+      penchant—they had discussed the matter pro and con with an
+      intellectual romancing quite devoid of sappiness. Eventually she
+      had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from
+      Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the
+      Catholic Church, and was now—Monsignor Darcy.
+
+      “Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company—quite the
+      cardinal’s right-hand man.”
+
+      “Amory will go to him one day, I know,” breathed the beautiful
+      lady, “and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood
+      me.”
+
+      Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than
+      ever on to his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally—the
+      idea being that he was to “keep up,” at each place “taking up the
+      work where he left off,” yet as no tutor ever found the place he
+      left off, his mind was still in very good shape. What a few more
+      years of this life would have made of him is problematical.
+      However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with Beatrice,
+      his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed, and
+      after a series of frantic telegrams to Europe and America, to the
+      amazement of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around
+      and returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier. You will
+      admit that if it was not life it was magnificent.
+
+      After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown that bore a
+      suspicious resemblance to delirium tremens, and Amory was left in
+      Minneapolis, destined to spend the ensuing two years with his
+      aunt and uncle. There the crude, vulgar air of Western
+      civilization first catches him—in his underwear, so to speak.
+
+
+      A KISS FOR AMORY
+
+      His lip curled when he read it.
+
+  “I am going to have a bobbing party,” it said, “on Thursday, December
+  the seventeenth, at five o’clock, and I would like it very much if
+  you could come.
+                        Yours truly,
+  R.S.V.P.                                     Myra St. Claire.
+
+      He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had
+      been the concealing from “the other guys at school” how
+      particularly superior he felt himself to be, yet this conviction
+      was built upon shifting sands. He had shown off one day in French
+      class (he was in senior French class) to the utter confusion of
+      Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned contemptuously, and to the
+      delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had spent several weeks in
+      Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the verbs, whenever
+      he had his book open. But another time Amory showed off in
+      history class, with quite disastrous results, for the boys there
+      were his own age, and they shrilled innuendoes at each other all
+      the following week:
+
+      “Aw—I b’lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_
+      an affair of the middul _clawses_,” or
+
+      “Washington came of very good blood—aw, quite good—I b’lieve.”
+
+      Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve himself by blundering on
+      purpose. Two years before he had commenced a history of the
+      United States which, though it only got as far as the Colonial
+      Wars, had been pronounced by his mother completely enchanting.
+
+      His chief disadvantage lay in athletics, but as soon as he
+      discovered that it was the touchstone of power and popularity at
+      school, he began to make furious, persistent efforts to excel in
+      the winter sports, and with his ankles aching and bending in
+      spite of his efforts, he skated valiantly around the Lorelie rink
+      every afternoon, wondering how soon he would be able to carry a
+      hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably tangled in his
+      skates.
+
+      The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire’s bobbing party spent the
+      morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical
+      affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle. During the afternoon
+      he brought it to light with a sigh, and after some consideration
+      and a preliminary draft in the back of Collar and Daniel’s
+      “First-Year Latin,” composed an answer:
+
+  My dear Miss St. Claire: Your truly charming envitation for the
+  evening of next Thursday evening was truly delightful to receive this
+  morning.  I will be charm and inchanted indeed to present my
+  compliments on next Thursday evening. Faithfully,
+                                          Amory Blaine.
+
+
+      On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along the slippery,
+      shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra’s house, on
+      the half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother
+      would have favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes
+      nonchalantly half-closed, and planned his entrance with
+      precision. He would cross the floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St.
+      Claire, and say with exactly the correct modulation:
+
+      “My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I’m _frightfully_ sorry to be late,
+      but my maid”—he paused there and realized he would be
+      quoting—“but my uncle and I had to see a fella—Yes, I’ve met your
+      enchanting daughter at dancing-school.”
+
+      Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow,
+      with all the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who
+      would be standing ’round, paralyzed into rigid groups for mutual
+      protection.
+
+      A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door.
+      Amory stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was
+      mildly surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation
+      from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He
+      approved of that—as he approved of the butler.
+
+      “Miss Myra,” he said.
+
+      To his surprise the butler grinned horribly.
+
+      “Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his
+      failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered
+      him coldly.
+
+      “But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily,
+      “she’s the only one what _is_ here. The party’s gone.”
+
+      Amory gasped in sudden horror.
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “She’s been waitin’ for Amory Blaine. That’s you, ain’t it? Her
+      mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to
+      go after ’em in the Packard.”
+
+      Amory’s despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra
+      herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly
+      sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty.
+
+      “’Lo, Amory.”
+
+      “’Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality.
+
+      “Well—you _got_ here, _any_ways.”
+
+      “Well—I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto
+      accident,” he romanced.
+
+      Myra’s eyes opened wide.
+
+      “Who was it to?”
+
+      “Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ’n aunt ’n I.”
+
+      “Was any one _killed?_”
+
+      Amory paused and then nodded.
+
+      “Your uncle?”—alarm.
+
+      “Oh, no just a horse—a sorta gray horse.”
+
+      At this point the Erse butler snickered.
+
+      “Probably killed the engine,” he suggested. Amory would have put
+      him on the rack without a scruple.
+
+      “We’ll go now,” said Myra coolly. “You see, Amory, the bobs were
+      ordered for five and everybody was here, so we couldn’t wait—”
+
+      “Well, I couldn’t help it, could I?”
+
+      “So mama said for me to wait till ha’past five. We’ll catch the
+      bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory.”
+
+      Amory’s shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy
+      party jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the
+      limousine, the horrible public descent of him and Myra before
+      sixty reproachful eyes, his apology—a real one this time. He
+      sighed aloud.
+
+      “What?” inquired Myra.
+
+      “Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up
+      with ’em before they get there?” He was encouraging a faint hope
+      that they might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others
+      there, be found in blasé seclusion before the fire and quite
+      regain his lost attitude.
+
+      “Oh, sure Mike, we’ll catch ’em all right—let’s hurry.”
+
+      He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the
+      machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather
+      box-like plan he had conceived. It was based upon some
+      “trade-lasts” gleaned at dancing-school, to the effect that he
+      was “awful good-looking and _English_, sort of.”
+
+      “Myra,” he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words
+      carefully, “I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?”
+      She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that
+      to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence
+      of romance. Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily.
+
+      “Why—yes—sure.”
+
+      He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes.
+
+      “I’m awful,” he said sadly. “I’m diff’runt. I don’t know why I
+      make faux pas. ’Cause I don’t care, I s’pose.” Then, recklessly:
+      “I been smoking too much. I’ve got t’bacca heart.”
+
+      Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and
+      reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little
+      gasp.
+
+      “Oh, _Amory_, don’t smoke. You’ll stunt your _growth!_”
+
+      “I don’t care,” he persisted gloomily. “I gotta. I got the habit.
+      I’ve done a lot of things that if my fambly knew”—he hesitated,
+      giving her imagination time to picture dark horrors—“I went to
+      the burlesque show last week.”
+
+      Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again.
+      “You’re the only girl in town I like much,” he exclaimed in a
+      rush of sentiment. “You’re simpatico.”
+
+      Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though
+      vaguely improper.
+
+      Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a
+      sudden turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched.
+
+      “You shouldn’t smoke, Amory,” she whispered. “Don’t you know
+      that?”
+
+      He shook his head.
+
+      “Nobody cares.”
+
+      Myra hesitated.
+
+      “_I_ care.”
+
+      Something stirred within Amory.
+
+      “Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess
+      everybody knows that.”
+
+      “No, I haven’t,” very slowly.
+
+      A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating
+      about Myra, shut away here cosily from the dim, chill air. Myra,
+      a little bundle of clothes, with strands of yellow hair curling
+      out from under her skating cap.
+
+      “Because I’ve got a crush, too—” He paused, for he heard in the
+      distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the
+      frosted glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark
+      outline of the bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached
+      over with a violent, jerky effort, and clutched Myra’s hand—her
+      thumb, to be exact.
+
+      “Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight,” he whispered. “I
+      wanta talk to you—I _got_ to talk to you.”
+
+      Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her
+      mother, and then—alas for convention—glanced into the eyes
+      beside. “Turn down this side street, Richard, and drive straight
+      to the Minnehaha Club!” she cried through the speaking tube.
+      Amory sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief.
+
+      “I can kiss her,” he thought. “I’ll bet I can. I’ll _bet_ I can!”
+
+      Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night
+      around was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country
+      Club steps the roads stretched away, dark creases on the white
+      blanket; huge heaps of snow lining the sides like the tracks of
+      giant moles. They lingered for a moment on the steps, and watched
+      the white holiday moon.
+
+      “Pale moons like that one”—Amory made a vague gesture—“make
+      people mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off
+      and her hair sorta mussed”—her hands clutched at her hair—“Oh,
+      leave it, it looks _good_.”
+
+      They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little
+      den of his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big
+      sink-down couch. A few years later this was to be a great stage
+      for Amory, a cradle for many an emotional crisis. Now they talked
+      for a moment about bobbing parties.
+
+      “There’s always a bunch of shy fellas,” he commented, “sitting at
+      the tail of the bob, sorta lurkin’ an’ whisperin’ an’ pushin’
+      each other off. Then there’s always some crazy cross-eyed
+      girl”—he gave a terrifying imitation—“she’s always talkin’
+      _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon.”
+
+      “You’re such a funny boy,” puzzled Myra.
+
+      “How d’y’ mean?” Amory gave immediate attention, on his own
+      ground at last.
+
+      “Oh—always talking about crazy things. Why don’t you come ski-ing
+      with Marylyn and I to-morrow?”
+
+      “I don’t like girls in the daytime,” he said shortly, and then,
+      thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: “But I like you.” He
+      cleared his throat. “I like you first and second and third.”
+
+      Myra’s eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell
+      Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy—the
+      little fire—the sense that they were alone in the great building—
+
+      Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate.
+
+      “I like you the first twenty-five,” she confessed, her voice
+      trembling, “and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth.”
+
+      Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had
+      not even noticed it.
+
+      But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed
+      Myra’s cheek. He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted
+      his lips curiously, as if he had munched some new fruit. Then
+      their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.
+
+      “We’re awful,” rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into
+      his, her head drooped against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion
+      seized Amory, disgust, loathing for the whole incident. He
+      desired frantically to be away, never to see Myra again, never to
+      kiss any one; he became conscious of his face and hers, of their
+      clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body and hide
+      somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his mind.
+
+      “Kiss me again.” Her voice came out of a great void.
+
+      “I don’t want to,” he heard himself saying. There was another
+      pause.
+
+      “I don’t want to!” he repeated passionately.
+
+      Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great
+      bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically.
+
+      “I hate you!” she cried. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me
+      again!”
+
+      “What?” stammered Amory.
+
+      “I’ll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I’ll tell
+      mama, and she won’t let me play with you!”
+
+      Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though she were a new
+      animal of whose presence on the earth he had not heretofore been
+      aware.
+
+      The door opened suddenly, and Myra’s mother appeared on the
+      threshold, fumbling with her lorgnette.
+
+      “Well,” she began, adjusting it benignantly, “the man at the desk
+      told me you two children were up here—How do you do, Amory.”
+
+      Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash—but none came. The
+      pout faded, the high pink subsided, and Myra’s voice was placid
+      as a summer lake when she answered her mother.
+
+      “Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well—”
+
+      He heard from below the shrieks of laughter, and smelled the
+      vapid odor of hot chocolate and tea-cakes as he silently followed
+      mother and daughter down-stairs. The sound of the graphophone
+      mingled with the voices of many girls humming the air, and a
+      faint glow was born and spread over him:
+
+   “Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un Casey-Jones—’th his orders in his
+   hand. Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un Took his farewell journey to
+   the prom-ised land.”
+
+
+      SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST
+
+      Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The first winter he
+      wore moccasins that were born yellow, but after many applications
+      of oil and dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty, greenish
+      brown; he wore a gray plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan
+      cap. His dog, Count Del Monte, ate the red cap, so his uncle gave
+      him a gray one that pulled down over his face. The trouble with
+      this one was that you breathed into it and your breath froze; one
+      day the darn thing froze his cheek. He rubbed snow on his cheek,
+      but it turned bluish-black just the same.
+
+
+      The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but it didn’t hurt
+      him. Later, however, he lost his mind and ran madly up the
+      street, bumping into fences, rolling in gutters, and pursuing his
+      eccentric course out of Amory’s life. Amory cried on his bed.
+
+      “Poor little Count,” he cried. “Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_”
+
+      After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of
+      emotional acting.
+
+
+      Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in
+      literature occurred in Act III of “Arsene Lupin.”
+
+      They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees.
+      The line was:
+
+      “If one can’t be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best
+      thing is to be a great criminal.”
+
+
+      Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it:
+
+   “Marylyn and Sallee, Those are the girls for me. Marylyn stands
+   above Sallee in that sweet, deep love.”
+
+      He was interested in whether McGovern of Minnesota would make the
+      first or second All-American, how to do the card-pass, how to do
+      the coin-pass, chameleon ties, how babies were born, and whether
+      Three-fingered Brown was really a better pitcher than Christie
+      Mathewson.
+
+      Among other things he read: “For the Honor of the School,”
+      “Little Women” (twice), “The Common Law,” “Sapho,” “Dangerous Dan
+      McGrew,” “The Broad Highway” (three times), “The Fall of the
+      House of Usher,” “Three Weeks,” “Mary Ware, the Little Colonel’s
+      Chum,” “Gunga Din,” The Police Gazette, and Jim-Jam Jems.
+
+      He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly
+      fond of the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart.
+
+
+      School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard
+      authors. His masters considered him idle, unreliable and
+      superficially clever.
+
+
+      He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore the rings of
+      several. Finally he could borrow no more rings, owing to his
+      nervous habit of chewing them out of shape. This, it seemed,
+      usually aroused the jealous suspicions of the next borrower.
+
+
+      All through the summer months Amory and Frog Parker went each
+      week to the Stock Company. Afterward they would stroll home in
+      the balmy air of August night, dreaming along Hennepin and
+      Nicollet Avenues, through the gay crowd. Amory wondered how
+      people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory,
+      and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes
+      stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and
+      walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.
+
+      Always, after he was in bed, there were voices—indefinite,
+      fading, enchanting—just outside his window, and before he fell
+      asleep he would dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the one
+      about becoming a great half-back, or the one about the Japanese
+      invasion, when he was rewarded by being made the youngest general
+      in the world. It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the
+      being. This, too, was quite characteristic of Amory.
+
+
+      CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST
+
+      Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he had appeared, shy
+      but inwardly glowing, in his first long trousers, set off by a
+      purple accordion tie and a “Belmont” collar with the edges
+      unassailably meeting, purple socks, and handkerchief with a
+      purple border peeping from his breast pocket. But more than that,
+      he had formulated his first philosophy, a code to live by, which,
+      as near as it can be named, was a sort of aristocratic egotism.
+
+      He had realized that his best interests were bound up with those
+      of a certain variant, changing person, whose label, in order that
+      his past might always be identified with him, was Amory Blaine.
+      Amory marked himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite
+      expansion for good or evil. He did not consider himself a “strong
+      char’c’ter,” but relied on his facility (learn things sorta
+      quick) and his superior mentality (read a lotta deep books). He
+      was proud of the fact that he could never become a mechanical or
+      scientific genius. From no other heights was he debarred.
+
+      Physically.—Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He
+      was. He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple
+      dancer.
+
+      Socially.—Here his condition was, perhaps, most dangerous. He
+      granted himself personality, charm, magnetism, poise, the power
+      of dominating all contemporary males, the gift of fascinating all
+      women.
+
+      Mentally.—Complete, unquestioned superiority.
+
+      Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan
+      conscience. Not that he yielded to it—later in life he almost
+      completely slew it—but at fifteen it made him consider himself a
+      great deal worse than other boys... unscrupulousness... the
+      desire to influence people in almost every way, even for evil...
+      a certain coldness and lack of affection, amounting sometimes to
+      cruelty... a shifting sense of honor... an unholy selfishness...
+      a puzzled, furtive interest in everything concerning sex.
+
+      There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running crosswise
+      through his make-up... a harsh phrase from the lips of an older
+      boy (older boys usually detested him) was liable to sweep him off
+      his poise into surly sensitiveness, or timid stupidity... he was
+      a slave to his own moods and he felt that though he was capable
+      of recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither courage,
+      perseverance, nor self-respect.
+
+      Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self-knowledge, a
+      sense of people as automatons to his will, a desire to “pass” as
+      many boys as possible and get to a vague top of the world... with
+      this background did Amory drift into adolescence.
+
+
+      PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE
+
+      The train slowed up with midsummer languor at Lake Geneva, and
+      Amory caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the
+      gravelled station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the
+      early types, and painted gray. The sight of her sitting there,
+      slenderly erect, and of her face, where beauty and dignity
+      combined, melting to a dreamy recollected smile, filled him with
+      a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly and he stepped
+      into the electric, he felt a quick fear lest he had lost the
+      requisite charm to measure up to her.
+
+      “Dear boy—you’re _so_ tall... look behind and see if there’s
+      anything coming...”
+
+      She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of
+      two miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at
+      one busy crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal
+      her forward like a traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be
+      termed a careful driver.
+
+      “You _are_ tall—but you’re still very handsome—you’ve skipped the
+      awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it’s fourteen or
+      fifteen; I can never remember; but you’ve skipped it.”
+
+      “Don’t embarrass me,” murmured Amory.
+
+      “But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a
+      _set_—don’t they? Is your underwear purple, too?”
+
+      Amory grunted impolitely.
+
+      “You must go to Brooks’ and get some really nice suits. Oh, we’ll
+      have a talk to-night or perhaps to-morrow night. I want to tell
+      you about your heart—you’ve probably been neglecting your
+      heart—and you don’t _know_.”
+
+      Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own
+      generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old
+      cynical kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet
+      for the first few days he wandered about the gardens and along
+      the shore in a state of superloneliness, finding a lethargic
+      content in smoking “Bull” at the garage with one of the
+      chauffeurs.
+
+      The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer
+      houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly
+      into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and
+      constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many
+      flower-beds and were silhouetted suddenly at night against the
+      darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice
+      at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired
+      for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for
+      avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete in the
+      moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was
+      mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of
+      a fortunate woman of thirty.
+
+      “Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a strange, weird
+      time after I left you.”
+
+      “Did you, Beatrice?”
+
+      “When I had my last breakdown”—she spoke of it as a sturdy,
+      gallant feat.
+
+      “The doctors told me”—her voice sang on a confidential note—“that
+      if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he
+      would have been physically _shattered_, my dear, and in his
+      _grave_—long in his grave.”
+
+      Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy
+      Parker.
+
+      “Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically, “I had dreams—wonderful
+      visions.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I
+      saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that
+      soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent
+      plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric
+      trumpets—what?”
+
+      Amory had snickered.
+
+      “What, Amory?”
+
+      “I said go on, Beatrice.”
+
+      “That was all—it merely recurred and recurred—gardens that
+      flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons
+      that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden
+      than harvest moons—”
+
+      “Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”
+
+      “Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood,
+      Amory. I know that can’t express it to you, Amory, but—I am not
+      understood.”
+
+      Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing
+      his head gently against her shoulder.
+
+      “Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.”
+
+      “Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?”
+
+      Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.
+
+      “No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the
+      bourgeoisie. I became conventional.” He surprised himself by
+      saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped.
+
+      “Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school.
+      Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.”
+
+      Beatrice showed some alarm.
+
+      “But you’re only fifteen.”
+
+      “Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_
+      to, Beatrice.”
+
+      On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of
+      the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying:
+
+      “Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still
+      want to, you can go to school.”
+
+      “Yes?”
+
+      “To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.”
+
+      Amory felt a quick excitement.
+
+      “It’s being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It’s better that you
+      should go away. I’d have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and
+      then to Christ Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now—and
+      for the present we’ll let the university question take care of
+      itself.”
+
+      “What are you going to do, Beatrice?”
+
+      “Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this
+      country. Not for a second do I regret being American—indeed, I
+      think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel
+      sure we are the great coming nation—yet”—and she sighed—“I feel
+      my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower
+      civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns—”
+
+      Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:
+
+      “My regret is that you haven’t been abroad, but still, as you are
+      a man, it’s better that you should grow up here under the
+      snarling eagle—is that the right term?”
+
+      Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the
+      Japanese invasion.
+
+      “When do I go to school?”
+
+      “Next month. You’ll have to start East a little early to take
+      your examinations. After that you’ll have a free week, so I want
+      you to go up the Hudson and pay a visit.”
+
+      “To who?”
+
+      “To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to
+      Harrow and then to Yale—became a Catholic. I want him to talk to
+      you—I feel he can be such a help—” She stroked his auburn hair
+      gently. “Dear Amory, dear Amory—”
+
+      “Dear Beatrice—”
+
+
+      So early in September Amory, provided with “six suits summer
+      underwear, six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt,
+      one jersey, one overcoat, winter, etc.,” set out for New England,
+      the land of schools.
+
+      There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England
+      dead—large, college-like democracies; St. Mark’s, Groton, St.
+      Regis’—recruited from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of
+      New York; St. Paul’s, with its great rinks; Pomfret and St.
+      George’s, prosperous and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which
+      prepared the wealth of the Middle West for social success at
+      Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred others;
+      all milling out their well-set-up, conventional, impressive type,
+      year after year; their mental stimulus the college entrance
+      exams; their vague purpose set forth in a hundred circulars as
+      “To impart a Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a
+      Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the problems of
+      his day and generation, and to give a solid foundation in the
+      Arts and Sciences.”
+
+      At St. Regis’ Amory stayed three days and took his exams with a
+      scoffing confidence, then doubling back to New York to pay his
+      tutelary visit. The metropolis, barely glimpsed, made little
+      impression on him, except for the sense of cleanliness he drew
+      from the tall white buildings seen from a Hudson River steamboat
+      in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was so crowded with dreams
+      of athletic prowess at school that he considered this visit only
+      as a rather tiresome prelude to the great adventure. This,
+      however, it did not prove to be.
+
+      Monsignor Darcy’s house was an ancient, rambling structure set on
+      a hill overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between
+      his trips to all parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like
+      an exiled Stuart king waiting to be called to the rule of his
+      land. Monsignor was forty-four then, and bustling—a trifle too
+      stout for symmetry, with hair the color of spun gold, and a
+      brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came into a room clad
+      in his full purple regalia from thatch to toe, he resembled a
+      Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration and attention. He
+      had written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just
+      before his conversion, and five years later another, in which he
+      had attempted to turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into
+      even cleverer innuendoes against Episcopalians. He was intensely
+      ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, loved the idea of God enough
+      to be a celibate, and rather liked his neighbor.
+
+      Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled
+      in his company because he was still a youth, and couldn’t be
+      shocked. In the proper land and century he might have been a
+      Richelieu—at present he was a very moral, very religious (if not
+      particularly pious) clergyman, making a great mystery about
+      pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life to the fullest, if not
+      entirely enjoying it.
+
+      He and Amory took to each other at first sight—the jovial,
+      impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the
+      green-eyed, intent youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in
+      their own minds a relation of father and son within a half-hour’s
+      conversation.
+
+      “My dear boy, I’ve been waiting to see you for years. Take a big
+      chair and we’ll have a chat.”
+
+      “I’ve just come from school—St. Regis’s, you know.”
+
+      “So your mother says—a remarkable woman; have a cigarette—I’m
+      sure you smoke. Well, if you’re like me, you loathe all science
+      and mathematics—”
+
+      Amory nodded vehemently.
+
+      “Hate ’em all. Like English and history.”
+
+      “Of course. You’ll hate school for a while, too, but I’m glad
+      you’re going to St. Regis’s.”
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “Because it’s a gentleman’s school, and democracy won’t hit you
+      so early. You’ll find plenty of that in college.”
+
+      “I want to go to Princeton,” said Amory. “I don’t know why, but I
+      think of all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all
+      Yale men as wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes.”
+
+      Monsignor chuckled.
+
+      “I’m one, you know.”
+
+      “Oh, you’re different—I think of Princeton as being lazy and
+      good-looking and aristocratic—you know, like a spring day.
+      Harvard seems sort of indoors—”
+
+      “And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,” finished Monsignor.
+
+      “That’s it.”
+
+      They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never
+      recovered.
+
+      “I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced Amory.
+
+      “Of course you were—and for Hannibal—”
+
+      “Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy.” He was rather sceptical
+      about being an Irish patriot—he suspected that being Irish was
+      being somewhat common—but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was
+      a romantic lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that
+      it should, by all means, be one of his principal biasses.
+
+      After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and
+      during which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his
+      horror, that Amory had not been brought up a Catholic, he
+      announced that he had another guest. This turned out to be the
+      Honorable Thornton Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague,
+      author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages and the last of a
+      distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant family.
+
+      “He comes here for a rest,” said Monsignor confidentially,
+      treating Amory as a contemporary. “I act as an escape from the
+      weariness of agnosticism, and I think I’m the only man who knows
+      how his staid old mind is really at sea and longs for a sturdy
+      spar like the Church to cling to.”
+
+      Their first luncheon was one of the memorable events of Amory’s
+      early life. He was quite radiant and gave off a peculiar
+      brightness and charm. Monsignor called out the best that he had
+      thought by question and suggestion, and Amory talked with an
+      ingenious brilliance of a thousand impulses and desires and
+      repulsions and faiths and fears. He and Monsignor held the floor,
+      and the older man, with his less receptive, less accepting, yet
+      certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to listen and bask
+      in the mellow sunshine that played between these two. Monsignor
+      gave the effect of sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in his
+      youth and, to some extent, when he was very much older, but never
+      again was it quite so mutually spontaneous.
+
+      “He’s a radiant boy,” thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the
+      splendor of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone
+      and Bismarck—and afterward he added to Monsignor: “But his
+      education ought not to be intrusted to a school or college.”
+
+      But for the next four years the best of Amory’s intellect was
+      concentrated on matters of popularity, the intricacies of a
+      university social system and American Society as represented by
+      Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs golf-links.
+
+      ... In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory’s mind turned inside
+      out, a hundred of his theories confirmed, and his joy of life
+      crystallized to a thousand ambitions. Not that the conversation
+      was scholastic—heaven forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as
+      to what Bernard Shaw was—but Monsignor made quite as much out of
+      “The Beloved Vagabond” and “Sir Nigel,” taking good care that
+      Amory never once felt out of his depth.
+
+      But the trumpets were sounding for Amory’s preliminary skirmish
+      with his own generation.
+
+      “You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home
+      is where we are not,” said Monsignor.
+
+      “I _am_ sorry—”
+
+      “No, you’re not. No one person in the world is necessary to you
+      or to me.”
+
+      “Well—”
+
+      “Good-by.”
+
+
+      THE EGOTIST DOWN
+
+      Amory’s two years at St. Regis’, though in turn painful and
+      triumphant, had as little real significance in his own life as
+      the American “prep” school, crushed as it is under the heel of
+      the universities, has to American life in general. We have no
+      Eton to create the self-consciousness of a governing class; we
+      have, instead, clean, flaccid and innocuous preparatory schools.
+
+      He went all wrong at the start, was generally considered both
+      conceited and arrogant, and universally detested. He played
+      football intensely, alternating a reckless brilliancy with a
+      tendency to keep himself as safe from hazard as decency would
+      permit. In a wild panic he backed out of a fight with a boy his
+      own size, to a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in desperation,
+      picked a battle with another boy very much bigger, from which he
+      emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of himself.
+
+      He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and
+      this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work,
+      exasperated every master in school. He grew discouraged and
+      imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading
+      after lights. With a dread of being alone he attached a few
+      friends, but since they were not among the elite of the school,
+      he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which
+      he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was
+      unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.
+
+      There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever Amory was
+      submerged, his vanity was the last part to go below the surface,
+      so he could still enjoy a comfortable glow when “Wookey-wookey,”
+      the deaf old housekeeper, told him that he was the best-looking
+      boy she had ever seen. It had pleased him to be the lightest and
+      youngest man on the first football squad; it pleased him when
+      Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a heated conference that he
+      could, if he wished, get the best marks in school. But Doctor
+      Dougall was wrong. It was temperamentally impossible for Amory to
+      get the best marks in school.
+
+      Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty and
+      students—that was Amory’s first term. But at Christmas he had
+      returned to Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely jubilant.
+
+      “Oh, I was sort of fresh at first,” he told Frog Parker
+      patronizingly, “but I got along fine—lightest man on the squad.
+      You ought to go away to school, Froggy. It’s great stuff.”
+
+
+      INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR
+
+      On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior
+      master, sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his
+      room at nine. Amory suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he
+      determined to be courteous, because this Mr. Margotson had been
+      kindly disposed toward him.
+
+      His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair.
+      He hemmed several times and looked consciously kind, as a man
+      will when he knows he’s on delicate ground.
+
+      “Amory,” he began. “I’ve sent for you on a personal matter.”
+
+      “Yes, sir.”
+
+      “I’ve noticed you this year and I—I like you. I think you have in
+      you the makings of a—a very good man.”
+
+      “Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people
+      talk as if he were an admitted failure.
+
+      “But I’ve noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you’re
+      not very popular with the boys.”
+
+      “No, sir.” Amory licked his lips.
+
+      “Ah—I thought you might not understand exactly what it was
+      they—ah—objected to. I’m going to tell you, because I
+      believe—ah—that when a boy knows his difficulties he’s better
+      able to cope with them—to conform to what others expect of him.”
+      He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence, and continued: “They
+      seem to think that you’re—ah—rather too fresh—”
+
+      Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely
+      controlling his voice when he spoke.
+
+      “I know—oh, _don’t_ you s’pose I know.” His voice rose. “I know
+      what they think; do you s’pose you have to _tell_ me!” He paused.
+      “I’m—I’ve got to go back now—hope I’m not rude—”
+
+      He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked
+      to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped.
+
+      “That _damn_ old fool!” he cried wildly. “As if I didn’t _know!_”
+
+      He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back
+      to study hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room,
+      he munched Nabiscos and finished “The White Company.”
+
+
+      INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL
+
+      There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on
+      Washington’s Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated
+      event. His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue
+      sky had left a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities
+      in the Arabian Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light,
+      and romance gleamed from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and
+      from the women’s eyes at the Astor, where he and young Paskert
+      from St. Regis’ had dinner. When they walked down the aisle of
+      the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord of
+      untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and
+      powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything
+      enchanted him. The play was “The Little Millionaire,” with George
+      M. Cohan, and there was one stunning young brunette who made him
+      sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.
+
+   “Oh—you—wonderful girl, What a wonderful girl you are—”
+
+      sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately.
+
+   “All—your—wonderful words Thrill me through—”
+
+      The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank
+      to a crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping
+      filled the house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the
+      languorous magic melody of such a tune!
+
+      The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the cellos sighed
+      to the musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like
+      comedy flitted back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire
+      to be an habitui of roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look
+      like that—better, that very girl; whose hair would be drenched
+      with golden moonlight, while at his elbow sparkling wine was
+      poured by an unintelligible waiter. When the curtain fell for the
+      last time he gave such a long sigh that the people in front of
+      him twisted around and stared and said loud enough for him to
+      hear:
+
+      “What a _remarkable_-looking boy!”
+
+      This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did
+      seem handsome to the population of New York.
+
+      Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former
+      was the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice
+      broke in in a melancholy strain on Amory’s musings:
+
+      “I’d marry that girl to-night.”
+
+      There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.
+
+      “I’d be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,”
+      continued Paskert.
+
+      Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead
+      of Paskert. It sounded so mature.
+
+      “I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?”
+
+      “No, _sir_, not by a darn sight,” said the worldly youth with
+      emphasis, “and I know that girl’s as good as gold. I can tell.”
+
+      They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the
+      music that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off
+      like myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by
+      a weary excitement. Amory watched them in fascination. He was
+      planning his life. He was going to live in New York, and be known
+      at every restaurant and cafe, wearing a dress-suit from early
+      evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the
+      forenoon.
+
+      “Yes, _sir_, I’d marry that girl to-night!”
+
+
+      HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE
+
+      October of his second and last year at St. Regis’ was a high
+      point in Amory’s memory. The game with Groton was played from
+      three of a snappy, exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp
+      autumnal twilight, and Amory at quarter-back, exhorting in wild
+      despair, making impossible tackles, calling signals in a voice
+      that had diminished to a hoarse, furious whisper, yet found time
+      to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his head, and the
+      straining, glorious heroism of plunging, crashing bodies and
+      aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of
+      the November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the
+      sea-rover on the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and
+      Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into trim
+      and then flung by his own will into the breach, beating back the
+      tide, hearing from afar the thunder of cheers... finally bruised
+      and weary, but still elusive, circling an end, twisting, changing
+      pace, straight-arming... falling behind the Groton goal with two
+      men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game.
+
+
+      THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER
+
+      From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and success
+      Amory looked back with cynical wonder on his status of the year
+      before. He was changed as completely as Amory Blaine could ever
+      be changed. Amory plus Beatrice plus two years in
+      Minneapolis—these had been his ingredients when he entered St.
+      Regis’. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough overlay
+      to conceal the “Amory plus Beatrice” from the ferreting eyes of a
+      boarding-school, so St. Regis’ had very painfully drilled
+      Beatrice out of him, and begun to lay down new and more
+      conventional planking on the fundamental Amory. But both St.
+      Regis’ and Amory were unconscious of the fact that this
+      fundamental Amory had not in himself changed. Those qualities for
+      which he had suffered, his moodiness, his tendency to pose, his
+      laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken as a
+      matter of course, recognized eccentricities in a star
+      quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the St. Regis
+      Tattler: it puzzled him to see impressionable small boys
+      imitating the very vanities that had not long ago been
+      contemptible weaknesses.
+
+      After the football season he slumped into dreamy content. The
+      night of the pre-holiday dance he slipped away and went early to
+      bed for the pleasure of hearing the violin music cross the grass
+      and come surging in at his window. Many nights he lay there
+      dreaming awake of secret cafes in Mont Martre, where ivory women
+      delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and soldiers of
+      fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air
+      was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight and adventure.
+      In the spring he read “L’Allegro,” by request, and was inspired
+      to lyrical outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes of
+      Pan. He moved his bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that
+      he might dress and go out to the archaic swing that hung from an
+      apple-tree near the sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he
+      would pump higher and higher until he got the effect of swinging
+      into the wide air, into a fairyland of piping satyrs and nymphs
+      with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed in the streets of
+      Eastchester. As the swing reached its highest point, Arcady
+      really lay just over the brow of a certain hill, where the brown
+      road dwindled out of sight in a golden dot.
+
+      He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of his eighteenth
+      year: “The Gentleman from Indiana,” “The New Arabian Nights,”
+      “The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne,” “The Man Who Was Thursday,” which
+      he liked without understanding; “Stover at Yale,” that became
+      somewhat of a text-book; “Dombey and Son,” because he thought he
+      really should read better stuff; Robert Chambers, David Graham
+      Phillips, and E. Phillips Oppenheim complete, and a scattering of
+      Tennyson and Kipling. Of all his class work only “L’Allegro” and
+      some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry stirred his
+      languid interest.
+
+      As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to formulate
+      his own ideas, and, to his surprise, found a co-philosopher in
+      Rahill, the president of the sixth form. In many a talk, on the
+      highroad or lying belly-down along the edge of the baseball
+      diamond, or late at night with their cigarettes glowing in the
+      dark, they threshed out the questions of school, and there was
+      developed the term “slicker.”
+
+      “Got tobacco?” whispered Rahill one night, putting his head
+      inside the door five minutes after lights.
+
+      “Sure.”
+
+      “I’m coming in.”
+
+      “Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don’t
+      you.”
+
+      Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for
+      a conversation. Rahill’s favorite subject was the respective
+      futures of the sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining
+      them for his benefit.
+
+      “Ted Converse? ’At’s easy. He’ll fail his exams, tutor all summer
+      at Harstrum’s, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and
+      flunk out in the middle of the freshman year. Then he’ll go back
+      West and raise hell for a year or so; finally his father will
+      make him go into the paint business. He’ll marry and have four
+      sons, all bone heads. He’ll always think St. Regis’s spoiled him,
+      so he’ll send his sons to day school in Portland. He’ll die of
+      locomotor ataxia when he’s forty-one, and his wife will give a
+      baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the Presbyterian
+      Church, with his name on it—”
+
+      “Hold up, Amory. That’s too darned gloomy. How about yourself?”
+
+      “I’m in a superior class. You are, too. We’re philosophers.”
+
+      “I’m not.”
+
+      “Sure you are. You’ve got a darn good head on you.” But Amory
+      knew that nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever
+      moved Rahill until he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae
+      of it.
+
+      “Haven’t,” insisted Rahill. “I let people impose on me here and
+      don’t get anything out of it. I’m the prey of my friends, damn
+      it—do their lessons, get ’em out of trouble, pay ’em stupid
+      summer visits, and always entertain their kid sisters; keep my
+      temper when they get selfish and then they think they pay me back
+      by voting for me and telling me I’m the ‘big man’ of St. Regis’s.
+      I want to get where everybody does their own work and I can tell
+      people where to go. I’m tired of being nice to every poor fish in
+      school.”
+
+      “You’re not a slicker,” said Amory suddenly.
+
+      “A what?”
+
+      “A slicker.”
+
+      “What the devil’s that?”
+
+      “Well, it’s something that—that—there’s a lot of them. You’re not
+      one, and neither am I, though I am more than you are.”
+
+      “Who is one? What makes you one?”
+
+      Amory considered.
+
+      “Why—why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks
+      his hair back with water.”
+
+      “Like Carstairs?”
+
+      “Yes—sure. He’s a slicker.”
+
+      They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. The slicker
+      was good-looking or clean-looking; he had brains, social brains,
+      that is, and he used all means on the broad path of honesty to
+      get ahead, be popular, admired, and never in trouble. He dressed
+      well, was particularly neat in appearance, and derived his name
+      from the fact that his hair was inevitably worn short, soaked in
+      water or tonic, parted in the middle, and slicked back as the
+      current of fashion dictated. The slickers of that year had
+      adopted tortoise-shell spectacles as badges of their slickerhood,
+      and this made them so easy to recognize that Amory and Rahill
+      never missed one. The slicker seemed distributed through school,
+      always a little wiser and shrewder than his contemporaries,
+      managing some team or other, and keeping his cleverness carefully
+      concealed.
+
+      Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification until his
+      junior year in college, when the outline became so blurred and
+      indeterminate that it had to be subdivided many times, and became
+      only a quality. Amory’s secret ideal had all the slicker
+      qualifications, but, in addition, courage and tremendous brains
+      and talents—also Amory conceded him a bizarre streak that was
+      quite irreconcilable to the slicker proper.
+
+      This was a first real break from the hypocrisy of school
+      tradition. The slicker was a definite element of success,
+      differing intrinsically from the prep school “big man.”
+
+  “THE SLICKER”
+ 1. Clever sense of social values.
+ 2. Dresses well.  Pretends that dress is superficial—but knows that it
+ isn’t.
+ 3. Goes into such activities as he can shine in.
+ 4. Gets to college and is, in a worldly way, successful.
+ 5. Hair slicked.
+  “THE BIG MAN”
+ 1. Inclined to stupidity and unconscious of social values.
+ 2. Thinks dress is superficial, and is inclined to be careless about
+ it.
+ 3. Goes out for everything from a sense of duty.
+ 4. Gets to college and has a problematical future.  Feels lost without
+ his circle, and always says that school days were happiest, after all.
+  Goes back to school and makes speeches about what St. Regis’s boys
+ are doing.
+ 5. Hair not slicked.
+
+      Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even though he would
+      be the only boy entering that year from St. Regis’. Yale had a
+      romance and glamour from the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis’
+      men who had been “tapped for Skull and Bones,” but Princeton drew
+      him most, with its atmosphere of bright colors and its alluring
+      reputation as the pleasantest country club in America. Dwarfed by
+      the menacing college exams, Amory’s school days drifted into the
+      past. Years afterward, when he went back to St. Regis’, he seemed
+      to have forgotten the successes of sixth-form year, and to be
+      able to picture himself only as the unadjustable boy who had
+      hurried down corridors, jeered at by his rabid contemporaries mad
+      with common sense.
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles
+
+
+      At first Amory noticed only the wealth of sunshine creeping
+      across the long, green swards, dancing on the leaded
+      window-panes, and swimming around the tops of spires and towers
+      and battlemented walls. Gradually he realized that he was really
+      walking up University Place, self-conscious about his suitcase,
+      developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed
+      any one. Several times he could have sworn that men turned to
+      look at him critically. He wondered vaguely if there was
+      something the matter with his clothes, and wished he had shaved
+      that morning on the train. He felt unnecessarily stiff and
+      awkward among these white-flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must
+      be juniors and seniors, judging from the savoir faire with which
+      they strolled.
+
+      He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapidated
+      mansion, at present apparently uninhabited, though he knew it
+      housed usually a dozen freshmen. After a hurried skirmish with
+      his landlady he sallied out on a tour of exploration, but he had
+      gone scarcely a block when he became horribly conscious that he
+      must be the only man in town who was wearing a hat. He returned
+      hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby, and, emerging
+      bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to investigate
+      a display of athletic photographs in a store window, including a
+      large one of Allenby, the football captain, and next attracted by
+      the sign “Jigger Shop” over a confectionary window. This sounded
+      familiar, so he sauntered in and took a seat on a high stool.
+
+      “Chocolate sundae,” he told a colored person.
+
+      “Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?”
+
+      “Why—yes.”
+
+      “Bacon bun?”
+
+      “Why—yes.”
+
+      He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing savor, and
+      then consumed another double-chocolate jigger before ease
+      descended upon him. After a cursory inspection of the
+      pillow-cases, leather pennants, and Gibson Girls that lined the
+      walls, he left, and continued along Nassau Street with his hands
+      in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to distinguish between
+      upper classmen and entering men, even though the freshman cap
+      would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were too
+      obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train
+      brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the
+      hatless, white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to
+      be to drift endlessly up and down the street, emitting great
+      clouds of smoke from brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized
+      that now the newest arrivals were taking him for an upper
+      classman, and he tried conscientiously to look both pleasantly
+      blasé and casually critical, which was as near as he could
+      analyze the prevalent facial expression.
+
+      At five o’clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he
+      retreated to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having
+      climbed the rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly,
+      concluding that it was hopeless to attempt any more inspired
+      decoration than class banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap
+      at the door.
+
+      “Come in!”
+
+      A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the
+      doorway.
+
+      “Got a hammer?”
+
+      “No—sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one.”
+
+      The stranger advanced into the room.
+
+      “You an inmate of this asylum?”
+
+      Amory nodded.
+
+      “Awful barn for the rent we pay.”
+
+      Amory had to agree that it was.
+
+      “I thought of the campus,” he said, “but they say there’s so few
+      freshmen that they’re lost. Have to sit around and study for
+      something to do.”
+
+      The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself.
+
+      “My name’s Holiday.”
+
+      “Blaine’s my name.”
+
+      They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned.
+
+      “Where’d you prep?”
+
+      “Andover—where did you?”
+
+      “St. Regis’s.”
+
+      “Oh, did you? I had a cousin there.”
+
+      They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced
+      that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six.
+
+      “Come along and have a bite with us.”
+
+      “All right.”
+
+      At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday—he of the gray eyes was
+      Kerry—and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic
+      vegetables they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in
+      small groups looking very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming
+      very much at home.
+
+      “I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory.
+
+      “That’s the rumor. But you’ve got to eat there—or pay anyways.”
+
+      “Crime!”
+
+      “Imposition!”
+
+      “Oh, at Princeton you’ve got to swallow everything the first
+      year. It’s like a damned prep school.”
+
+      Amory agreed.
+
+      “Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have gone to Yale
+      for a million.”
+
+      “Me either.”
+
+      “You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder
+      brother.
+
+      “Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily
+      Princetonian, you know.”
+
+      “Yes, I know.”
+
+      “You going out for anything?”
+
+      “Why—yes. I’m going to take a whack at freshman football.”
+
+      “Play at St. Regis’s?”
+
+      “Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I’m getting so damned
+      thin.”
+
+      “You’re not thin.”
+
+      “Well, I used to be stocky last fall.”
+
+      “Oh!”
+
+      After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated
+      by the glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the
+      wild yelling and shouting.
+
+      “Yoho!”
+
+      “Oh, honey-baby—you’re so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!”
+
+      “Clinch!”
+
+      “Oh, Clinch!”
+
+      “Kiss her, kiss ’at lady, quick!”
+
+      “Oh-h-h—!”
+
+      A group began whistling “By the Sea,” and the audience took it up
+      noisily. This was followed by an indistinguishable song that
+      included much stamping and then by an endless, incoherent dirge.
+
+   “Oh-h-h-h-h She works in a Jam Factoree And—that-may-be-all-right
+   But you can’t-fool-me For I know—DAMN—WELL That she
+   DON’T-make-jam-all-night! Oh-h-h-h!”
+
+      As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious impersonal
+      glances, Amory decided that he liked the movies, wanted to enjoy
+      them as the row of upper classmen in front had enjoyed them, with
+      their arms along the backs of the seats, their comments Gaelic
+      and caustic, their attitude a mixture of critical wit and
+      tolerant amusement.
+
+      “Want a sundae—I mean a jigger?” asked Kerry.
+
+      “Sure.”
+
+      They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to
+      12.
+
+      “Wonderful night.”
+
+      “It’s a whiz.”
+
+      “You men going to unpack?”
+
+      “Guess so. Come on, Burne.”
+
+      Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade
+      them good night.
+
+      The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the
+      last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches
+      with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the
+      gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a
+      hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful.
+
+      He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had told him of one
+      of Booth Tarkington’s amusements: standing in mid-campus in the
+      small hours and singing tenor songs to the stars, arousing
+      mingled emotions in the couched undergraduates according to the
+      sentiment of their moods.
+
+      Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a white-clad
+      phalanx broke the gloom, and marching figures, white-shirted,
+      white-trousered, swung rhythmically up the street, with linked
+      arms and heads thrown back:
+
+   “Going back—going back, Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall, Going back—going
+   back— To the—Best—Old—Place—of—All. Going back—going back, From
+   all—this—earth-ly—ball, We’ll—clear—the—track—as—we—go—back—
+   Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall!”
+
+      Amory closed his eyes as the ghostly procession drew near. The
+      song soared so high that all dropped out except the tenors, who
+      bore the melody triumphantly past the danger-point and
+      relinquished it to the fantastic chorus. Then Amory opened his
+      eyes, half afraid that sight would spoil the rich illusion of
+      harmony.
+
+      He sighed eagerly. There at the head of the white platoon marched
+      Allenby, the football captain, slim and defiant, as if aware that
+      this year the hopes of the college rested on him, that his
+      hundred-and-sixty pounds were expected to dodge to victory
+      through the heavy blue and crimson lines.
+
+      Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms as it came
+      abreast, the faces indistinct above the polo shirts, the voices
+      blent in a paean of triumph—and then the procession passed
+      through shadowy Campbell Arch, and the voices grew fainter as it
+      wound eastward over the campus.
+
+      The minutes passed and Amory sat there very quietly. He regretted
+      the rule that would forbid freshmen to be outdoors after curfew,
+      for he wanted to ramble through the shadowy scented lanes, where
+      Witherspoon brooded like a dark mother over Whig and Clio, her
+      Attic children, where the black Gothic snake of Little curled
+      down to Cuyler and Patton, these in turn flinging the mystery out
+      over the placid slope rolling to the lake.
+
+
+      Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his
+      consciousness—West and Reunion, redolent of the sixties,
+      Seventy-nine Hall, brick-red and arrogant, Upper and Lower Pyne,
+      aristocratic Elizabethan ladies not quite content to live among
+      shopkeepers, and, topping all, climbing with clear blue
+      aspiration, the great dreaming spires of Holder and Cleveland
+      towers.
+
+      From the first he loved Princeton—its lazy beauty, its
+      half-grasped significance, the wild moonlight revel of the
+      rushes, the handsome, prosperous big-game crowds, and under it
+      all the air of struggle that pervaded his class. From the day
+      when, wild-eyed and exhausted, the jerseyed freshmen sat in the
+      gymnasium and elected some one from Hill School class president,
+      a Lawrenceville celebrity vice-president, a hockey star from St.
+      Paul’s secretary, up until the end of sophomore year it never
+      ceased, that breathless social system, that worship, seldom
+      named, never really admitted, of the bogey “Big Man.”
+
+      First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis’, watched
+      the crowds form and widen and form again; St. Paul’s, Hill,
+      Pomfret, eating at certain tacitly reserved tables in Commons,
+      dressing in their own corners of the gymnasium, and drawing
+      unconsciously about them a barrier of the slightly less important
+      but socially ambitious to protect them from the friendly, rather
+      puzzled high-school element. From the moment he realized this
+      Amory resented social barriers as artificial distinctions made by
+      the strong to bolster up their weak retainers and keep out the
+      almost strong.
+
+      Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he reported
+      for freshman football practice, but in the second week, playing
+      quarter-back, already paragraphed in corners of the Princetonian,
+      he wrenched his knee seriously enough to put him out for the rest
+      of the season. This forced him to retire and consider the
+      situation.
+
+      “12 Univee” housed a dozen miscellaneous question-marks. There
+      were three or four inconspicuous and quite startled boys from
+      Lawrenceville, two amateur wild men from a New York private
+      school (Kerry Holiday christened them the “plebeian drunks”), a
+      Jewish youth, also from New York, and, as compensation for Amory,
+      the two Holidays, to whom he took an instant fancy.
+
+      The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the dark-haired one,
+      Kerry, was a year older than his blond brother, Burne. Kerry was
+      tall, with humorous gray eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he
+      became at once the mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew
+      too high, censor of conceit, vendor of rare, satirical humor.
+      Amory spread the table of their future friendship with all his
+      ideas of what college should and did mean. Kerry, not inclined as
+      yet to take things seriously, chided him gently for being curious
+      at this inopportune time about the intricacies of the social
+      system, but liked him and was both interested and amused.
+
+      Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the house
+      only as a busy apparition, gliding in quietly at night and off
+      again in the early morning to get up his work in the library—he
+      was out for the Princetonian, competing furiously against forty
+      others for the coveted first place. In December he came down with
+      diphtheria, and some one else won the competition, but, returning
+      to college in February, he dauntlessly went after the prize
+      again. Necessarily, Amory’s acquaintance with him was in the way
+      of three-minute chats, walking to and from lectures, so he failed
+      to penetrate Burne’s one absorbing interest and find what lay
+      beneath it.
+
+      Amory was far from contented. He missed the place he had won at
+      St. Regis’, the being known and admired, yet Princeton stimulated
+      him, and there were many things ahead calculated to arouse the
+      Machiavelli latent in him, could he but insert a wedge. The
+      upper-class clubs, concerning which he had pumped a reluctant
+      graduate during the previous summer, excited his curiosity: Ivy,
+      detached and breathlessly aristocratic; Cottage, an impressive
+      mélange of brilliant adventurers and well-dressed philanderers;
+      Tiger Inn, broad-shouldered and athletic, vitalized by an honest
+      elaboration of prep-school standards; Cap and Gown,
+      anti-alcoholic, faintly religious and politically powerful;
+      flamboyant Colonial; literary Quadrangle; and the dozen others,
+      varying in age and position.
+
+      Anything which brought an under classman into too glaring a light
+      was labelled with the damning brand of “running it out.” The
+      movies thrived on caustic comments, but the men who made them
+      were generally running it out; talking of clubs was running it
+      out; standing for anything very strongly, as, for instance,
+      drinking parties or teetotalling, was running it out; in short,
+      being personally conspicuous was not tolerated, and the
+      influential man was the non-committal man, until at club
+      elections in sophomore year every one should be sewed up in some
+      bag for the rest of his college career.
+
+      Amory found that writing for the Nassau Literary Magazine would
+      get him nothing, but that being on the board of the Daily
+      Princetonian would get any one a good deal. His vague desire to
+      do immortal acting with the English Dramatic Association faded
+      out when he found that the most ingenious brains and talents were
+      concentrated upon the Triangle Club, a musical comedy
+      organization that every year took a great Christmas trip. In the
+      meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and restless in Commons, with
+      new desires and ambitions stirring in his mind, he let the first
+      term go by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled
+      fretting with Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately
+      among the elite of the class.
+
+      Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and
+      watched the class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites
+      already attaching themselves to the more prominent, watching the
+      lonely grind with his hurried step and downcast eye, envying the
+      happy security of the big school groups.
+
+      “We’re the damned middle class, that’s what!” he complained to
+      Kerry one day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a
+      family of Fatimas with contemplative precision.
+
+      “Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way
+      toward the small colleges—have it on ’em, more self-confidence,
+      dress better, cut a swathe—”
+
+      “Oh, it isn’t that I mind the glittering caste system,” admitted
+      Amory. “I like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh,
+      Kerry, I’ve got to be one of them.”
+
+      “But just now, Amory, you’re only a sweaty bourgeois.”
+
+      Amory lay for a moment without speaking.
+
+      “I won’t be—long,” he said finally. “But I hate to get anywhere
+      by working for it. I’ll show the marks, don’t you know.”
+
+      “Honorable scars.” Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street.
+      “There’s Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like—and
+      Humbird just behind.”
+
+      Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows.
+
+      “Oh,” he said, scrutinizing these worthies, “Humbird looks like a
+      knock-out, but this Langueduc—he’s the rugged type, isn’t he? I
+      distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough.”
+
+      “Well,” said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, “you’re a
+      literary genius. It’s up to you.”
+
+      “I wonder”—Amory paused—“if I could be. I honestly think so
+      sometimes. That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn’t say it to
+      anybody except you.”
+
+      “Well—go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy
+      D’Invilliers in the Lit.”
+
+      Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table.
+
+      “Read his latest effort?”
+
+      “Never miss ’em. They’re rare.”
+
+      Amory glanced through the issue.
+
+      “Hello!” he said in surprise, “he’s a freshman, isn’t he?”
+
+      “Yeah.”
+
+      “Listen to this! My God!
+
+  “‘A serving lady speaks: Black velvet trails its folds over the day,
+  White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames, Wave their thin flames
+  like shadows in the wind, Pia, Pompia, come—come away—’
+
+      “Now, what the devil does that mean?”
+
+      “It’s a pantry scene.”
+
+  “‘Her toes are stiffened like a stork’s in flight; She’s laid upon
+  her bed, on the white sheets, Her hands pressed on her smooth bust
+  like a saint, Bella Cunizza, come into the light!’
+
+      “My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don’t
+      get him at all, and I’m a literary bird myself.”
+
+      “It’s pretty tricky,” said Kerry, “only you’ve got to think of
+      hearses and stale milk when you read it. That isn’t as pash as
+      some of them.”
+
+      Amory tossed the magazine on the table.
+
+      “Well,” he sighed, “I sure am up in the air. I know I’m not a
+      regular fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn’t. I can’t
+      decide whether to cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or
+      to thumb my nose at the Golden Treasury and be a Princeton
+      slicker.”
+
+      “Why decide?” suggested Kerry. “Better drift, like me. I’m going
+      to sail into prominence on Burne’s coat-tails.”
+
+      “I can’t drift—I want to be interested. I want to pull strings,
+      even for somebody else, or be Princetonian chairman or Triangle
+      president. I want to be admired, Kerry.”
+
+      “You’re thinking too much about yourself.”
+
+      Amory sat up at this.
+
+      “No. I’m thinking about you, too. We’ve got to get out and mix
+      around the class right now, when it’s fun to be a snob. I’d like
+      to bring a sardine to the prom in June, for instance, but I
+      wouldn’t do it unless I could be damn debonaire about
+      it—introduce her to all the prize parlor-snakes, and the football
+      captain, and all that simple stuff.”
+
+      “Amory,” said Kerry impatiently, “you’re just going around in a
+      circle. If you want to be prominent, get out and try for
+      something; if you don’t, just take it easy.” He yawned. “Come on,
+      let’s let the smoke drift off. We’ll go down and watch football
+      practice.”
+
+
+      Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided that next
+      fall would inaugurate his career, and relinquished himself to
+      watching Kerry extract joy from 12 Univee.
+
+      They filled the Jewish youth’s bed with lemon pie; they put out
+      the gas all over the house every night by blowing into the jet in
+      Amory’s room, to the bewilderment of Mrs. Twelve and the local
+      plumber; they set up the effects of the plebeian drunks—pictures,
+      books, and furniture—in the bathroom, to the confusion of the
+      pair, who hazily discovered the transposition on their return
+      from a Trenton spree; they were disappointed beyond measure when
+      the plebeian drunks decided to take it as a joke; they played
+      red-dog and twenty-one and jackpot from dinner to dawn, and on
+      the occasion of one man’s birthday persuaded him to buy
+      sufficient champagne for a hilarious celebration. The donor of
+      the party having remained sober, Kerry and Amory accidentally
+      dropped him down two flights of stairs and called, shame-faced
+      and penitent, at the infirmary all the following week.
+
+      “Say, who are all these women?” demanded Kerry one day,
+      protesting at the size of Amory’s mail. “I’ve been looking at the
+      postmarks lately—Farmington and Dobbs and Westover and Dana
+      Hall—what’s the idea?”
+
+      Amory grinned.
+
+      “All from the Twin Cities.” He named them off. “There’s Marylyn
+      De Witt—she’s pretty, got a car of her own and that’s damn
+      convenient; there’s Sally Weatherby—she’s getting too fat;
+      there’s Myra St. Claire, she’s an old flame, easy to kiss if you
+      like it—”
+
+      “What line do you throw ’em?” demanded Kerry. “I’ve tried
+      everything, and the mad wags aren’t even afraid of me.”
+
+      “You’re the ‘nice boy’ type,” suggested Amory.
+
+      “That’s just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she’s
+      with me. Honestly, it’s annoying. If I start to hold somebody’s
+      hand, they laugh at me, and let me, just as if it wasn’t part of
+      them. As soon as I get hold of a hand they sort of disconnect it
+      from the rest of them.”
+
+      “Sulk,” suggested Amory. “Tell ’em you’re wild and have ’em
+      reform you—go home furious—come back in half an hour—startle
+      ’em.”
+
+      Kerry shook his head.
+
+      “No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really loving letter
+      last year. In one place I got rattled and said: ‘My God, how I
+      love you!’ She took a nail scissors, clipped out the ‘My God’ and
+      showed the rest of the letter all over school. Doesn’t work at
+      all. I’m just ‘good old Kerry’ and all that rot.”
+
+      Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as “good old Amory.” He
+      failed completely.
+
+      February dripped snow and rain, the cyclonic freshman mid-years
+      passed, and life in 12 Univee continued interesting if not
+      purposeful. Once a day Amory indulged in a club sandwich,
+      cornflakes, and Julienne potatoes at “Joe’s,” accompanied usually
+      by Kerry or Alec Connage. The latter was a quiet, rather aloof
+      slicker from Hotchkiss, who lived next door and shared the same
+      enforced singleness as Amory, due to the fact that his entire
+      class had gone to Yale. “Joe’s” was unaesthetic and faintly
+      unsanitary, but a limitless charge account could be opened there,
+      a convenience that Amory appreciated. His father had been
+      experimenting with mining stocks and, in consequence, his
+      allowance, while liberal, was not at all what he had expected.
+
+      “Joe’s” had the additional advantage of seclusion from curious
+      upper-class eyes, so at four each afternoon Amory, accompanied by
+      friend or book, went up to experiment with his digestion. One day
+      in March, finding that all the tables were occupied, he slipped
+      into a chair opposite a freshman who bent intently over a book at
+      the last table. They nodded briefly. For twenty minutes Amory sat
+      consuming bacon buns and reading “Mrs. Warren’s Profession” (he
+      had discovered Shaw quite by accident while browsing in the
+      library during mid-years); the other freshman, also intent on his
+      volume, meanwhile did away with a trio of chocolate malted milks.
+
+      By and by Amory’s eyes wandered curiously to his fellow-luncher’s
+      book. He spelled out the name and title upside down—“Marpessa,”
+      by Stephen Phillips. This meant nothing to him, his metrical
+      education having been confined to such Sunday classics as “Come
+      into the Garden, Maude,” and what morsels of Shakespeare and
+      Milton had been recently forced upon him.
+
+      Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book
+      for a moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily:
+
+      “Ha! Great stuff!”
+
+      The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial
+      embarrassment.
+
+      “Are you referring to your bacon buns?” His cracked, kindly voice
+      went well with the large spectacles and the impression of a
+      voluminous keenness that he gave.
+
+      “No,” Amory answered. “I was referring to Bernard Shaw.” He
+      turned the book around in explanation.
+
+      “I’ve never read any Shaw. I’ve always meant to.” The boy paused
+      and then continued: “Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do
+      you like poetry?”
+
+      “Yes, indeed,” Amory affirmed eagerly. “I’ve never read much of
+      Phillips, though.” (He had never heard of any Phillips except the
+      late David Graham.)
+
+      “It’s pretty fair, I think. Of course he’s a Victorian.” They
+      sallied into a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they
+      introduced themselves, and Amory’s companion proved to be none
+      other than “that awful highbrow, Thomas Parke D’Invilliers,” who
+      signed the passionate love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps,
+      nineteen, with stooped shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, as Amory
+      could tell from his general appearance, without much conception
+      of social competition and such phenomena of absorbing interest.
+      Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since Amory had met
+      any one who did; if only that St. Paul’s crowd at the next table
+      would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he would enjoy the
+      encounter tremendously. They didn’t seem to be noticing, so he
+      let himself go, discussed books by the dozens—books he had read,
+      read about, books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of
+      titles with the facility of a Brentano’s clerk. D’Invilliers was
+      partially taken in and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he
+      had almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly Philistines
+      and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person who could
+      mention Keats without stammering, yet evidently washed his hands,
+      was rather a treat.
+
+      “Ever read any Oscar Wilde?” he asked.
+
+      “No. Who wrote it?”
+
+      “It’s a man—don’t you know?”
+
+      “Oh, surely.” A faint chord was struck in Amory’s memory. “Wasn’t
+      the comic opera, ‘Patience,’ written about him?”
+
+      “Yes, that’s the fella. I’ve just finished a book of his, ‘The
+      Picture of Dorian Gray,’ and I certainly wish you’d read it.
+      You’d like it. You can borrow it if you want to.”
+
+      “Why, I’d like it a lot—thanks.”
+
+      “Don’t you want to come up to the room? I’ve got a few other
+      books.”
+
+      Amory hesitated, glanced at the St. Paul’s group—one of them was
+      the magnificent, exquisite Humbird—and he considered how
+      determinate the addition of this friend would be. He never got to
+      the stage of making them and getting rid of them—he was not hard
+      enough for that—so he measured Thomas Parke D’Invilliers’
+      undoubted attractions and value against the menace of cold eyes
+      behind tortoise-rimmed spectacles that he fancied glared from the
+      next table.
+
+      “Yes, I’ll go.”
+
+      So he found “Dorian Gray” and the “Mystic and Somber Dolores” and
+      the “Belle Dame sans Merci”; for a month was keen on naught else.
+      The world became pale and interesting, and he tried hard to look
+      at Princeton through the satiated eyes of Oscar Wilde and
+      Swinburne—or “Fingal O’Flaherty” and “Algernon Charles,” as he
+      called them in precieuse jest. He read enormously every
+      night—Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, Synge, Ernest
+      Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh Benson, the
+      Savoy Operas—just a heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly
+      discovered that he had read nothing for years.
+
+      Tom D’Invilliers became at first an occasion rather than a
+      friend. Amory saw him about once a week, and together they gilded
+      the ceiling of Tom’s room and decorated the walls with imitation
+      tapestry, bought at an auction, tall candlesticks and figured
+      curtains. Amory liked him for being clever and literary without
+      effeminacy or affectation. In fact, Amory did most of the
+      strutting and tried painfully to make every remark an epigram,
+      than which, if one is content with ostensible epigrams, there are
+      many feats harder. 12 Univee was amused. Kerry read “Dorian Gray”
+      and simulated Lord Henry, following Amory about, addressing him
+      as “Dorian” and pretending to encourage in him wicked fancies and
+      attenuated tendencies to ennui. When he carried it into Commons,
+      to the amazement of the others at table, Amory became furiously
+      embarrassed, and after that made epigrams only before
+      D’Invilliers or a convenient mirror.
+
+      One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany’s
+      poems to the music of Kerry’s graphophone.
+
+      “Chant!” cried Tom. “Don’t recite! Chant!”
+
+      Amory, who was performing, looked annoyed, and claimed that he
+      needed a record with less piano in it. Kerry thereupon rolled on
+      the floor in stifled laughter.
+
+      “Put on ‘Hearts and Flowers’!” he howled. “Oh, my Lord, I’m going
+      to cast a kitten.”
+
+      “Shut off the damn graphophone,” Amory cried, rather red in the
+      face. “I’m not giving an exhibition.”
+
+      In the meanwhile Amory delicately kept trying to awaken a sense
+      of the social system in D’Invilliers, for he knew that this poet
+      was really more conventional than he, and needed merely watered
+      hair, a smaller range of conversation, and a darker brown hat to
+      become quite regular. But the liturgy of Livingstone collars and
+      dark ties fell on heedless ears; in fact D’Invilliers faintly
+      resented his efforts; so Amory confined himself to calls once a
+      week, and brought him occasionally to 12 Univee. This caused mild
+      titters among the other freshmen, who called them “Doctor Johnson
+      and Boswell.”
+
+      Alec Connage, another frequent visitor, liked him in a vague way,
+      but was afraid of him as a highbrow. Kerry, who saw through his
+      poetic patter to the solid, almost respectable depths within, was
+      immensely amused and would have him recite poetry by the hour,
+      while he lay with closed eyes on Amory’s sofa and listened:
+
+   “Asleep or waking is it? for her neck Kissed over close, wears yet a
+   purple speck Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; Soft and
+   stung softly—fairer for a fleck...”
+
+      “That’s good,” Kerry would say softly. “It pleases the elder
+      Holiday. That’s a great poet, I guess.” Tom, delighted at an
+      audience, would ramble through the “Poems and Ballades” until
+      Kerry and Amory knew them almost as well as he.
+
+      Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens
+      of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective
+      atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed
+      harmoniously above the willows. May came too soon, and suddenly
+      unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through
+      starlight and rain.
+
+
+      A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE
+
+      The night mist fell. From the moon it rolled, clustered about the
+      spires and towers, and then settled below them, so that the
+      dreaming peaks were still in lofty aspiration toward the sky.
+      Figures that dotted the day like ants now brushed along as
+      shadowy ghosts, in and out of the foreground. The Gothic halls
+      and cloisters were infinitely more mysterious as they loomed
+      suddenly out of the darkness, outlined each by myriad faint
+      squares of yellow light. Indefinitely from somewhere a bell
+      boomed the quarter-hour, and Amory, pausing by the sun-dial,
+      stretched himself out full length on the damp grass. The cool
+      bathed his eyes and slowed the flight of time—time that had crept
+      so insidiously through the lazy April afternoons, seemed so
+      intangible in the long spring twilights. Evening after evening
+      the senior singing had drifted over the campus in melancholy
+      beauty, and through the shell of his undergraduate consciousness
+      had broken a deep and reverent devotion to the gray walls and
+      Gothic peaks and all they symbolized as warehouses of dead ages.
+
+      The tower that in view of his window sprang upward, grew into a
+      spire, yearning higher until its uppermost tip was half invisible
+      against the morning skies, gave him the first sense of the
+      transiency and unimportance of the campus figures except as
+      holders of the apostolic succession. He liked knowing that Gothic
+      architecture, with its upward trend, was peculiarly appropriate
+      to universities, and the idea became personal to him. The silent
+      stretches of green, the quiet halls with an occasional
+      late-burning scholastic light held his imagination in a strong
+      grasp, and the chastity of the spire became a symbol of this
+      perception.
+
+      “Damn it all,” he whispered aloud, wetting his hands in the damp
+      and running them through his hair. “Next year I work!” Yet he
+      knew that where now the spirit of spires and towers made him
+      dreamily acquiescent, it would then overawe him. Where now he
+      realized only his own inconsequence, effort would make him aware
+      of his own impotency and insufficiency.
+
+      The college dreamed on—awake. He felt a nervous excitement that
+      might have been the very throb of its slow heart. It was a stream
+      where he was to throw a stone whose faint ripple would be
+      vanishing almost as it left his hand. As yet he had given
+      nothing, he had taken nothing.
+
+      A belated freshman, his oilskin slicker rasping loudly, slushed
+      along the soft path. A voice from somewhere called the inevitable
+      formula, “Stick out your head!” below an unseen window. A hundred
+      little sounds of the current drifting on under the fog pressed in
+      finally on his consciousness.
+
+      “Oh, God!” he cried suddenly, and started at the sound of his
+      voice in the stillness. The rain dripped on. A minute longer he
+      lay without moving, his hands clinched. Then he sprang to his
+      feet and gave his clothes a tentative pat.
+
+      “I’m very damn wet!” he said aloud to the sun-dial.
+
+
+      HISTORICAL
+
+      The war began in the summer following his freshman year. Beyond a
+      sporting interest in the German dash for Paris the whole affair
+      failed either to thrill or interest him. With the attitude he
+      might have held toward an amusing melodrama he hoped it would be
+      long and bloody. If it had not continued he would have felt like
+      an irate ticket-holder at a prize-fight where the principals
+      refused to mix it up.
+
+      That was his total reaction.
+
+
+      “HA-HA HORTENSE!”
+
+      “All right, ponies!”
+
+      “Shake it up!”
+
+      “Hey, ponies—how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a
+      mean hip?”
+
+      “Hey, _ponies!_”
+
+      The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club president,
+      glowering with anxiety, varied between furious bursts of
+      authority and fits of temperamental lassitude, when he sat
+      spiritless and wondered how the devil the show was ever going on
+      tour by Christmas.
+
+      “All right. We’ll take the pirate song.”
+
+      The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and slumped into
+      place; the leading lady rushed into the foreground, setting his
+      hands and feet in an atmospheric mince; and as the coach clapped
+      and stamped and tumped and da-da’d, they hashed out a dance.
+
+      A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It gave a
+      musical comedy every year, travelling with cast, chorus,
+      orchestra, and scenery all through Christmas vacation. The play
+      and music were the work of undergraduates, and the club itself
+      was the most influential of institutions, over three hundred men
+      competing for it every year.
+
+      Amory, after an easy victory in the first sophomore Princetonian
+      competition, stepped into a vacancy of the cast as Boiling Oil, a
+      Pirate Lieutenant. Every night for the last week they had
+      rehearsed “Ha-Ha Hortense!” in the Casino, from two in the
+      afternoon until eight in the morning, sustained by dark and
+      powerful coffee, and sleeping in lectures through the interim. A
+      rare scene, the Casino. A big, barnlike auditorium, dotted with
+      boys as girls, boys as pirates, boys as babies; the scenery in
+      course of being violently set up; the spotlight man rehearsing by
+      throwing weird shafts into angry eyes; over all the constant
+      tuning of the orchestra or the cheerful tumpty-tump of a Triangle
+      tune. The boy who writes the lyrics stands in the corner, biting
+      a pencil, with twenty minutes to think of an encore; the business
+      manager argues with the secretary as to how much money can be
+      spent on “those damn milkmaid costumes”; the old graduate,
+      president in ninety-eight, perches on a box and thinks how much
+      simpler it was in his day.
+
+      How a Triangle show ever got off was a mystery, but it was a
+      riotous mystery, anyway, whether or not one did enough service to
+      wear a little gold Triangle on his watch-chain. “Ha-Ha Hortense!”
+      was written over six times and had the names of nine
+      collaborators on the programme. All Triangle shows started by
+      being “something different—not just a regular musical comedy,”
+      but when the several authors, the president, the coach and the
+      faculty committee finished with it, there remained just the old
+      reliable Triangle show with the old reliable jokes and the star
+      comedian who got expelled or sick or something just before the
+      trip, and the dark-whiskered man in the pony-ballet, who
+      “absolutely won’t shave twice a day, doggone it!”
+
+      There was one brilliant place in “Ha-Ha Hortense!” It is a
+      Princeton tradition that whenever a Yale man who is a member of
+      the widely advertised “Skull and Bones” hears the sacred name
+      mentioned, he must leave the room. It is also a tradition that
+      the members are invariably successful in later life, amassing
+      fortunes or votes or coupons or whatever they choose to amass.
+      Therefore, at each performance of “Ha-Ha Hortense!” half-a-dozen
+      seats were kept from sale and occupied by six of the
+      worst-looking vagabonds that could be hired from the streets,
+      further touched up by the Triangle make-up man. At the moment in
+      the show where Firebrand, the Pirate Chief, pointed at his black
+      flag and said, “I am a Yale graduate—note my Skull and Bones!”—at
+      this very moment the six vagabonds were instructed to rise
+      _conspicuously_ and leave the theatre with looks of deep
+      melancholy and an injured dignity. It was claimed though never
+      proved that on one occasion the hired Elis were swelled by one of
+      the real thing.
+
+      They played through vacation to the fashionable of eight cities.
+      Amory liked Louisville and Memphis best: these knew how to meet
+      strangers, furnished extraordinary punch, and flaunted an
+      astonishing array of feminine beauty. Chicago he approved for a
+      certain verve that transcended its loud accent—however, it was a
+      Yale town, and as the Yale Glee Club was expected in a week the
+      Triangle received only divided homage. In Baltimore, Princeton
+      was at home, and every one fell in love. There was a proper
+      consumption of strong waters all along the line; one man
+      invariably went on the stage highly stimulated, claiming that his
+      particular interpretation of the part required it. There were
+      three private cars; however, no one slept except in the third
+      car, which was called the “animal car,” and where were herded the
+      spectacled wind-jammers of the orchestra. Everything was so
+      hurried that there was no time to be bored, but when they arrived
+      in Philadelphia, with vacation nearly over, there was rest in
+      getting out of the heavy atmosphere of flowers and grease-paint,
+      and the ponies took off their corsets with abdominal pains and
+      sighs of relief.
+
+      When the disbanding came, Amory set out post haste for
+      Minneapolis, for Sally Weatherby’s cousin, Isabelle Borge, was
+      coming to spend the winter in Minneapolis while her parents went
+      abroad. He remembered Isabelle only as a little girl with whom he
+      had played sometimes when he first went to Minneapolis. She had
+      gone to Baltimore to live—but since then she had developed a
+      past.
+
+      Amory was in full stride, confident, nervous, and jubilant.
+      Scurrying back to Minneapolis to see a girl he had known as a
+      child seemed the interesting and romantic thing to do, so without
+      compunction he wired his mother not to expect him... sat in the
+      train, and thought about himself for thirty-six hours.
+
+
+      “PETTING”
+
+      On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with
+      that great current American phenomenon, the “petting party.”
+
+      None of the Victorian mothers—and most of the mothers were
+      Victorian—had any idea how casually their daughters were
+      accustomed to be kissed. “Servant-girls are that way,” says Mrs.
+      Huston-Carmelite to her popular daughter. “They are kissed first
+      and proposed to afterward.”
+
+      But the Popular Daughter becomes engaged every six months between
+      sixteen and twenty-two, when she arranges a match with young
+      Hambell, of Cambell & Hambell, who fatuously considers himself
+      her first love, and between engagements the P. D. (she is
+      selected by the cut-in system at dances, which favors the
+      survival of the fittest) has other sentimental last kisses in the
+      moonlight, or the firelight, or the outer darkness.
+
+      Amory saw girls doing things that even in his memory would have
+      been impossible: eating three-o’clock, after-dance suppers in
+      impossible cafes, talking of every side of life with an air half
+      of earnestness, half of mockery, yet with a furtive excitement
+      that Amory considered stood for a real moral let-down. But he
+      never realized how wide-spread it was until he saw the cities
+      between New York and Chicago as one vast juvenile intrigue.
+
+      Afternoon at the Plaza, with winter twilight hovering outside and
+      faint drums down-stairs... they strut and fret in the lobby,
+      taking another cocktail, scrupulously attired and waiting. Then
+      the swinging doors revolve and three bundles of fur mince in. The
+      theatre comes afterward; then a table at the Midnight Frolic—of
+      course, mother will be along there, but she will serve only to
+      make things more secretive and brilliant as she sits in solitary
+      state at the deserted table and thinks such entertainments as
+      this are not half so bad as they are painted, only rather
+      wearying. But the P. D. is in love again... it was odd, wasn’t
+      it?—that though there was so much room left in the taxi the P. D.
+      and the boy from Williams were somehow crowded out and had to go
+      in a separate car. Odd! Didn’t you notice how flushed the P. D.
+      was when she arrived just seven minutes late? But the P. D. “gets
+      away with it.”
+
+      The “belle” had become the “flirt,” the “flirt” had become the
+      “baby vamp.” The “belle” had five or six callers every afternoon.
+      If the P. D., by some strange accident, has two, it is made
+      pretty uncomfortable for the one who hasn’t a date with her. The
+      “belle” was surrounded by a dozen men in the intermissions
+      between dances. Try to find the P. D. between dances, just _try_
+      to find her.
+
+      The same girl... deep in an atmosphere of jungle music and the
+      questioning of moral codes. Amory found it rather fascinating to
+      feel that any popular girl he met before eight he might quite
+      possibly kiss before twelve.
+
+      “Why on earth are we here?” he asked the girl with the green
+      combs one night as they sat in some one’s limousine, outside the
+      Country Club in Louisville.
+
+      “I don’t know. I’m just full of the devil.”
+
+      “Let’s be frank—we’ll never see each other again. I wanted to
+      come out here with you because I thought you were the
+      best-looking girl in sight. You really don’t care whether you
+      ever see me again, do you?”
+
+      “No—but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to
+      deserve it?”
+
+      “And you didn’t feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of
+      the things you said? You just wanted to be—”
+
+      “Oh, let’s go in,” she interrupted, “if you want to _analyze_.
+      Let’s not _talk_ about it.”
+
+      When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, Amory, in a
+      burst of inspiration, named them “petting shirts.” The name
+      travelled from coast to coast on the lips of parlor-snakes and P.
+      D.’s.
+
+
+      DESCRIPTIVE
+
+      Amory was now eighteen years old, just under six feet tall and
+      exceptionally, but not conventionally, handsome. He had rather a
+      young face, the ingenuousness of which was marred by the
+      penetrating green eyes, fringed with long dark eyelashes. He
+      lacked somehow that intense animal magnetism that so often
+      accompanies beauty in men or women; his personality seemed rather
+      a mental thing, and it was not in his power to turn it on and off
+      like a water-faucet. But people never forgot his face.
+
+
+      ISABELLE
+
+      She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed
+      to divers on spring-boards, leading ladies on opening nights, and
+      lumpy, husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded
+      through her. She should have descended to a burst of drums or a
+      discordant blend of themes from “Thais” and “Carmen.” She had
+      never been so curious about her appearance, she had never been so
+      satisfied with it. She had been sixteen years old for six months.
+
+      “Isabelle!” called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the
+      dressing-room.
+
+      “I’m ready.” She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her
+      throat.
+
+      “I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers.
+      It’ll be just a minute.”
+
+      Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the
+      mirror, but something decided her to stand there and gaze down
+      the broad stairs of the Minnehaha Club. They curved
+      tantalizingly, and she could catch just a glimpse of two pairs of
+      masculine feet in the hall below. Pump-shod in uniform black,
+      they gave no hint of identity, but she wondered eagerly if one
+      pair were attached to Amory Blaine. This young man, not as yet
+      encountered, had nevertheless taken up a considerable part of her
+      day—the first day of her arrival. Coming up in the machine from
+      the station, Sally had volunteered, amid a rain of question,
+      comment, revelation, and exaggeration:
+
+      “You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. Well, he’s simply mad to
+      see you again. He’s stayed over a day from college, and he’s
+      coming to-night. He’s heard so much about you—says he remembers
+      your eyes.”
+
+      This had pleased Isabelle. It put them on equal terms, although
+      she was quite capable of staging her own romances, with or
+      without advance advertising. But following her happy tremble of
+      anticipation, came a sinking sensation that made her ask:
+
+      “How do you mean he’s heard about me? What sort of things?”
+
+      Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with
+      her more exotic cousin.
+
+      “He knows you’re—you’re considered beautiful and all that”—she
+      paused—“and I guess he knows you’ve been kissed.”
+
+      At this Isabelle’s little fist had clinched suddenly under the
+      fur robe. She was accustomed to be thus followed by her desperate
+      past, and it never failed to rouse in her the same feeling of
+      resentment; yet—in a strange town it was an advantageous
+      reputation. She was a “Speed,” was she? Well—let them find out.
+
+      Out of the window Isabelle watched the snow glide by in the
+      frosty morning. It was ever so much colder here than in
+      Baltimore; she had not remembered; the glass of the side door was
+      iced, the windows were shirred with snow in the corners. Her mind
+      played still with one subject. Did _he_ dress like that boy
+      there, who walked calmly down a bustling business street, in
+      moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How very _Western!_ Of
+      course he wasn’t that way: he went to Princeton, was a sophomore
+      or something. Really she had no distinct idea of him. An ancient
+      snap-shot she had preserved in an old kodak book had impressed
+      her by the big eyes (which he had probably grown up to by now).
+      However, in the last month, when her winter visit to Sally had
+      been decided on, he had assumed the proportions of a worthy
+      adversary. Children, most astute of match-makers, plot their
+      campaigns quickly, and Sally had played a clever correspondence
+      sonata to Isabelle’s excitable temperament. Isabelle had been for
+      some time capable of very strong, if very transient emotions....
+
+      They drew up at a spreading, white-stone building, set back from
+      the snowy street. Mrs. Weatherby greeted her warmly and her
+      various younger cousins were produced from the corners where they
+      skulked politely. Isabelle met them tactfully. At her best she
+      allied all with whom she came in contact—except older girls and
+      some women. All the impressions she made were conscious. The
+      half-dozen girls she renewed acquaintance with that morning were
+      all rather impressed and as much by her direct personality as by
+      her reputation. Amory Blaine was an open subject. Evidently a bit
+      light of love, neither popular nor unpopular—every girl there
+      seemed to have had an affair with him at some time or other, but
+      no one volunteered any really useful information. He was going to
+      fall for her.... Sally had published that information to her
+      young set and they were retailing it back to Sally as fast as
+      they set eyes on Isabelle. Isabelle resolved secretly that she
+      would, if necessary, _force_ herself to like him—she owed it to
+      Sally. Suppose she were terribly disappointed. Sally had painted
+      him in such glowing colors—he was good-looking, “sort of
+      distinguished, when he wants to be,” had a line, and was properly
+      inconstant. In fact, he summed up all the romance that her age
+      and environment led her to desire. She wondered if those were his
+      dancing-shoes that fox-trotted tentatively around the soft rug
+      below.
+
+      All impressions and, in fact, all ideas were extremely
+      kaleidoscopic to Isabelle. She had that curious mixture of the
+      social and the artistic temperaments found often in two classes,
+      society women and actresses. Her education or, rather, her
+      sophistication, had been absorbed from the boys who had dangled
+      on her favor; her tact was instinctive, and her capacity for
+      love-affairs was limited only by the number of the susceptible
+      within telephone distance. Flirt smiled from her large
+      black-brown eyes and shone through her intense physical
+      magnetism.
+
+      So she waited at the head of the stairs that evening while
+      slippers were fetched. Just as she was growing impatient, Sally
+      came out of the dressing-room, beaming with her accustomed good
+      nature and high spirits, and together they descended to the floor
+      below, while the shifting search-light of Isabelle’s mind flashed
+      on two ideas: she was glad she had high color to-night, and she
+      wondered if he danced well.
+
+      Down-stairs, in the club’s great room, she was surrounded for a
+      moment by the girls she had met in the afternoon, then she heard
+      Sally’s voice repeating a cycle of names, and found herself
+      bowing to a sextet of black and white, terribly stiff, vaguely
+      familiar figures. The name Blaine figured somewhere, but at first
+      she could not place him. A very confused, very juvenile moment of
+      awkward backings and bumpings followed, and every one found
+      himself talking to the person he least desired to. Isabelle
+      manoeuvred herself and Froggy Parker, freshman at Harvard, with
+      whom she had once played hop-scotch, to a seat on the stairs. A
+      humorous reference to the past was all she needed. The things
+      Isabelle could do socially with one idea were remarkable. First,
+      she repeated it rapturously in an enthusiastic contralto with a
+      soupcon of Southern accent; then she held it off at a distance
+      and smiled at it—her wonderful smile; then she delivered it in
+      variations and played a sort of mental catch with it, all this in
+      the nominal form of dialogue. Froggy was fascinated and quite
+      unconscious that this was being done, not for him, but for the
+      green eyes that glistened under the shining carefully watered
+      hair, a little to her left, for Isabelle had discovered Amory. As
+      an actress even in the fullest flush of her own conscious
+      magnetism gets a deep impression of most of the people in the
+      front row, so Isabelle sized up her antagonist. First, he had
+      auburn hair, and from her feeling of disappointment she knew that
+      she had expected him to be dark and of garter-advertisement
+      slenderness.... For the rest, a faint flush and a straight,
+      romantic profile; the effect set off by a close-fitting dress
+      suit and a silk ruffled shirt of the kind that women still
+      delight to see men wear, but men were just beginning to get tired
+      of.
+
+      During this inspection Amory was quietly watching.
+
+      “Don’t _you_ think so?” she said suddenly, turning to him,
+      innocent-eyed.
+
+      There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table.
+      Amory struggled to Isabelle’s side, and whispered:
+
+      “You’re my dinner partner, you know. We’re all coached for each
+      other.”
+
+      Isabelle gasped—this was rather right in line. But really she
+      felt as if a good speech had been taken from the star and given
+      to a minor character.... She mustn’t lose the leadership a bit.
+      The dinner-table glittered with laughter at the confusion of
+      getting places and then curious eyes were turned on her, sitting
+      near the head. She was enjoying this immensely, and Froggy Parker
+      was so engrossed with the added sparkle of her rising color that
+      he forgot to pull out Sally’s chair, and fell into a dim
+      confusion. Amory was on the other side, full of confidence and
+      vanity, gazing at her in open admiration. He began directly, and
+      so did Froggy:
+
+      “I’ve heard a lot about you since you wore braids—”
+
+      “Wasn’t it funny this afternoon—”
+
+      Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always
+      enough answer for any one, but she decided to speak.
+
+      “How—from whom?”
+
+      “From everybody—for all the years since you’ve been away.” She
+      blushed appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_
+      already, although he hadn’t quite realized it.
+
+      “I’ll tell you what I remembered about you all these years,”
+      Amory continued. She leaned slightly toward him and looked
+      modestly at the celery before her. Froggy sighed—he knew Amory,
+      and the situations that Amory seemed born to handle. He turned to
+      Sally and asked her if she was going away to school next year.
+      Amory opened with grape-shot.
+
+      “I’ve got an adjective that just fits you.” This was one of his
+      favorite starts—he seldom had a word in mind, but it was a
+      curiosity provoker, and he could always produce something
+      complimentary if he got in a tight corner.
+
+      “Oh—what?” Isabelle’s face was a study in enraptured curiosity.
+
+      Amory shook his head.
+
+      “I don’t know you very well yet.”
+
+      “Will you tell me—afterward?” she half whispered.
+
+      He nodded.
+
+      “We’ll sit out.”
+
+      Isabelle nodded.
+
+      “Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?” she said.
+
+      Amory attempted to make them look even keener. He fancied, but he
+      was not sure, that her foot had just touched his under the table.
+      But it might possibly have been only the table leg. It was so
+      hard to tell. Still it thrilled him. He wondered quickly if there
+      would be any difficulty in securing the little den up-stairs.
+
+
+      BABES IN THE WOODS
+
+      Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent, nor were they
+      particularly brazen. Moreover, amateur standing had very little
+      value in the game they were playing, a game that would presumably
+      be her principal study for years to come. She had begun as he
+      had, with good looks and an excitable temperament, and the rest
+      was the result of accessible popular novels and dressing-room
+      conversation culled from a slightly older set. Isabelle had
+      walked with an artificial gait at nine and a half, and when her
+      eyes, wide and starry, proclaimed the ingenue most. Amory was
+      proportionately less deceived. He waited for the mask to drop
+      off, but at the same time he did not question her right to wear
+      it. She, on her part, was not impressed by his studied air of
+      blasé sophistication. She had lived in a larger city and had
+      slightly an advantage in range. But she accepted his pose—it was
+      one of the dozen little conventions of this kind of affair. He
+      was aware that he was getting this particular favor now because
+      she had been coached; he knew that he stood for merely the best
+      game in sight, and that he would have to improve his opportunity
+      before he lost his advantage. So they proceeded with an infinite
+      guile that would have horrified her parents.
+
+      After the dinner the dance began... smoothly. Smoothly?—boys cut
+      in on Isabelle every few feet and then squabbled in the corners
+      with: “You might let me get more than an inch!” and “She didn’t
+      like it either—she told me so next time I cut in.” It was
+      true—she told every one so, and gave every hand a parting
+      pressure that said: “You know that your dances are _making_ my
+      evening.”
+
+      But time passed, two hours of it, and the less subtle beaux had
+      better learned to focus their pseudo-passionate glances
+      elsewhere, for eleven o’clock found Isabelle and Amory sitting on
+      the couch in the little den off the reading-room up-stairs. She
+      was conscious that they were a handsome pair, and seemed to
+      belong distinctively in this seclusion, while lesser lights
+      fluttered and chattered down-stairs.
+
+      Boys who passed the door looked in enviously—girls who passed
+      only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves.
+
+      They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded
+      accounts of their progress since they had met last, and she had
+      listened to much she had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on
+      the Princetonian board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He
+      learned that some of the boys she went with in Baltimore were
+      “terrible speeds” and came to dances in states of artificial
+      stimulation; most of them were twenty or so, and drove alluring
+      red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have already flunked out of
+      various schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic
+      names that made him look at her admiringly. As a matter of fact,
+      Isabelle’s closer acquaintance with the universities was just
+      commencing. She had bowing acquaintance with a lot of young men
+      who thought she was a “pretty kid—worth keeping an eye on.” But
+      Isabelle strung the names into a fabrication of gayety that would
+      have dazzled a Viennese nobleman. Such is the power of young
+      contralto voices on sink-down sofas.
+
+      He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was
+      a difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored
+      self-confidence in men.
+
+      “Is Froggy a good friend of yours?” she asked.
+
+      “Rather—why?”
+
+      “He’s a bum dancer.”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his
+      arms.”
+
+      She appreciated this.
+
+      “You’re awfully good at sizing people up.”
+
+      Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people
+      for her. Then they talked about hands.
+
+      “You’ve got awfully nice hands,” she said. “They look as if you
+      played the piano. Do you?”
+
+      I have said they had reached a very definite stage—nay, more, a
+      very critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and
+      his train left at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and
+      suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to
+      hang heavy in his pocket.
+
+      “Isabelle,” he said suddenly, “I want to tell you something.”
+      They had been talking lightly about “that funny look in her
+      eyes,” and Isabelle knew from the change in his manner what was
+      coming—indeed, she had been wondering how soon it would come.
+      Amory reached above their heads and turned out the electric
+      light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red glow
+      that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. Then he
+      began:
+
+      “I don’t know whether or not you know what you—what I’m going to
+      say. Lordy, Isabelle—this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn’t.”
+
+      “I know,” said Isabelle softly.
+
+      “Maybe we’ll never meet again like this—I have darned hard luck
+      sometimes.” He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the
+      lounge, but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark.
+
+      “You’ll meet me again—silly.” There was just the slightest
+      emphasis on the last word—so that it became almost a term of
+      endearment. He continued a bit huskily:
+
+      “I’ve fallen for a lot of people—girls—and I guess you have,
+      too—boys, I mean, but, honestly, you—” he broke off suddenly and
+      leaned forward, chin on his hands: “Oh, what’s the use—you’ll go
+      your way and I suppose I’ll go mine.”
+
+      Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her
+      handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that
+      streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their
+      hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were
+      becoming more frequent and more delicious. Outside another stray
+      couple had come up and were experimenting on the piano in the
+      next room. After the usual preliminary of “chopsticks,” one of
+      them started “Babes in the Woods” and a light tenor carried the
+      words into the den:
+
+   “Give me your hand I’ll understand We’re off to slumberland.”
+
+      Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory’s hand
+      close over hers.
+
+      “Isabelle,” he whispered. “You know I’m mad about you. You _do_
+      give a darn about me.”
+
+      “Yes.”
+
+      “How much do you care—do you like any one better?”
+
+      “No.” He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that
+      he felt her breath against his cheek.
+
+      “Isabelle, I’m going back to college for six long months, and why
+      shouldn’t we—if I could only just have one thing to remember you
+      by—”
+
+      “Close the door....” Her voice had just stirred so that he half
+      wondered whether she had spoken at all. As he swung the door
+      softly shut, the music seemed quivering just outside.
+
+   “Moonlight is bright, Kiss me good night.”
+
+      What a wonderful song, she thought—everything was wonderful
+      to-night, most of all this romantic scene in the den, with their
+      hands clinging and the inevitable looming charmingly close. The
+      future vista of her life seemed an unending succession of scenes
+      like this: under moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs
+      of warm limousines and in low, cosy roadsters stopped under
+      sheltering trees—only the boy might change, and this one was so
+      nice. He took her hand softly. With a sudden movement he turned
+      it and, holding it to his lips, kissed the palm.
+
+      “Isabelle!” His whisper blended in the music, and they seemed to
+      float nearer together. Her breath came faster. “Can’t I kiss you,
+      Isabelle—Isabelle?” Lips half parted, she turned her head to him
+      in the dark. Suddenly the ring of voices, the sound of running
+      footsteps surged toward them. Quick as a flash Amory reached up
+      and turned on the light, and when the door opened and three boys,
+      the wrathy and dance-craving Froggy among them, rushed in, he was
+      turning over the magazines on the table, while she sat without
+      moving, serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted them with a
+      welcoming smile. But her heart was beating wildly, and she felt
+      somehow as if she had been deprived.
+
+      It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a dance, there was
+      a glance that passed between them—on his side despair, on hers
+      regret, and then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux
+      and the eternal cutting in.
+
+      At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her gravely, in the
+      midst of a small crowd assembled to wish him good-speed. For an
+      instant he lost his poise, and she felt a bit rattled when a
+      satirical voice from a concealed wit cried:
+
+      “Take her outside, Amory!” As he took her hand he pressed it a
+      little, and she returned the pressure as she had done to twenty
+      hands that evening—that was all.
+
+      At two o’clock back at the Weatherbys’ Sally asked her if she and
+      Amory had had a “time” in the den. Isabelle turned to her
+      quietly. In her eyes was the light of the idealist, the inviolate
+      dreamer of Joan-like dreams.
+
+      “No,” she answered. “I don’t do that sort of thing any more; he
+      asked me to, but I said no.”
+
+      As she crept in bed she wondered what he’d say in his special
+      delivery to-morrow. He had such a good-looking mouth—would she
+      ever—?
+
+      “Fourteen angels were watching o’er them,” sang Sally sleepily
+      from the next room.
+
+      “Damn!” muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious
+      lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously. “Damn!”
+
+
+      CARNIVAL
+
+      Amory, by way of the Princetonian, had arrived. The minor snobs,
+      finely balanced thermometers of success, warmed to him as the
+      club elections grew nigh, and he and Tom were visited by groups
+      of upper classmen who arrived awkwardly, balanced on the edge of
+      the furniture and talked of all subjects except the one of
+      absorbing interest. Amory was amused at the intent eyes upon him,
+      and, in case the visitors represented some club in which he was
+      not interested, took great pleasure in shocking them with
+      unorthodox remarks.
+
+      “Oh, let me see—” he said one night to a flabbergasted
+      delegation, “what club do you represent?”
+
+      With visitors from Ivy and Cottage and Tiger Inn he played the
+      “nice, unspoilt, ingenuous boy” very much at ease and quite
+      unaware of the object of the call.
+
+      When the fatal morning arrived, early in March, and the campus
+      became a document in hysteria, he slid smoothly into Cottage with
+      Alec Connage and watched his suddenly neurotic class with much
+      wonder.
+
+      There were fickle groups that jumped from club to club; there
+      were friends of two or three days who announced tearfully and
+      wildly that they must join the same club, nothing should separate
+      them; there were snarling disclosures of long-hidden grudges as
+      the Suddenly Prominent remembered snubs of freshman year. Unknown
+      men were elevated into importance when they received certain
+      coveted bids; others who were considered “all set” found that
+      they had made unexpected enemies, felt themselves stranded and
+      deserted, talked wildly of leaving college.
+
+      In his own crowd Amory saw men kept out for wearing green hats,
+      for being “a damn tailor’s dummy,” for having “too much pull in
+      heaven,” for getting drunk one night “not like a gentleman, by
+      God,” or for unfathomable secret reasons known to no one but the
+      wielders of the black balls.
+
+      This orgy of sociability culminated in a gigantic party at the
+      Nassau Inn, where punch was dispensed from immense bowls, and the
+      whole down-stairs became a delirious, circulating, shouting
+      pattern of faces and voices.
+
+      “Hi, Dibby—’gratulations!”
+
+      “Goo’ boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap.”
+
+      “Say, Kerry—”
+
+      “Oh, Kerry—I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!”
+      “Well, I didn’t go Cottage—the parlor-snakes’ delight.”
+
+      “They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid—Did he sign up
+      the first day?—oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a
+      bicycle—afraid it was a mistake.”
+
+      “How’d you get into Cap—you old roue?”
+
+      “’Gratulations!”
+
+      “’Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd.”
+
+      When the bar closed, the party broke up into groups and streamed,
+      singing, over the snow-clad campus, in a weird delusion that
+      snobbishness and strain were over at last, and that they could do
+      what they pleased for the next two years.
+
+      Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest
+      time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found
+      it; he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen
+      new-found friendships through the April afternoons.
+
+      Alec Connage came into his room one morning and woke him up into
+      the sunshine and peculiar glory of Campbell Hall shining in the
+      window.
+
+      “Wake up, Original Sin, and scrape yourself together. Be in front
+      of Renwick’s in half an hour. Somebody’s got a car.” He took the
+      bureau cover and carefully deposited it, with its load of small
+      articles, upon the bed.
+
+      “Where’d you get the car?” demanded Amory cynically.
+
+      “Sacred trust, but don’t be a critical goopher or you can’t go!”
+
+      “I think I’ll sleep,” Amory said calmly, resettling himself and
+      reaching beside the bed for a cigarette.
+
+      “Sleep!”
+
+      “Why not? I’ve got a class at eleven-thirty.”
+
+      “You damned gloom! Of course, if you don’t want to go to the
+      coast—”
+
+      With a bound Amory was out of bed, scattering the bureau cover’s
+      burden on the floor. The coast... he hadn’t seen it for years,
+      since he and his mother were on their pilgrimage.
+
+      “Who’s going?” he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.’s.
+
+      “Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and—oh
+      about five or six. Speed it up, kid!”
+
+      In ten minutes Amory was devouring cornflakes in Renwick’s, and
+      at nine-thirty they bowled happily out of town, headed for the
+      sands of Deal Beach.
+
+      “You see,” said Kerry, “the car belongs down there. In fact, it
+      was stolen from Asbury Park by persons unknown, who deserted it
+      in Princeton and left for the West. Heartless Humbird here got
+      permission from the city council to deliver it.”
+
+      “Anybody got any money?” suggested Ferrenby, turning around from
+      the front seat.
+
+      There was an emphatic negative chorus.
+
+      “That makes it interesting.”
+
+      “Money—what’s money? We can sell the car.”
+
+      “Charge him salvage or something.”
+
+      “How’re we going to get food?” asked Amory.
+
+      “Honestly,” answered Kerry, eying him reprovingly, “do you doubt
+      Kerry’s ability for three short days? Some people have lived on
+      nothing for years at a time. Read the Boy Scout Monthly.”
+
+      “Three days,” Amory mused, “and I’ve got classes.”
+
+      “One of the days is the Sabbath.”
+
+      “Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a
+      month and a half to go.”
+
+      “Throw him out!”
+
+      “It’s a long walk back.”
+
+      “Amory, you’re running it out, if I may coin a new phrase.”
+
+      “Hadn’t you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?”
+
+      Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the
+      scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow.
+
+   “Oh, winter’s rains and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows
+   and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses,
+   the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And
+   frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and
+   cover, Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
+   “The full streams feed on flower of—”
+
+      “What’s the matter, Amory? Amory’s thinking about poetry, about
+      the pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye.”
+
+      “No, I’m not,” he lied. “I’m thinking about the Princetonian. I
+      ought to make up to-night; but I can telephone back, I suppose.”
+
+      “Oh,” said Kerry respectfully, “these important men—”
+
+      Amory flushed and it seemed to him that Ferrenby, a defeated
+      competitor, winced a little. Of course, Kerry was only kidding,
+      but he really mustn’t mention the Princetonian.
+
+      It was a halcyon day, and as they neared the shore and the salt
+      breezes scurried by, he began to picture the ocean and long,
+      level stretches of sand and red roofs over blue sea. Then they
+      hurried through the little town and it all flashed upon his
+      consciousness to a mighty paean of emotion....
+
+      “Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!” he cried.
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “Let me out, quick—I haven’t seen it for eight years! Oh,
+      gentlefolk, stop the car!”
+
+      “What an odd child!” remarked Alec.
+
+      “I do believe he’s a bit eccentric.”
+
+      The car was obligingly drawn up at a curb, and Amory ran for the
+      boardwalk. First, he realized that the sea was blue and that
+      there was an enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and
+      roared—really all the banalities about the ocean that one could
+      realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were
+      banalities, he would have gaped in wonder.
+
+      “Now we’ll get lunch,” ordered Kerry, wandering up with the
+      crowd. “Come on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical.”
+
+      “We’ll try the best hotel first,” he went on, “and thence and so
+      forth.”
+
+      They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry
+      in sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table.
+
+      “Eight Bronxes,” commanded Alec, “and a club sandwich and
+      Juliennes. The food for one. Hand the rest around.”
+
+      Amory ate little, having seized a chair where he could watch the
+      sea and feel the rock of it. When luncheon was over they sat and
+      smoked quietly.
+
+      “What’s the bill?”
+
+      Some one scanned it.
+
+      “Eight twenty-five.”
+
+      “Rotten overcharge. We’ll give them two dollars and one for the
+      waiter. Kerry, collect the small change.”
+
+      The waiter approached, and Kerry gravely handed him a dollar,
+      tossed two dollars on the check, and turned away. They sauntered
+      leisurely toward the door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious
+      Ganymede.
+
+      “Some mistake, sir.”
+
+      Kerry took the bill and examined it critically.
+
+      “No mistake!” he said, shaking his head gravely, and, tearing it
+      into four pieces, he handed the scraps to the waiter, who was so
+      dumfounded that he stood motionless and expressionless while they
+      walked out.
+
+      “Won’t he send after us?”
+
+      “No,” said Kerry; “for a minute he’ll think we’re the
+      proprietor’s sons or something; then he’ll look at the check
+      again and call the manager, and in the meantime—”
+
+      They left the car at Asbury and street-car’d to Allenhurst, where
+      they investigated the crowded pavilions for beauty. At four there
+      were refreshments in a lunch-room, and this time they paid an
+      even smaller per cent on the total cost; something about the
+      appearance and savoir-faire of the crowd made the thing go, and
+      they were not pursued.
+
+      “You see, Amory, we’re Marxian Socialists,” explained Kerry. “We
+      don’t believe in property and we’re putting it to the great
+      test.”
+
+      “Night will descend,” Amory suggested.
+
+      “Watch, and put your trust in Holiday.”
+
+      They became jovial about five-thirty and, linking arms, strolled
+      up and down the boardwalk in a row, chanting a monotonous ditty
+      about the sad sea waves. Then Kerry saw a face in the crowd that
+      attracted him and, rushing off, reappeared in a moment with one
+      of the homeliest girls Amory had ever set eyes on. Her pale mouth
+      extended from ear to ear, her teeth projected in a solid wedge,
+      and she had little, squinty eyes that peeped ingratiatingly over
+      the side sweep of her nose. Kerry presented them formally.
+
+      “Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage,
+      Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine.”
+
+      The girl bobbed courtesies all around. Poor creature; Amory
+      supposed she had never before been noticed in her life—possibly
+      she was half-witted. While she accompanied them (Kerry had
+      invited her to supper) she said nothing which could
+      discountenance such a belief.
+
+      “She prefers her native dishes,” said Alec gravely to the waiter,
+      “but any coarse food will do.”
+
+      All through supper he addressed her in the most respectful
+      language, while Kerry made idiotic love to her on the other side,
+      and she giggled and grinned. Amory was content to sit and watch
+      the by-play, thinking what a light touch Kerry had, and how he
+      could transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and
+      contour. They all seemed to have the spirit of it more or less,
+      and it was a relaxation to be with them. Amory usually liked men
+      individually, yet feared them in crowds unless the crowd was
+      around him. He wondered how much each one contributed to the
+      party, for there was somewhat of a spiritual tax levied. Alec and
+      Kerry were the life of it, but not quite the centre. Somehow the
+      quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his impatient superciliousness,
+      were the centre.
+
+      Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed to Amory a
+      perfect type of aristocrat. He was slender but well-built—black
+      curly hair, straight features, and rather a dark skin. Everything
+      he said sounded intangibly appropriate. He possessed infinite
+      courage, an averagely good mind, and a sense of honor with a
+      clear charm and _noblesse oblige_ that varied it from
+      righteousness. He could dissipate without going to pieces, and
+      even his most bohemian adventures never seemed “running it out.”
+      People dressed like him, tried to talk as he did.... Amory
+      decided that he probably held the world back, but he wouldn’t
+      have changed him. ...
+
+      He differed from the healthy type that was essentially middle
+      class—he never seemed to perspire. Some people couldn’t be
+      familiar with a chauffeur without having it returned; Humbird
+      could have lunched at Sherry’s with a colored man, yet people
+      would have somehow known that it was all right. He was not a
+      snob, though he knew only half his class. His friends ranged from
+      the highest to the lowest, but it was impossible to “cultivate”
+      him. Servants worshipped him, and treated him like a god. He
+      seemed the eternal example of what the upper class tries to be.
+
+      “He’s like those pictures in the Illustrated London News of the
+      English officers who have been killed,” Amory had said to Alec.
+      “Well,” Alec had answered, “if you want to know the shocking
+      truth, his father was a grocery clerk who made a fortune in
+      Tacoma real estate and came to New York ten years ago.”
+
+      Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation.
+
+      This present type of party was made possible by the surging
+      together of the class after club elections—as if to make a last
+      desperate attempt to know itself, to keep together, to fight off
+      the tightening spirit of the clubs. It was a let-down from the
+      conventional heights they had all walked so rigidly.
+
+      After supper they saw Kaluka to the boardwalk, and then strolled
+      back along the beach to Asbury. The evening sea was a new
+      sensation, for all its color and mellow age was gone, and it
+      seemed the bleak waste that made the Norse sagas sad; Amory
+      thought of Kipling’s
+
+   “Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came.”
+
+      It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful.
+
+      Ten o’clock found them penniless. They had suppered greatly on
+      their last eleven cents and, singing, strolled up through the
+      casinos and lighted arches on the boardwalk, stopping to listen
+      approvingly to all band concerts. In one place Kerry took up a
+      collection for the French War Orphans which netted a dollar and
+      twenty cents, and with this they bought some brandy in case they
+      caught cold in the night. They finished the day in a
+      moving-picture show and went into solemn systematic roars of
+      laughter at an ancient comedy, to the startled annoyance of the
+      rest of the audience. Their entrance was distinctly strategic,
+      for each man as he entered pointed reproachfully at the one just
+      behind him. Sloane, bringing up the rear, disclaimed all
+      knowledge and responsibility as soon as the others were scattered
+      inside; then as the irate ticket-taker rushed in he followed
+      nonchalantly.
+
+      They reassembled later by the Casino and made arrangements for
+      the night. Kerry wormed permission from the watchman to sleep on
+      the platform and, having collected a huge pile of rugs from the
+      booths to serve as mattresses and blankets, they talked until
+      midnight, and then fell into a dreamless sleep, though Amory
+      tried hard to stay awake and watch that marvellous moon settle on
+      the sea.
+
+      So they progressed for two happy days, up and down the shore by
+      street-car or machine, or by shoe-leather on the crowded
+      boardwalk; sometimes eating with the wealthy, more frequently
+      dining frugally at the expense of an unsuspecting restaurateur.
+      They had their photos taken, eight poses, in a quick-development
+      store. Kerry insisted on grouping them as a “varsity” football
+      team, and then as a tough gang from the East Side, with their
+      coats inside out, and himself sitting in the middle on a
+      cardboard moon. The photographer probably has them yet—at least,
+      they never called for them. The weather was perfect, and again
+      they slept outside, and again Amory fell unwillingly asleep.
+
+      Sunday broke stolid and respectable, and even the sea seemed to
+      mumble and complain, so they returned to Princeton via the Fords
+      of transient farmers, and broke up with colds in their heads, but
+      otherwise none the worse for wandering.
+
+      Even more than in the year before, Amory neglected his work, not
+      deliberately but lazily and through a multitude of other
+      interests. Co-ordinate geometry and the melancholy hexameters of
+      Corneille and Racine held forth small allurements, and even
+      psychology, which he had eagerly awaited, proved to be a dull
+      subject full of muscular reactions and biological phrases rather
+      than the study of personality and influence. That was a noon
+      class, and it always sent him dozing. Having found that
+      “subjective and objective, sir,” answered most of the questions,
+      he used the phrase on all occasions, and it became the class joke
+      when, on a query being levelled at him, he was nudged awake by
+      Ferrenby or Sloane to gasp it out.
+
+      Mostly there were parties—to Orange or the Shore, more rarely to
+      New York and Philadelphia, though one night they marshalled
+      fourteen waitresses out of Childs’ and took them to ride down
+      Fifth Avenue on top of an auto bus. They all cut more classes
+      than were allowed, which meant an additional course the following
+      year, but spring was too rare to let anything interfere with
+      their colorful ramblings. In May Amory was elected to the
+      Sophomore Prom Committee, and when after a long evening’s
+      discussion with Alec they made out a tentative list of class
+      probabilities for the senior council, they placed themselves
+      among the surest. The senior council was composed presumably of
+      the eighteen most representative seniors, and in view of Alec’s
+      football managership and Amory’s chance of nosing out Burne
+      Holiday as Princetonian chairman, they seemed fairly justified in
+      this presumption. Oddly enough, they both placed D’Invilliers as
+      among the possibilities, a guess that a year before the class
+      would have gaped at.
+
+      All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent
+      correspondence with Isabelle Borge, punctuated by violent
+      squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts to find new words
+      for love. He discovered Isabelle to be discreetly and
+      aggravatingly unsentimental in letters, but he hoped against hope
+      that she would prove not too exotic a bloom to fit the large
+      spaces of spring as she had fitted the den in the Minnehaha Club.
+      During May he wrote thirty-page documents almost nightly, and
+      sent them to her in bulky envelopes exteriorly labelled “Part I”
+      and “Part II.”
+
+      “Oh, Alec, I believe I’m tired of college,” he said sadly, as
+      they walked the dusk together.
+
+      “I think I am, too, in a way.”
+
+      “All I’d like would be a little home in the country, some warm
+      country, and a wife, and just enough to do to keep from rotting.”
+
+      “Me, too.”
+
+      “I’d like to quit.”
+
+      “What does your girl say?”
+
+      “Oh!” Amory gasped in horror. “She wouldn’t _think_ of
+      marrying... that is, not now. I mean the future, you know.”
+
+      “My girl would. I’m engaged.”
+
+      “Are you really?”
+
+      “Yes. Don’t say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not
+      come back next year.”
+
+      “But you’re only twenty! Give up college?”
+
+      “Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago—”
+
+      “Yes,” Amory interrupted, “but I was just wishing. I wouldn’t
+      think of leaving college. It’s just that I feel so sad these
+      wonderful nights. I sort of feel they’re never coming again, and
+      I’m not really getting all I could out of them. I wish my girl
+      lived here. But marry—not a chance. Especially as father says the
+      money isn’t forthcoming as it used to be.”
+
+      “What a waste these nights are!” agreed Alec.
+
+      But Amory sighed and made use of the nights. He had a snap-shot
+      of Isabelle, enshrined in an old watch, and at eight almost every
+      night he would turn off all the lights except the desk lamp and,
+      sitting by the open windows with the picture before him, write
+      her rapturous letters.
+
+ ... Oh it’s so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I think
+ about you so much; you’ve gotten to mean to me a _dream_ that I can’t
+ put on paper any more.  Your last letter came and it was wonderful!  I
+ read it over about six times, especially the last part, but I do wish,
+ sometimes, you’d be more _frank_ and tell me what you really do think
+ of me, yet your last letter was too good to be true, and I can hardly
+ wait until June!  Be sure and be able to come to the prom.  It’ll be
+ fine, I think, and I want to bring _you_ just at the end of a
+ wonderful year.  I often think over what you said on that night and
+ wonder how much you meant.  If it were anyone but you—but you see I
+ _thought_ you were fickle the first time I saw you and you are so
+ popular and everthing that I can’t imagine you really liking me
+ _best_.
+  Oh, Isabelle, dear—it’s a wonderful night.  Somebody is playing “Love
+  Moon” on a mandolin far across the campus, and the music seems to
+  bring you into the window.  Now he’s playing “Good-by, Boys, I’m
+  Through,” and how well it suits me.  For I am through with
+  everything.  I have decided never to take a cocktail again, and I
+  know I’ll never again fall in love—I couldn’t—you’ve been too much a
+  part of my days and nights to ever let me think of another girl.  I
+  meet them all the time and they don’t interest me. I’m not pretending
+  to be blasé, because it’s not that.  It’s just that I’m in love.  Oh,
+  _dearest_ Isabelle (somehow I can’t call you just Isabelle, and I’m
+  afraid I’ll come out with the “dearest” before your family this
+  June), you’ve got to come to the prom, and then I’ll come up to your
+  house for a day and everything’ll be perfect....
+
+      And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them
+      infinitely charming, infinitely new.
+
+
+      June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that they could not
+      worry even about exams, but spent dreamy evenings on the court of
+      Cottage, talking of long subjects until the sweep of country
+      toward Stony Brook became a blue haze and the lilacs were white
+      around tennis-courts, and words gave way to silent cigarettes....
+      Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with song everywhere
+      around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street.
+
+      Tom D’Invilliers and Amory walked late in those days. A gambling
+      fever swept through the sophomore class and they bent over the
+      bones till three o’clock many a sultry night. After one session
+      they came out of Sloane’s room to find the dew fallen and the
+      stars old in the sky.
+
+      “Let’s borrow bicycles and take a ride,” Amory suggested.
+
+      “All right. I’m not a bit tired and this is almost the last night
+      of the year, really, because the prom stuff starts Monday.”
+
+      They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out
+      about half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road.
+
+      “What are you going to do this summer, Amory?”
+
+      “Don’t ask me—same old things, I suppose. A month or two in Lake
+      Geneva—I’m counting on you to be there in July, you know—then
+      there’ll be Minneapolis, and that means hundreds of summer hops,
+      parlor-snaking, getting bored—But oh, Tom,” he added suddenly,
+      “hasn’t this year been slick!”
+
+      “No,” declared Tom emphatically, a new Tom, clothed by Brooks,
+      shod by Franks, “I’ve won this game, but I feel as if I never
+      want to play another. You’re all right—you’re a rubber ball, and
+      somehow it suits you, but I’m sick of adapting myself to the
+      local snobbishness of this corner of the world. I want to go
+      where people aren’t barred because of the color of their neckties
+      and the roll of their coats.”
+
+      “You can’t, Tom,” argued Amory, as they rolled along through the
+      scattering night; “wherever you go now you’ll always
+      unconsciously apply these standards of ‘having it’ or ‘lacking
+      it.’ For better or worse we’ve stamped you; you’re a Princeton
+      type!”
+
+      “Well, then,” complained Tom, his cracked voice rising
+      plaintively, “why do I have to come back at all? I’ve learned all
+      that Princeton has to offer. Two years more of mere pedantry and
+      lying around a club aren’t going to help. They’re just going to
+      disorganize me, conventionalize me completely. Even now I’m so
+      spineless that I wonder how I get away with it.”
+
+      “Oh, but you’re missing the real point, Tom,” Amory interrupted.
+      “You’ve just had your eyes opened to the snobbishness of the
+      world in a rather abrupt manner. Princeton invariably gives the
+      thoughtful man a social sense.”
+
+      “You consider you taught me that, don’t you?” he asked
+      quizzically, eying Amory in the half dark.
+
+      Amory laughed quietly.
+
+      “Didn’t I?”
+
+      “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I think you’re my bad angel. I
+      might have been a pretty fair poet.”
+
+      “Come on, that’s rather hard. You chose to come to an Eastern
+      college. Either your eyes were opened to the mean scrambling
+      quality of people, or you’d have gone through blind, and you’d
+      hate to have done that—been like Marty Kaye.”
+
+      “Yes,” he agreed, “you’re right. I wouldn’t have liked it. Still,
+      it’s hard to be made a cynic at twenty.”
+
+      “I was born one,” Amory murmured. “I’m a cynical idealist.” He
+      paused and wondered if that meant anything.
+
+      They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to
+      ride back.
+
+      “It’s good, this ride, isn’t it?” Tom said presently.
+
+      “Yes; it’s a good finish, it’s knock-out; everything’s good
+      to-night. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!”
+
+      “Oh, you and your Isabelle! I’ll bet she’s a simple one... let’s
+      say some poetry.”
+
+      So Amory declaimed “The Ode to a Nightingale” to the bushes they
+      passed.
+
+      “I’ll never be a poet,” said Amory as he finished. “I’m not
+      enough of a sensualist really; there are only a few obvious
+      things that I notice as primarily beautiful: women, spring
+      evenings, music at night, the sea; I don’t catch the subtle
+      things like ‘silver-snarling trumpets.’ I may turn out an
+      intellectual, but I’ll never write anything but mediocre poetry.”
+
+      They rode into Princeton as the sun was making colored maps of
+      the sky behind the graduate school, and hurried to the
+      refreshment of a shower that would have to serve in place of
+      sleep. By noon the bright-costumed alumni crowded the streets
+      with their bands and choruses, and in the tents there was great
+      reunion under the orange-and-black banners that curled and
+      strained in the wind. Amory looked long at one house which bore
+      the legend “Sixty-nine.” There a few gray-haired men sat and
+      talked quietly while the classes swept by in panorama of life.
+
+
+      UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT
+
+      Then tragedy’s emerald eyes glared suddenly at Amory over the
+      edge of June. On the night after his ride to Lawrenceville a
+      crowd sallied to New York in quest of adventure, and started back
+      to Princeton about twelve o’clock in two machines. It had been a
+      gay party and different stages of sobriety were represented.
+      Amory was in the car behind; they had taken the wrong road and
+      lost the way, and so were hurrying to catch up.
+
+      It was a clear night and the exhilaration of the road went to
+      Amory’s head. He had the ghost of two stanzas of a poem forming
+      in his mind. ...
+
+  So the gray car crept nightward in the dark and there was no life
+  stirred as it went by....  As the still ocean paths before the shark
+  in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon-swathed
+  trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping nightbirds cried across
+  the air....
+  A moment by an inn of lamps and shades, a yellow inn under a yellow
+  moon—then silence, where crescendo laughter fades... the car swung
+  out again to the winds of June, mellowed the shadows where the
+  distance grew, then crushed the yellow shadows into blue....
+
+      They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled. A woman was
+      standing beside the road, talking to Alec at the wheel. Afterward
+      he remembered the harpy effect that her old kimono gave her, and
+      the cracked hollowness of her voice as she spoke:
+
+      “You Princeton boys?”
+
+      “Yes.”
+
+      “Well, there’s one of you killed here, and two others about
+      dead.”
+
+      “_My God!_”
+
+      “Look!” She pointed and they gazed in horror. Under the full
+      light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a
+      widening circle of blood.
+
+      They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that
+      head—that hair—that hair... and then they turned the form over.
+
+      “It’s Dick—Dick Humbird!”
+
+      “Oh, Christ!”
+
+      “Feel his heart!”
+
+      Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking
+      triumph:
+
+      “He’s quite dead, all right. The car turned over. Two of the men
+      that weren’t hurt just carried the others in, but this one’s no
+      use.”
+
+      Amory rushed into the house and the rest followed with a limp
+      mass that they laid on the sofa in the shoddy little front
+      parlor. Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, was on another
+      lounge. He was half delirious, and kept calling something about a
+      chemistry lecture at 8:10.
+
+      “I don’t know what happened,” said Ferrenby in a strained voice.
+      “Dick was driving and he wouldn’t give up the wheel; we told him
+      he’d been drinking too much—then there was this damn curve—oh, my
+      _God!_...” He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke
+      into dry sobs.
+
+      The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the couch, where
+      some one handed him a sheet to put over the body. With a sudden
+      hardness, he raised one of the hands and let it fall back
+      inertly. The brow was cold but the face not expressionless. He
+      looked at the shoe-laces—Dick had tied them that morning. _He_
+      had tied them—and now he was this heavy white mass. All that
+      remained of the charm and personality of the Dick Humbird he had
+      known—oh, it was all so horrible and unaristocratic and close to
+      the earth. All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and
+      squalid—so useless, futile... the way animals die.... Amory was
+      reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of
+      his childhood.
+
+      “Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby.”
+
+      Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly at the late
+      night wind—a wind that stirred a broken fender on the mass of
+      bent metal to a plaintive, tinny sound.
+
+
+      CRESCENDO!
+
+      Next day, by a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. When Amory was
+      by himself his thoughts zigzagged inevitably to the picture of
+      that red mouth yawning incongruously in the white face, but with
+      a determined effort he piled present excitement upon the memory
+      of it and shut it coldly away from his mind.
+
+      Isabelle and her mother drove into town at four, and they rode up
+      smiling Prospect Avenue, through the gay crowd, to have tea at
+      Cottage. The clubs had their annual dinners that night, so at
+      seven he loaned her to a freshman and arranged to meet her in the
+      gymnasium at eleven, when the upper classmen were admitted to the
+      freshman dance. She was all he had expected, and he was happy and
+      eager to make that night the centre of every dream. At nine the
+      upper classes stood in front of the clubs as the freshman
+      torchlight parade rioted past, and Amory wondered if the
+      dress-suited groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and
+      under the flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to the
+      staring, cheering freshmen as it had been to him the year before.
+
+      The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a gay party of
+      six in a private dining-room at the club, while Isabelle and
+      Amory looked at each other tenderly over the fried chicken and
+      knew that their love was to be eternal. They danced away the prom
+      until five, and the stags cut in on Isabelle with joyous abandon,
+      which grew more and more enthusiastic as the hour grew late, and
+      their wines, stored in overcoat pockets in the coat room, made
+      old weariness wait until another day. The stag line is a most
+      homogeneous mass of men. It fairly sways with a single soul. A
+      dark-haired beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as
+      the ripple surges forward and some one sleeker than the rest
+      darts out and cuts in. Then when the six-foot girl (brought by
+      Kaye in your class, and to whom he has been trying to introduce
+      you all evening) gallops by, the line surges back and the groups
+      face about and become intent on far corners of the hall, for
+      Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd
+      in search of familiar faces.
+
+      “I say, old man, I’ve got an awfully nice—”
+
+      “Sorry, Kaye, but I’m set for this one. I’ve got to cut in on a
+      fella.”
+
+      “Well, the next one?”
+
+      “What—ah—er—I swear I’ve got to go cut in—look me up when she’s
+      got a dance free.”
+
+      It delighted Amory when Isabelle suggested that they leave for a
+      while and drive around in her car. For a delicious hour that
+      passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton and
+      talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement. Amory
+      felt strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss her.
+
+      Next day they rode up through the Jersey country, had luncheon in
+      New York, and in the afternoon went to see a problem play at
+      which Isabelle wept all through the second act, rather to Amory’s
+      embarrassment—though it filled him with tenderness to watch her.
+      He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears, and she
+      slipped her hand into his under cover of darkness to be pressed
+      softly.
+
+      Then at six they arrived at the Borges’ summer place on Long
+      Island, and Amory rushed up-stairs to change into a dinner coat.
+      As he put in his studs he realized that he was enjoying life as
+      he would probably never enjoy it again. Everything was hallowed
+      by the haze of his own youth. He had arrived, abreast of the best
+      in his generation at Princeton. He was in love and his love was
+      returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked at himself in the
+      mirror, trying to find in his own face the qualities that made
+      him see clearer than the great crowd of people, that made him
+      decide firmly, and able to influence and follow his own will.
+      There was little in his life now that he would have changed. ...
+      Oxford might have been a bigger field.
+
+      Silently he admired himself. How conveniently well he looked, and
+      how well a dinner coat became him. He stepped into the hall and
+      then waited at the top of the stairs, for he heard footsteps
+      coming. It was Isabelle, and from the top of her shining hair to
+      her little golden slippers she had never seemed so beautiful.
+
+      “Isabelle!” he cried, half involuntarily, and held out his arms.
+      As in the story-books, she ran into them, and on that
+      half-minute, as their lips first touched, rested the high point
+      of vanity, the crest of his young egotism.
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers
+
+
+      “Ouch! Let me go!”
+
+      He dropped his arms to his sides.
+
+      “What’s the matter?”
+
+      “Your shirt stud—it hurt me—look!” She was looking down at her
+      neck, where a little blue spot about the size of a pea marred its
+      pallor.
+
+      “Oh, Isabelle,” he reproached himself, “I’m a goopher. Really,
+      I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have held you so close.”
+
+      She looked up impatiently.
+
+      “Oh, Amory, of course you couldn’t help it, and it didn’t hurt
+      much; but what _are_ we going to do about it?”
+
+      “_Do_ about it?” he asked. “Oh—that spot; it’ll disappear in a
+      second.”
+
+      “It isn’t,” she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing,
+      “it’s still there—and it looks like Old Nick—oh, Amory, what’ll
+      we do! It’s _just_ the height of your shoulder.”
+
+      “Massage it,” he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination
+      to laugh.
+
+      She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, and then a
+      tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and slid down her cheek.
+
+      “Oh, Amory,” she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic
+      face, “I’ll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What’ll
+      I do?”
+
+      A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn’t resist repeating
+      it aloud.
+
+  “All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand.”
+
+      She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like
+      ice.
+
+      “You’re not very sympathetic.”
+
+      Amory mistook her meaning.
+
+      “Isabelle, darling, I think it’ll—”
+
+      “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Haven’t I enough on my mind and you
+      stand there and _laugh!_”
+
+      Then he slipped again.
+
+      “Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day
+      about a sense of humor being—”
+
+      She was looking at him with something that was not a smile,
+      rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of
+      her mouth.
+
+      “Oh, shut up!” she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway
+      toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful
+      confusion.
+
+      “Damn!”
+
+      When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her
+      shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that
+      endured through dinner.
+
+      “Isabelle,” he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves
+      in the car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club,
+      “you’re angry, and I’ll be, too, in a minute. Let’s kiss and make
+      up.”
+
+      Isabelle considered glumly.
+
+      “I hate to be laughed at,” she said finally.
+
+      “I won’t laugh any more. I’m not laughing now, am I?”
+
+      “You did.”
+
+      “Oh, don’t be so darned feminine.”
+
+      Her lips curled slightly.
+
+      “I’ll be anything I want.”
+
+      Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became aware that he
+      had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness
+      piqued him. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then
+      he knew he could leave in the morning and not care. On the
+      contrary, if he didn’t kiss her, it would worry him.... It would
+      interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. It
+      wasn’t dignified to come off second best, _pleading_, with a
+      doughty warrior like Isabelle.
+
+      Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night
+      that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with
+      great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens,
+      but without those broken words, those little sighs....
+
+      Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil’s food in the
+      pantry, and Amory announced a decision.
+
+      “I’m leaving early in the morning.”
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “Why not?” he countered.
+
+      “There’s no need.”
+
+      “However, I’m going.”
+
+      “Well, if you insist on being ridiculous—”
+
+      “Oh, don’t put it that way,” he objected.
+
+      “—just because I won’t let you kiss me. Do you think—”
+
+      “Now, Isabelle,” he interrupted, “you know it’s not that—even
+      suppose it is. We’ve reached the stage where we either ought to
+      kiss—or—or—nothing. It isn’t as if you were refusing on moral
+      grounds.”
+
+      She hesitated.
+
+      “I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a
+      feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.”
+
+      “How?”
+
+      “Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that;
+      remember you told me the other day that you could do anything you
+      wanted, or get anything you wanted?”
+
+      Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things.
+
+      “Yes.”
+
+      “Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe
+      you’re just plain conceited.”
+
+      “No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton—”
+
+      “Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way
+      you talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on
+      your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you’re
+      important—”
+
+      “You don’t understand—”
+
+      “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I _do_, because you’re always
+      talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.”
+
+      “Have I to-night?”
+
+      “That’s just the point,” insisted Isabelle. “You got all upset
+      to-night. You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to
+      think all the time I’m talking to you—you’re so critical.”
+
+      “I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity.
+
+      “You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you analyze
+      every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.”
+
+      “I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly.
+
+      “Let’s go.” She stood up.
+
+      He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs.
+
+      “What train can I get?”
+
+      “There’s one about 9:11 if you really must go.”
+
+      “Yes, I’ve got to go, really. Good night.”
+
+      “Good night.”
+
+      They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his
+      room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent
+      in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much
+      he cared—how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt
+      vanity—whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for
+      romance.
+
+      When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The
+      early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was
+      idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school
+      football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the
+      wall opposite. Then the grandfather’s clock in the hall outside
+      struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. He
+      was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the
+      house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy
+      happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at
+      half past, so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of
+      his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an
+      ironic mockery the morning seemed!—bright and sunny, and full of
+      the smell of the garden; hearing Mrs. Borge’s voice in the
+      sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle.
+
+      There was a knock at the door.
+
+      “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.”
+
+      He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began
+      repeating over and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning,
+      which he had once quoted to Isabelle in a letter:
+
+   “Each life unfulfilled, you see, It hangs still, patchy and scrappy;
+   We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted,
+   despaired—been happy.”
+
+      But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre
+      satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been
+      nothing except what he had read into her; that this was her high
+      point, that no one else would ever make her think. Yet that was
+      what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of
+      thinking, thinking!
+
+      “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she’s spoiled my year!”
+
+
+      THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS
+
+      On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in Princeton and joined
+      the sweltering crowd of conditioned men who thronged the streets.
+      It seemed a stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to
+      spend four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring
+      school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. Mr.
+      Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked
+      innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations
+      from six in the morning until midnight.
+
+      “Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point
+      be?”
+
+      Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material
+      and tries to concentrate.
+
+      “Oh—ah—I’m damned if I know, Mr. Rooney.”
+
+      “Oh, why of course, of course you can’t _use_ that formula.
+      _That’s_ what I wanted you to say.”
+
+      “Why, sure, of course.”
+
+      “Do you see why?”
+
+      “You bet—I suppose so.”
+
+      “If you don’t see, tell me. I’m here to show you.”
+
+      “Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d go over that
+      again.”
+
+      “Gladly. Now here’s ‘A’...”
+
+      The room was a study in stupidity—two huge stands for paper, Mr.
+      Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, and slouched around
+      on chairs, a dozen men: Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely
+      _had_ to get eligible; “Slim” Langueduc, who would beat Yale this
+      fall, if only he could master a poor fifty per cent; McDowell,
+      gay young sophomore, who thought it was quite a sporting thing to
+      be tutoring here with all these prominent athletes.
+
+      “Those poor birds who haven’t a cent to tutor, and have to study
+      during the term are the ones I pity,” he announced to Amory one
+      day, with a flaccid camaraderie in the droop of the cigarette
+      from his pale lips. “I should think it would be such a bore,
+      there’s so much else to do in New York during the term. I suppose
+      they don’t know what they miss, anyhow.” There was such an air of
+      “you and I” about Mr. McDowell that Amory very nearly pushed him
+      out of the open window when he said this. ... Next February his
+      mother would wonder why he didn’t make a club and increase his
+      allowance... simple little nut....
+
+      Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that
+      filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry:
+
+      “I don’t get it! Repeat that, Mr. Rooney!” Most of them were so
+      stupid or careless that they wouldn’t admit when they didn’t
+      understand, and Amory was of the latter. He found it impossible
+      to study conic sections; something in their calm and tantalizing
+      respectability breathing defiantly through Mr. Rooney’s fetid
+      parlors distorted their equations into insoluble anagrams. He
+      made a last night’s effort with the proverbial wet towel, and
+      then blissfully took the exam, wondering unhappily why all the
+      color and ambition of the spring before had faded out. Somehow,
+      with the defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success
+      had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a
+      possible failure to pass off his condition with equanimity, even
+      though it would arbitrarily mean his removal from the
+      Princetonian board and the slaughter of his chances for the
+      Senior Council.
+
+      There was always his luck.
+
+      He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered
+      from the room.
+
+      “If you don’t pass it,” said the newly arrived Alec as they sat
+      on the window-seat of Amory’s room and mused upon a scheme of
+      wall decoration, “you’re the world’s worst goopher. Your stock
+      will go down like an elevator at the club and on the campus.”
+
+      “Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?”
+
+      “’Cause you deserve it. Anybody that’d risk what you were in line
+      for _ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman.”
+
+      “Oh, drop the subject,” Amory protested. “Watch and wait and shut
+      up. I don’t want every one at the club asking me about it, as if
+      I were a prize potato being fattened for a vegetable show.” One
+      evening a week later Amory stopped below his own window on the
+      way to Renwick’s, and, seeing a light, called up:
+
+      “Oh, Tom, any mail?”
+
+      Alec’s head appeared against the yellow square of light.
+
+      “Yes, your result’s here.”
+
+      His heart clamored violently.
+
+      “What is it, blue or pink?”
+
+      “Don’t know. Better come up.”
+
+      He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then
+      suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room.
+
+      “’Lo, Kerry.” He was most polite. “Ah, men of Princeton.” They
+      seemed to be mostly friends, so he picked up the envelope marked
+      “Registrar’s Office,” and weighed it nervously.
+
+      “We have here quite a slip of paper.”
+
+      “Open it, Amory.”
+
+      “Just to be dramatic, I’ll let you know that if it’s blue, my
+      name is withdrawn from the editorial board of the Prince, and my
+      short career is over.”
+
+      He paused, and then saw for the first time Ferrenby’s eyes,
+      wearing a hungry look and watching him eagerly. Amory returned
+      the gaze pointedly.
+
+      “Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions.”
+
+      He tore it open and held the slip up to the light.
+
+      “Well?”
+
+      “Pink or blue?”
+
+      “Say what it is.”
+
+      “We’re all ears, Amory.”
+
+      “Smile or swear—or something.”
+
+      There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he
+      looked again and another crowd went on into time.
+
+      “Blue as the sky, gentlemen....”
+
+
+      AFTERMATH
+
+      What Amory did that year from early September to late in the
+      spring was so purposeless and inconsecutive that it seems
+      scarcely worth recording. He was, of course, immediately sorry
+      for what he had lost. His philosophy of success had tumbled down
+      upon him, and he looked for the reasons.
+
+      “Your own laziness,” said Alec later.
+
+      “No—something deeper than that. I’ve begun to feel that I was
+      meant to lose this chance.”
+
+      “They’re rather off you at the club, you know; every man that
+      doesn’t come through makes our crowd just so much weaker.”
+
+      “I hate that point of view.”
+
+      “Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a
+      comeback.”
+
+      “No—I’m through—as far as ever being a power in college is
+      concerned.”
+
+      “But, Amory, honestly, what makes me the angriest isn’t the fact
+      that you won’t be chairman of the Prince and on the Senior
+      Council, but just that you didn’t get down and pass that exam.”
+
+      “Not me,” said Amory slowly; “I’m mad at the concrete thing. My
+      own idleness was quite in accord with my system, but the luck
+      broke.”
+
+      “Your system broke, you mean.”
+
+      “Maybe.”
+
+      “Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just
+      bum around for two more years as a has-been?”
+
+      “I don’t know yet...”
+
+      “Oh, Amory, buck up!”
+
+      “Maybe.”
+
+      Amory’s point of view, though dangerous, was not far from the
+      true one. If his reactions to his environment could be tabulated,
+      the chart would have appeared like this, beginning with his
+      earliest years:
+
+ 1. The fundamental Amory.
+ 2. Amory plus Beatrice.
+ 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis.
+
+      Then St. Regis’ had pulled him to pieces and started him over
+      again:
+
+ 4. Amory plus St. Regis’.
+ 5. Amory plus St. Regis’ plus Princeton.
+
+      That had been his nearest approach to success through conformity.
+      The fundamental Amory, idle, imaginative, rebellious, had been
+      nearly snowed under. He had conformed, he had succeeded, but as
+      his imagination was neither satisfied nor grasped by his own
+      success, he had listlessly, half-accidentally chucked the whole
+      thing and become again:
+
+ 6. The fundamental Amory.
+
+
+      FINANCIAL
+
+      His father died quietly and inconspicuously at Thanksgiving. The
+      incongruity of death with either the beauties of Lake Geneva or
+      with his mother’s dignified, reticent attitude diverted him, and
+      he looked at the funeral with an amused tolerance. He decided
+      that burial was after all preferable to cremation, and he smiled
+      at his old boyhood choice, slow oxidation in the top of a tree.
+      The day after the ceremony he was amusing himself in the great
+      library by sinking back on a couch in graceful mortuary
+      attitudes, trying to determine whether he would, when his day
+      came, be found with his arms crossed piously over his chest
+      (Monsignor Darcy had once advocated this posture as being the
+      most distinguished), or with his hands clasped behind his head, a
+      more pagan and Byronic attitude.
+
+      What interested him much more than the final departure of his
+      father from things mundane was a tri-cornered conversation
+      between Beatrice, Mr. Barton, of Barton and Krogman, their
+      lawyers, and himself, that took place several days after the
+      funeral. For the first time he came into actual cognizance of the
+      family finances, and realized what a tidy fortune had once been
+      under his father’s management. He took a ledger labelled “1906”
+      and ran through it rather carefully. The total expenditure that
+      year had come to something over one hundred and ten thousand
+      dollars. Forty thousand of this had been Beatrice’s own income,
+      and there had been no attempt to account for it: it was all under
+      the heading, “Drafts, checks, and letters of credit forwarded to
+      Beatrice Blaine.” The dispersal of the rest was rather minutely
+      itemized: the taxes and improvements on the Lake Geneva estate
+      had come to almost nine thousand dollars; the general up-keep,
+      including Beatrice’s electric and a French car, bought that year,
+      was over thirty-five thousand dollars. The rest was fully taken
+      care of, and there were invariably items which failed to balance
+      on the right side of the ledger.
+
+      In the volume for 1912 Amory was shocked to discover the decrease
+      in the number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income.
+      In the case of Beatrice’s money this was not so pronounced, but
+      it was obvious that his father had devoted the previous year to
+      several unfortunate gambles in oil. Very little of the oil had
+      been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been rather badly singed. The
+      next year and the next and the next showed similar decreases, and
+      Beatrice had for the first time begun using her own money for
+      keeping up the house. Yet her doctor’s bill for 1913 had been
+      over nine thousand dollars.
+
+      About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and
+      confused. There had been recent investments, the outcome of which
+      was for the present problematical, and he had an idea there were
+      further speculations and exchanges concerning which he had not
+      been consulted.
+
+      It was not for several months that Beatrice wrote Amory the full
+      situation. The entire residue of the Blaine and O’Hara fortunes
+      consisted of the place at Lake Geneva and approximately a half
+      million dollars, invested now in fairly conservative six-per-cent
+      holdings. In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money
+      into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she could
+      conveniently transfer it.
+
+  “I am quite sure,” she wrote to Amory, “that if there is one thing we
+  can be positive of, it is that people will not stay in one place. 
+  This Ford person has certainly made the most of that idea.  So I am
+  instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such things as Northern
+  Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, as they call the
+  street-cars.  I shall never forgive myself for not buying Bethlehem
+  Steel.  I’ve heard the most fascinating stories.  You must go into
+  finance, Amory.  I’m sure you would revel in it. You start as a
+  messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you go up—almost
+  indefinitely.  I’m sure if I were a man I’d love the handling of
+  money; it has become quite a senile passion with me. Before I get any
+  farther I want to discuss something.  A Mrs. Bispam, an overcordial
+  little lady whom I met at a tea the other day, told me that her son,
+  he is at Yale, wrote her that all the boys there wore their summer
+  underwear all during the winter, and also went about with their heads
+  wet and in low shoes on the coldest days.  Now, Amory, I don’t know
+  whether that is a fad at Princeton too, but I don’t want you to be so
+  foolish.  It not only inclines a young man to pneumonia and infantile
+  paralysis, but to all forms of lung trouble, to which you are
+  particularly inclined.  You cannot experiment with your health.  I
+  have found that out.  I will not make myself ridiculous as some
+  mothers no doubt do, by insisting that you wear overshoes, though I
+  remember one Christmas you wore them around constantly without a
+  single buckle latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you
+  refused to buckle them because it was not the thing to do.  The very
+  next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I begged you. 
+  You are nearly twenty years old now, dear, and I can’t be with you
+  constantly to find whether you are doing the sensible thing.
+  “This has been a very _practical_ letter.  I warned you in my last
+  that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes one quite
+  prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for everything if we
+  are not too extravagant.  Take care of yourself, my dear boy, and do
+  try to write at least _once_ a week, because I imagine all sorts of
+  horrible things if I don’t hear from you. Affectionately,           
+  MOTHER.”
+
+
+      FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM “PERSONAGE”
+
+      Monsignor Darcy invited Amory up to the Stuart palace on the
+      Hudson for a week at Christmas, and they had enormous
+      conversations around the open fire. Monsignor was growing a
+      trifle stouter and his personality had expanded even with that,
+      and Amory felt both rest and security in sinking into a squat,
+      cushioned chair and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of a
+      cigar.
+
+      “I’ve felt like leaving college, Monsignor.”
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “All my career’s gone up in smoke; you think it’s petty and all
+      that, but—”
+
+      “Not at all petty. I think it’s most important. I want to hear
+      the whole thing. Everything you’ve been doing since I saw you
+      last.”
+
+      Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his
+      egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had
+      left his voice.
+
+      “What would you do if you left college?” asked Monsignor.
+
+      “Don’t know. I’d like to travel, but of course this tiresome war
+      prevents that. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate.
+      I’m just at sea. Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and
+      join the Lafayette Esquadrille.”
+
+      “You know you wouldn’t like to go.”
+
+      “Sometimes I would—to-night I’d go in a second.”
+
+      “Well, you’d have to be very much more tired of life than I think
+      you are. I know you.”
+
+      “I’m afraid you do,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “It just seemed an
+      easy way out of everything—when I think of another useless,
+      draggy year.”
+
+      “Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I’m not worried about
+      you; you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally.”
+
+      “No,” Amory objected. “I’ve lost half my personality in a year.”
+
+      “Not a bit of it!” scoffed Monsignor. “You’ve lost a great amount
+      of vanity and that’s all.”
+
+      “Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I’d gone through another fifth form
+      at St. Regis’s.”
+
+      “No.” Monsignor shook his head. “That was a misfortune; this has
+      been a good thing. Whatever worth while comes to you, won’t be
+      through the channels you were searching last year.”
+
+      “What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?”
+
+      “Perhaps in itself... but you’re developing. This has given you
+      time to think and you’re casting off a lot of your old luggage
+      about success and the superman and all. People like us can’t
+      adopt whole theories, as you did. If we can do the next thing,
+      and have an hour a day to think in, we can accomplish marvels,
+      but as far as any high-handed scheme of blind dominance is
+      concerned—we’d just make asses of ourselves.”
+
+      “But, Monsignor, I can’t do the next thing.”
+
+      “Amory, between you and me, I have only just learned to do it
+      myself. I can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing,
+      but I stub my toe on that, just as you stubbed your toe on
+      mathematics this fall.”
+
+      “Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of
+      thing I should do.”
+
+      “We have to do it because we’re not personalities, but
+      personages.”
+
+      “That’s a good line—what do you mean?”
+
+      “A personality is what you thought you were, what this Kerry and
+      Sloane you tell me of evidently are. Personality is a physical
+      matter almost entirely; it lowers the people it acts on—I’ve seen
+      it vanish in a long sickness. But while a personality is active,
+      it overrides ‘the next thing.’ Now a personage, on the other
+      hand, gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he’s done.
+      He’s a bar on which a thousand things have been hung—glittering
+      things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses those things with a
+      cold mentality back of them.”
+
+      “And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off
+      when I needed them.” Amory continued the simile eagerly.
+
+      “Yes, that’s it; when you feel that your garnered prestige and
+      talents and all that are hung out, you need never bother about
+      anybody; you can cope with them without difficulty.”
+
+      “But, on the other hand, if I haven’t my possessions, I’m
+      helpless!”
+
+      “Absolutely.”
+
+      “That’s certainly an idea.”
+
+      “Now you’ve a clean start—a start Kerry or Sloane can
+      constitutionally never have. You brushed three or four ornaments
+      down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them. The
+      thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look
+      ahead in the collecting the better. But remember, do the next
+      thing!”
+
+      “How clear you can make things!”
+
+      So they talked, often about themselves, sometimes of philosophy
+      and religion, and life as respectively a game or a mystery. The
+      priest seemed to guess Amory’s thoughts before they were clear in
+      his own head, so closely related were their minds in form and
+      groove.
+
+      “Why do I make lists?” Amory asked him one night. “Lists of all
+      sorts of things?”
+
+      “Because you’re a mediaevalist,” Monsignor answered. “We both
+      are. It’s the passion for classifying and finding a type.”
+
+      “It’s a desire to get something definite.”
+
+      “It’s the nucleus of scholastic philosophy.”
+
+      “I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up
+      here. It was a pose, I guess.”
+
+      “Don’t worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest
+      pose of all. Pose—”
+
+      “Yes?”
+
+      “But do the next thing.”
+
+      After Amory returned to college he received several letters from
+      Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption.
+
+  I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your inevitable
+  safety, and you must remember that I did that through faith in your
+  springs of effort; not in the silly conviction that you will arrive
+  without struggle.  Some nuances of character you will have to take
+  for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in confessing
+  them to others.  You are unsentimental, almost incapable of
+  affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being proud.
+  Don’t let yourself feel worthless; often through life you will really
+  be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself; and don’t
+  worry about losing your “personality,” as you persist in calling it;
+  at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will
+  begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon, and when you are
+  my age you will give out, as I do, the genial golden warmth of 4 P.M.
+  If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones.  Your last,
+  that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful— so “highbrow”
+  that I picture you living in an intellectual and emotional vacuum;
+  and beware of trying to classify people too definitely into types;
+  you will find that all through their youth they will persist
+  annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and by pasting a
+  supercilious label on every one you meet you are merely packing a
+  Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at you when you begin to
+  come into really antagonistic contact with the world.  An
+  idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da Vinci would be a more
+  valuable beacon to you at present.
+  You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, but do
+  keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to criticise
+  don’t blame yourself too much.
+  You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in this
+  “woman proposition”; but it’s more than that, Amory; it’s the fear
+  that what you begin you can’t stop; you would run amuck, and I know
+  whereof I speak; it’s that half-miraculous sixth sense by which you
+  detect evil, it’s the half-realized fear of God in your heart.
+  Whatever your metier proves to be—religion, architecture,
+  literature—I’m sure you would be much safer anchored to the Church,
+  but I won’t risk my influence by arguing with you even though I am
+  secretly sure that the “black chasm of Romanism” yawns beneath you. 
+  Do write me soon.
+    With affectionate regards,          THAYER DARCY.
+
+      Even Amory’s reading paled during this period; he delved further
+      into the misty side streets of literature: Huysmans, Walter
+      Pater, Theophile Gautier, and the racier sections of Rabelais,
+      Boccaccio, Petronius, and Suetonius. One week, through general
+      curiosity, he inspected the private libraries of his classmates
+      and found Sloane’s as typical as any: sets of Kipling, O. Henry,
+      John Fox, Jr., and Richard Harding Davis; “What Every Middle-Aged
+      Woman Ought to Know,” “The Spell of the Yukon”; a “gift” copy of
+      James Whitcomb Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated
+      schoolbooks, and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late
+      discoveries, the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.
+
+      Together with Tom D’Invilliers, he sought among the lights of
+      Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic
+      Tradition.
+
+      The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that
+      year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years
+      before. Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice
+      of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old
+      Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie.
+      Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears and a way of
+      saying, “The earth swirls down through the ominous moons of
+      preconsidered generations!” that made them vaguely wonder why it
+      did not sound quite clear, but never question that it was the
+      utterance of a supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him.
+      They told him in all earnestness that he had a mind like
+      Shelley’s, and featured his ultrafree free verse and prose poetry
+      in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But Tanaduke’s genius absorbed
+      the many colors of the age, and he took to the Bohemian life, to
+      their great disappointment. He talked of Greenwich Village now
+      instead of “noon-swirled moons,” and met winter muses,
+      unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and Broadway,
+      instead of the Shelleyan dream-children with whom he had regaled
+      their expectant appreciation. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the
+      futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better
+      there. Tom gave him the final advice that he should stop writing
+      for two years and read the complete works of Alexander Pope four
+      times, but on Amory’s suggestion that Pope for Tanaduke was like
+      foot-ease for stomach trouble, they withdrew in laughter, and
+      called it a coin’s toss whether this genius was too big or too
+      petty for them.
+
+      Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who
+      dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups
+      of admirers every night. He was disappointed, too, at the air of
+      general uncertainty on every subject that seemed linked with the
+      pedantic temperament; his opinions took shape in a miniature
+      satire called “In a Lecture-Room,” which he persuaded Tom to
+      print in the Nassau Lit.
+
+   “Good-morning, Fool... Three times a week You hold us helpless while
+   you speak, Teasing our thirsty souls with the Sleek ‘yeas’ of your
+   philosophy... Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, Tune up, play
+   on, pour forth... we sleep... You are a student, so they say; You
+   hammered out the other day A syllabus, from what we know Of some
+   forgotten folio; You’d sniffled through an era’s must, Filling your
+   nostrils up with dust, And then, arising from your knees, Published,
+   in one gigantic sneeze... But here’s a neighbor on my right, An
+   Eager Ass, considered bright; Asker of questions....  How he’ll
+   stand, With earnest air and fidgy hand, After this hour, telling you
+   He sat all night and burrowed through Your book....  Oh, you’ll be
+   coy and he Will simulate precosity, And pedants both, you’ll smile
+   and smirk, And leer, and hasten back to work....
+    ’Twas this day week, sir, you returned A theme of mine, from which
+    I learned (Through various comment on the side Which you had
+    scrawled) that I defied The _highest rules of criticism_ For
+    _cheap_ and _careless_ witticism.... ‘Are you quite sure that this
+    could be?’ And ‘Shaw is no authority!’ But Eager Ass, with what
+    he’s sent, Plays havoc with your best per cent.
+    Still—still I meet you here and there... When Shakespeare’s played
+    you hold a chair, And some defunct, moth-eaten star Enchants the
+    mental prig you are... A radical comes down and shocks The
+    atheistic orthodox? You’re representing Common Sense, Mouth open,
+    in the audience. And, sometimes, even chapel lures That conscious
+    tolerance of yours, That broad and beaming view of truth (Including
+    Kant and General Booth...) And so from shock to shock you live, A
+    hollow, pale affirmative...
+    The hour’s up... and roused from rest One hundred children of the
+    blest Cheat you a word or two with feet That down the noisy
+    aisle-ways beat... Forget on _narrow-minded earth_ The Mighty Yawn
+    that gave you birth.”
+
+      In April, Kerry Holiday left college and sailed for France to
+      enroll in the Lafayette Esquadrille. Amory’s envy and admiration
+      of this step was drowned in an experience of his own to which he
+      never succeeded in giving an appropriate value, but which,
+      nevertheless, haunted him for three years afterward.
+
+
+      THE DEVIL
+
+      Healy’s they left at twelve and taxied to Bistolary’s. There were
+      Axia Marlowe and Phoebe Column, from the Summer Garden show, Fred
+      Sloane and Amory. The evening was so very young that they felt
+      ridiculous with surplus energy, and burst into the cafe like
+      Dionysian revellers.
+
+      “Table for four in the middle of the floor,” yelled Phoebe.
+      “Hurry, old dear, tell ’em we’re here!”
+
+      “Tell ’em to play ‘Admiration’!” shouted Sloane. “You two order;
+      Phoebe and I are going to shake a wicked calf,” and they sailed
+      off in the muddled crowd. Axia and Amory, acquaintances of an
+      hour, jostled behind a waiter to a table at a point of vantage;
+      there they took seats and watched.
+
+      “There’s Findle Margotson, from New Haven!” she cried above the
+      uproar. “’Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!”
+
+      “Oh, Axia!” he shouted in salutation. “C’mon over to our table.”
+      “No!” Amory whispered.
+
+      “Can’t do it, Findle; I’m with somebody else! Call me up
+      to-morrow about one o’clock!”
+
+      Findle, a nondescript man-about-Bisty’s, answered incoherently
+      and turned back to the brilliant blonde whom he was endeavoring
+      to steer around the room.
+
+      “There’s a natural damn fool,” commented Amory.
+
+      “Oh, he’s all right. Here’s the old jitney waiter. If you ask me,
+      I want a double Daiquiri.”
+
+      “Make it four.”
+
+      The crowd whirled and changed and shifted. They were mostly from
+      the colleges, with a scattering of the male refuse of Broadway,
+      and women of two types, the higher of which was the chorus girl.
+      On the whole it was a typical crowd, and their party as typical
+      as any. About three-fourths of the whole business was for effect
+      and therefore harmless, ended at the door of the cafe, soon
+      enough for the five-o’clock train back to Yale or Princeton;
+      about one-fourth continued on into the dimmer hours and gathered
+      strange dust from strange places. Their party was scheduled to be
+      one of the harmless kind. Fred Sloane and Phoebe Column were old
+      friends; Axia and Amory new ones. But strange things are prepared
+      even in the dead of night, and the unusual, which lurks least in
+      the cafe, home of the prosaic and inevitable, was preparing to
+      spoil for him the waning romance of Broadway. The way it took was
+      so inexpressibly terrible, so unbelievable, that afterward he
+      never thought of it as experience; but it was a scene from a
+      misty tragedy, played far behind the veil, and that it meant
+      something definite he knew.
+
+      About one o’clock they moved to Maxim’s, and two found them in
+      Deviniere’s. Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a
+      state of unsteady exhilaration, but Amory was quite tiresomely
+      sober; they had run across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers
+      of champagne who usually assisted their New York parties. They
+      were just through dancing and were making their way back to their
+      chairs when Amory became aware that some one at a near-by table
+      was looking at him. He turned and glanced casually... a
+      middle-aged man dressed in a brown sack suit, it was, sitting a
+      little apart at a table by himself and watching their party
+      intently. At Amory’s glance he smiled faintly. Amory turned to
+      Fred, who was just sitting down.
+
+      “Who’s that pale fool watching us?” he complained indignantly.
+
+      “Where?” cried Sloane. “We’ll have him thrown out!” He rose to
+      his feet and swayed back and forth, clinging to his chair. “Where
+      is he?”
+
+      Axia and Phoebe suddenly leaned and whispered to each other
+      across the table, and before Amory realized it they found
+      themselves on their way to the door.
+
+      “Where now?”
+
+      “Up to the flat,” suggested Phoebe. “We’ve got brandy and
+      fizz—and everything’s slow down here to-night.”
+
+      Amory considered quickly. He hadn’t been drinking, and decided
+      that if he took no more, it would be reasonably discreet for him
+      to trot along in the party. In fact, it would be, perhaps, the
+      thing to do in order to keep an eye on Sloane, who was not in a
+      state to do his own thinking. So he took Axia’s arm and, piling
+      intimately into a taxicab, they drove out over the hundreds and
+      drew up at a tall, white-stone apartment-house. ... Never would
+      he forget that street.... It was a broad street, lined on both
+      sides with just such tall, white-stone buildings, dotted with
+      dark windows; they stretched along as far as the eye could see,
+      flooded with a bright moonlight that gave them a calcium pallor.
+      He imagined each one to have an elevator and a colored hall-boy
+      and a key-rack; each one to be eight stories high and full of
+      three and four room suites. He was rather glad to walk into the
+      cheeriness of Phoebe’s living-room and sink onto a sofa, while
+      the girls went rummaging for food.
+
+      “Phoebe’s great stuff,” confided Sloane, sotto voce.
+
+      “I’m only going to stay half an hour,” Amory said sternly. He
+      wondered if it sounded priggish.
+
+      “Hell y’ say,” protested Sloane. “We’re here now—don’t le’s
+      rush.”
+
+      “I don’t like this place,” Amory said sulkily, “and I don’t want
+      any food.”
+
+      Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and
+      four glasses.
+
+      “Amory, pour ’em out,” she said, “and we’ll drink to Fred Sloane,
+      who has a rare, distinguished edge.”
+
+      “Yes,” said Axia, coming in, “and Amory. I like Amory.” She sat
+      down beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder.
+
+      “I’ll pour,” said Sloane; “you use siphon, Phoebe.”
+
+      They filled the tray with glasses.
+
+      “Ready, here she goes!”
+
+      Amory hesitated, glass in hand.
+
+      There was a minute while temptation crept over him like a warm
+      wind, and his imagination turned to fire, and he took the glass
+      from Phoebe’s hand. That was all; for at the second that his
+      decision came, he looked up and saw, ten yards from him, the man
+      who had been in the cafe, and with his jump of astonishment the
+      glass fell from his uplifted hand. There the man half sat, half
+      leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. His face
+      was cast in the same yellow wax as in the cafe, neither the dull,
+      pasty color of a dead man—rather a sort of virile pallor—nor
+      unhealthy, you’d have called it; but like a strong man who’d
+      worked in a mine or done night shifts in a damp climate. Amory
+      looked him over carefully and later he could have drawn him after
+      a fashion, down to the merest details. His mouth was the kind
+      that is called frank, and he had steady gray eyes that moved
+      slowly from one to the other of their group, with just the shade
+      of a questioning expression. Amory noticed his hands; they
+      weren’t fine at all, but they had versatility and a tenuous
+      strength... they were nervous hands that sat lightly along the
+      cushions and moved constantly with little jerky openings and
+      closings. Then, suddenly, Amory perceived the feet, and with a
+      rush of blood to the head he realized he was afraid. The feet
+      were all wrong ... with a sort of wrongness that he felt rather
+      than knew.... It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on
+      satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little
+      things in the back of the brain. He wore no shoes, but, instead,
+      a sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they
+      wore in the fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling
+      up. They were a darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to
+      the end.... They were unutterably terrible....
+
+      He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia’s
+      voice came out of the void with a strange goodness.
+
+      “Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory’s sick—old head going
+      ’round?”
+
+      “Look at that man!” cried Amory, pointing toward the corner
+      divan.
+
+      “You mean that purple zebra!” shrieked Axia facetiously. “Ooo-ee!
+      Amory’s got a purple zebra watching him!”
+
+      Sloane laughed vacantly.
+
+      “Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?”
+
+      There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically....
+      Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear:
+
+      “Thought you weren’t drinking,” remarked Axia sardonically, but
+      her voice was good to hear; the whole divan that held the man was
+      alive; alive like heat waves over asphalt, like wriggling
+      worms....
+
+      “Come back! Come back!” Axia’s arm fell on his. “Amory, dear, you
+      aren’t going, Amory!” He was half-way to the door.
+
+      “Come on, Amory, stick ’th us!”
+
+      “Sick, are you?”
+
+      “Sit down a second!”
+
+      “Take some water.”
+
+      “Take a little brandy....”
+
+      The elevator was close, and the colored boy was half asleep,
+      paled to a livid bronze... Axia’s beseeching voice floated down
+      the shaft. Those feet... those feet...
+
+      As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the
+      sickly electric light of the paved hall.
+
+
+      IN THE ALLEY
+
+      Down the long street came the moon, and Amory turned his back on
+      it and walked. Ten, fifteen steps away sounded the footsteps.
+      They were like a slow dripping, with just the slightest
+      insistence in their fall. Amory’s shadow lay, perhaps, ten feet
+      ahead of him, and soft shoes was presumably that far behind. With
+      the instinct of a child Amory edged in under the blue darkness of
+      the white buildings, cleaving the moonlight for haggard seconds,
+      once bursting into a slow run with clumsy stumblings. After that
+      he stopped suddenly; he must keep hold, he thought. His lips were
+      dry and he licked them.
+
+      If he met any one good—were there any good people left in the
+      world or did they all live in white apartment-houses now? Was
+      every one followed in the moonlight? But if he met some one good
+      who’d know what he meant and hear this damned scuffle... then the
+      scuffling grew suddenly nearer, and a black cloud settled over
+      the moon. When again the pale sheen skimmed the cornices, it was
+      almost beside him, and Amory thought he heard a quiet breathing.
+      Suddenly he realized that the footsteps were not behind, had
+      never been behind, they were ahead and he was not eluding but
+      following... following. He began to run, blindly, his heart
+      knocking heavily, his hands clinched. Far ahead a black dot
+      showed itself, resolved slowly into a human shape. But Amory was
+      beyond that now; he turned off the street and darted into an
+      alley, narrow and dark and smelling of old rottenness. He twisted
+      down a long, sinuous blackness, where the moonlight was shut away
+      except for tiny glints and patches... then suddenly sank panting
+      into a corner by a fence, exhausted. The steps ahead stopped, and
+      he could hear them shift slightly with a continuous motion, like
+      waves around a dock.
+
+      He put his face in his hands and covered eyes and ears as well as
+      he could. During all this time it never occurred to him that he
+      was delirious or drunk. He had a sense of reality such as
+      material things could never give him. His intellectual content
+      seemed to submit passively to it, and it fitted like a glove
+      everything that had ever preceded it in his life. It did not
+      muddle him. It was like a problem whose answer he knew on paper,
+      yet whose solution he was unable to grasp. He was far beyond
+      horror. He had sunk through the thin surface of that, now moved
+      in a region where the feet and the fear of white walls were real,
+      living things, things he must accept. Only far inside his soul a
+      little fire leaped and cried that something was pulling him down,
+      trying to get him inside a door and slam it behind him. After
+      that door was slammed there would be only footfalls and white
+      buildings in the moonlight, and perhaps he would be one of the
+      footfalls.
+
+      During the five or ten minutes he waited in the shadow of the
+      fence, there was somehow this fire... that was as near as he
+      could name it afterward. He remembered calling aloud:
+
+      “I want some one stupid. Oh, send some one stupid!” This to the
+      black fence opposite him, in whose shadows the footsteps shuffled
+      ... shuffled. He supposed “stupid” and “good” had become somehow
+      intermingled through previous association. When he called thus it
+      was not an act of will at all—will had turned him away from the
+      moving figure in the street; it was almost instinct that called,
+      just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some wild prayer
+      from way over the night. Then something clanged like a low gong
+      struck at a distance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the
+      two feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil
+      that twisted it like flame in the wind; _but he knew, for the
+      half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the
+      face of Dick Humbird._
+
+      Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly that there
+      was no more sound, and that he was alone in the graying alley. It
+      was cold, and he started on a steady run for the light that
+      showed the street at the other end.
+
+
+      AT THE WINDOW
+
+      It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside
+      his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he
+      had left word to be called at eleven. Sloane was snoring heavily,
+      his clothes in a pile by his bed. They dressed and ate breakfast
+      in silence, and then sauntered out to get some air. Amory’s mind
+      was working slowly, trying to assimilate what had happened and
+      separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his memory the
+      bare shreds of truth. If the morning had been cold and gray he
+      could have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it
+      was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in May, when
+      the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine. How much or how
+      little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he
+      apparently had none of the nervous tension that was gripping
+      Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw.
+
+      Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and
+      the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory.
+
+      “For God’s sake, let’s go back! Let’s get off of this—this
+      place!”
+
+      Sloane looked at him in amazement.
+
+      “What do you mean?”
+
+      “This street, it’s ghastly! Come on! let’s get back to the
+      Avenue!”
+
+      “Do you mean to say,” said Sloane stolidly, “that ’cause you had
+      some sort of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last
+      night, you’re never coming on Broadway again?”
+
+      Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no
+      longer Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality,
+      but only one of the evil faces that whirled along the turbid
+      stream.
+
+      “Man!” he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned
+      and followed them with their eyes, “it’s filthy, and if you can’t
+      see it, you’re filthy, too!”
+
+      “I can’t help it,” said Sloane doggedly. “What’s the matter with
+      you? Old remorse getting you? You’d be in a fine state if you’d
+      gone through with our little party.”
+
+      “I’m going, Fred,” said Amory slowly. His knees were shaking
+      under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this
+      street he would keel over where he stood. “I’ll be at the
+      Vanderbilt for lunch.” And he strode rapidly off and turned over
+      to Fifth Avenue. Back at the hotel he felt better, but as he
+      walked into the barber-shop, intending to get a head massage, the
+      smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia’s sidelong,
+      suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly. In the doorway of his
+      room a sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river.
+
+      When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed. He
+      pitched onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly
+      fear that he was going mad. He wanted people, people, some one
+      sane and stupid and good. He lay for he knew not how long without
+      moving. He could feel the little hot veins on his forehead
+      standing out, and his terror had hardened on him like plaster. He
+      felt he was passing up again through the thin crust of horror,
+      and now only could he distinguish the shadowy twilight he was
+      leaving. He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next
+      recollected himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping
+      into a taxi at the door. It was raining torrents.
+
+      On the train for Princeton he saw no one he knew, only a crowd of
+      fagged-looking Philadelphians. The presence of a painted woman
+      across the aisle filled him with a fresh burst of sickness and he
+      changed to another car, tried to concentrate on an article in a
+      popular magazine. He found himself reading the same paragraphs
+      over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and leaning over
+      wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp window-pane.
+      The car, a smoker, was hot and stuffy with most of the smells of
+      the state’s alien population; he opened a window and shivered
+      against the cloud of fog that drifted in over him. The two hours’
+      ride were like days, and he nearly cried aloud with joy when the
+      towers of Princeton loomed up beside him and the yellow squares
+      of light filtered through the blue rain.
+
+      Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting
+      a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing
+      him.
+
+      “Had a hell of a dream about you last night,” came in the cracked
+      voice through the cigar smoke. “I had an idea you were in some
+      trouble.”
+
+      “Don’t tell me about it!” Amory almost shrieked. “Don’t say a
+      word; I’m tired and pepped out.”
+
+      Tom looked at him queerly and then sank into a chair and opened
+      his Italian note-book. Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor,
+      loosened his collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the
+      shelf. “Wells is sane,” he thought, “and if he won’t do I’ll read
+      Rupert Brooke.”
+
+      Half an hour passed. Outside the wind came up, and Amory started
+      as the wet branches moved and clawed with their finger-nails at
+      the window-pane. Tom was deep in his work, and inside the room
+      only the occasional scratch of a match or the rustle of leather
+      as they shifted in their chairs broke the stillness. Then like a
+      zigzag of lightning came the change. Amory sat bolt upright,
+      frozen cold in his chair. Tom was looking at him with his mouth
+      drooping, eyes fixed.
+
+      “God help us!” Amory cried.
+
+      “Oh, my heavens!” shouted Tom, “look behind!” Quick as a flash
+      Amory whirled around. He saw nothing but the dark window-pane.
+      “It’s gone now,” came Tom’s voice after a second in a still
+      terror. “Something was looking at you.”
+
+      Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again.
+
+      “I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I’ve had one hell of an
+      experience. I think I’ve—I’ve seen the devil or—something like
+      him. What face did you just see?—or no,” he added quickly, “don’t
+      tell me!”
+
+      And he gave Tom the story. It was midnight when he finished, and
+      after that, with all lights burning, two sleepy, shivering boys
+      read to each other from “The New Machiavelli,” until dawn came up
+      out of Witherspoon Hall, and the Princetonian fell against the
+      door, and the May birds hailed the sun on last night’s rain.
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty
+
+
+      During Princeton’s transition period, that is, during Amory’s
+      last two years there, while he saw it change and broaden and live
+      up to its Gothic beauty by better means than night parades,
+      certain individuals arrived who stirred it to its plethoric
+      depths. Some of them had been freshmen, and wild freshmen, with
+      Amory; some were in the class below; and it was in the beginning
+      of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau Inn that
+      they began questioning aloud the institutions that Amory and
+      countless others before him had questioned so long in secret.
+      First, and partly by accident, they struck on certain books, a
+      definite type of biographical novel that Amory christened “quest”
+      books. In the “quest” book the hero set off in life armed with
+      the best weapons and avowedly intending to use them as such
+      weapons are usually used, to push their possessors ahead as
+      selfishly and blindly as possible, but the heroes of the “quest”
+      books discovered that there might be a more magnificent use for
+      them. “None Other Gods,” “Sinister Street,” and “The Research
+      Magnificent” were examples of such books; it was the latter of
+      these three that gripped Burne Holiday and made him wonder in the
+      beginning of senior year how much it was worth while being a
+      diplomatic autocrat around his club on Prospect Avenue and
+      basking in the high lights of class office. It was distinctly
+      through the channels of aristocracy that Burne found his way.
+      Amory, through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with
+      him, but not until January of senior year did their friendship
+      commence.
+
+      “Heard the latest?” said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening
+      with that triumphant air he always wore after a successful
+      conversational bout.
+
+      “No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?”
+
+      “Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going
+      to resign from their clubs.”
+
+      “What!”
+
+      “Actual fact!”
+
+      “Why!”
+
+      “Spirit of reform and all that. Burne Holiday is behind it. The
+      club presidents are holding a meeting to-night to see if they can
+      find a joint means of combating it.”
+
+      “Well, what’s the idea of the thing?”
+
+      “Oh, clubs injurious to Princeton democracy; cost a lot; draw
+      social lines, take time; the regular line you get sometimes from
+      disappointed sophomores. Woodrow thought they should be abolished
+      and all that.”
+
+      “But this is the real thing?”
+
+      “Absolutely. I think it’ll go through.”
+
+      “For Pete’s sake, tell me more about it.”
+
+      “Well,” began Tom, “it seems that the idea developed
+      simultaneously in several heads. I was talking to Burne awhile
+      ago, and he claims that it’s a logical result if an intelligent
+      person thinks long enough about the social system. They had a
+      ‘discussion crowd’ and the point of abolishing the clubs was
+      brought up by some one—everybody there leaped at it—it had been
+      in each one’s mind, more or less, and it just needed a spark to
+      bring it out.”
+
+      “Fine! I swear I think it’ll be most entertaining. How do they
+      feel up at Cap and Gown?”
+
+      “Wild, of course. Every one’s been sitting and arguing and
+      swearing and getting mad and getting sentimental and getting
+      brutal. It’s the same at all the clubs; I’ve been the rounds.
+      They get one of the radicals in the corner and fire questions at
+      him.”
+
+      “How do the radicals stand up?”
+
+      “Oh, moderately well. Burne’s a damn good talker, and so
+      obviously sincere that you can’t get anywhere with him. It’s so
+      evident that resigning from his club means so much more to him
+      than preventing it does to us that I felt futile when I argued;
+      finally took a position that was brilliantly neutral. In fact, I
+      believe Burne thought for a while that he’d converted me.”
+
+      “And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to
+      resign?”
+
+      “Call it a fourth and be safe.”
+
+      “Lord—who’d have thought it possible!”
+
+      There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in.
+      “Hello, Amory—hello, Tom.”
+
+      Amory rose.
+
+      “’Evening, Burne. Don’t mind if I seem to rush; I’m going to
+      Renwick’s.”
+
+      Burne turned to him quickly.
+
+      “You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn’t
+      a bit private. I wish you’d stay.”
+
+      “I’d be glad to.” Amory sat down again, and as Burne perched on a
+      table and launched into argument with Tom, he looked at this
+      revolutionary more carefully than he ever had before.
+      Broad-browed and strong-chinned, with a fineness in the honest
+      gray eyes that were like Kerry’s, Burne was a man who gave an
+      immediate impression of bigness and security—stubborn, that was
+      evident, but his stubbornness wore no stolidity, and when he had
+      talked for five minutes Amory knew that this keen enthusiasm had
+      in it no quality of dilettantism.
+
+      The intense power Amory felt later in Burne Holiday differed from
+      the admiration he had had for Humbird. This time it began as
+      purely a mental interest. With other men of whom he had thought
+      as primarily first-class, he had been attracted first by their
+      personalities, and in Burne he missed that immediate magnetism to
+      which he usually swore allegiance. But that night Amory was
+      struck by Burne’s intense earnestness, a quality he was
+      accustomed to associate only with the dread stupidity, and by the
+      great enthusiasm that struck dead chords in his heart. Burne
+      stood vaguely for a land Amory hoped he was drifting toward—and
+      it was almost time that land was in sight. Tom and Amory and Alec
+      had reached an impasse; never did they seem to have new
+      experiences in common, for Tom and Alec had been as blindly busy
+      with their committees and boards as Amory had been blindly
+      idling, and the things they had for dissection—college,
+      contemporary personality and the like—they had hashed and
+      rehashed for many a frugal conversational meal.
+
+      That night they discussed the clubs until twelve, and, in the
+      main, they agreed with Burne. To the roommates it did not seem
+      such a vital subject as it had in the two years before, but the
+      logic of Burne’s objections to the social system dovetailed so
+      completely with everything they had thought, that they questioned
+      rather than argued, and envied the sanity that enabled this man
+      to stand out so against all traditions.
+
+      Then Amory branched off and found that Burne was deep in other
+      things as well. Economics had interested him and he was turning
+      socialist. Pacifism played in the back of his mind, and he read
+      The Masses and Lyoff Tolstoi faithfully.
+
+      “How about religion?” Amory asked him.
+
+      “Don’t know. I’m in a muddle about a lot of things—I’ve just
+      discovered that I’ve a mind, and I’m starting to read.”
+
+      “Read what?”
+
+      “Everything. I have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly
+      things to make me think. I’m reading the four gospels now, and
+      the ‘Varieties of Religious Experience.’”
+
+      “What chiefly started you?”
+
+      “Wells, I guess, and Tolstoi, and a man named Edward Carpenter.
+      I’ve been reading for over a year now—on a few lines, on what I
+      consider the essential lines.”
+
+      “Poetry?”
+
+      “Well, frankly, not what you call poetry, or for your reasons—you
+      two write, of course, and look at things differently. Whitman is
+      the man that attracts me.”
+
+      “Whitman?”
+
+      “Yes; he’s a definite ethical force.”
+
+      “Well, I’m ashamed to say that I’m a blank on the subject of
+      Whitman. How about you, Tom?”
+
+      Tom nodded sheepishly.
+
+      “Well,” continued Burne, “you may strike a few poems that are
+      tiresome, but I mean the mass of his work. He’s tremendous—like
+      Tolstoi. They both look things in the face, and, somehow,
+      different as they are, stand for somewhat the same things.”
+
+      “You have me stumped, Burne,” Amory admitted. “I’ve read ‘Anna
+      Karenina’ and the ‘Kreutzer Sonata’ of course, but Tolstoi is
+      mostly in the original Russian as far as I’m concerned.”
+
+      “He’s the greatest man in hundreds of years,” cried Burne
+      enthusiastically. “Did you ever see a picture of that shaggy old
+      head of his?”
+
+      They talked until three, from biology to organized religion, and
+      when Amory crept shivering into bed it was with his mind aglow
+      with ideas and a sense of shock that some one else had discovered
+      the path he might have followed. Burne Holiday was so evidently
+      developing—and Amory had considered that he was doing the same.
+      He had fallen into a deep cynicism over what had crossed his
+      path, plotted the imperfectability of man and read Shaw and
+      Chesterton enough to keep his mind from the edges of
+      decadence—now suddenly all his mental processes of the last year
+      and a half seemed stale and futile—a petty consummation of
+      himself... and like a sombre background lay that incident of the
+      spring before, that filled half his nights with a dreary terror
+      and made him unable to pray. He was not even a Catholic, yet that
+      was the only ghost of a code that he had, the gaudy, ritualistic,
+      paradoxical Catholicism whose prophet was Chesterton, whose
+      claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as Huysmans and
+      Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams Cram, with his
+      adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals—a Catholicism which
+      Amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or
+      sacraments or sacrifice.
+
+      He could not sleep, so he turned on his reading-lamp and, taking
+      down the “Kreutzer Sonata,” searched it carefully for the germs
+      of Burne’s enthusiasm. Being Burne was suddenly so much realler
+      than being clever. Yet he sighed... here were other possible clay
+      feet.
+
+      He thought back through two years, of Burne as a hurried, nervous
+      freshman, quite submerged in his brother’s personality. Then he
+      remembered an incident of sophomore year, in which Burne had been
+      suspected of the leading role.
+
+      Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a
+      taxi-driver, who had driven him from the junction. In the course
+      of the altercation the dean remarked that he “might as well buy
+      the taxicab.” He paid and walked off, but next morning he entered
+      his private office to find the taxicab itself in the space
+      usually occupied by his desk, bearing a sign which read “Property
+      of Dean Hollister. Bought and Paid for.”... It took two expert
+      mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and
+      remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore
+      humor under efficient leadership.
+
+      Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A
+      certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had
+      failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton
+      game.
+
+      Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks
+      before, and had pressed Burne into service—to the ruination of
+      the latter’s misogyny.
+
+      “Are you coming to the Harvard game?” Burne had asked
+      indiscreetly, merely to make conversation.
+
+      “If you ask me,” cried Phyllis quickly.
+
+      “Of course I do,” said Burne feebly. He was unversed in the arts
+      of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of
+      kidding. Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed
+      involved. Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed
+      him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly.
+      Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag
+      that game and entertain some Harvard friends.
+
+      “She’ll see,” he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to
+      josh him. “This will be the last game she ever persuades any
+      young innocent to take her to!”
+
+      “But, Burne—why did you _invite_ her if you didn’t want her?”
+
+      “Burne, you _know_ you’re secretly mad about her—that’s the
+      _real_ trouble.”
+
+      “What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?”
+
+      But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which
+      consisted largely of the phrase: “She’ll see, she’ll see!”
+
+      The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from
+      the train, but on the platform a ghastly sight met her eyes.
+      There were Burne and Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the
+      lurid figures on college posters. They had bought flaring suits
+      with huge peg-top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders. On
+      their heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and
+      sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their
+      celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. They wore black
+      arm-bands with orange “P’s,” and carried canes flying Princeton
+      pennants, the effect completed by socks and peeping handkerchiefs
+      in the same color motifs. On a clanking chain they led a large,
+      angry tom-cat, painted to represent a tiger.
+
+      A good half of the station crowd was already staring at them,
+      torn between horrified pity and riotous mirth, and as Phyllis,
+      with her svelte jaw dropping, approached, the pair bent over and
+      emitted a college cheer in loud, far-carrying voices,
+      thoughtfully adding the name “Phyllis” to the end. She was
+      vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the
+      campus, followed by half a hundred village urchins—to the stifled
+      laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no
+      idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and
+      Fred were two varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate
+      time.
+
+      Phyllis’s feelings as she was paraded by the Harvard and
+      Princeton stands, where sat dozens of her former devotees, can be
+      imagined. She tried to walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a
+      little behind—but they stayed close, that there should be no
+      doubt whom she was with, talking in loud voices of their friends
+      on the football team, until she could almost hear her
+      acquaintances whispering:
+
+      “Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with
+      _those two_.”
+
+      That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious.
+      From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to
+      orient with progress....
+
+      So the weeks passed and March came and the clay feet that Amory
+      looked for failed to appear. About a hundred juniors and seniors
+      resigned from their clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and
+      the clubs in helplessness turned upon Burne their finest weapon:
+      ridicule. Every one who knew him liked him—but what he stood for
+      (and he began to stand for more all the time) came under the lash
+      of many tongues, until a frailer man than he would have been
+      snowed under.
+
+      “Don’t you mind losing prestige?” asked Amory one night. They had
+      taken to exchanging calls several times a week.
+
+      “Of course I don’t. What’s prestige, at best?”
+
+      “Some people say that you’re just a rather original politician.”
+
+      He roared with laughter.
+
+      “That’s what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it
+      coming.”
+
+      One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested
+      Amory for a long time—the matter of the bearing of physical
+      attributes on a man’s make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of
+      this, and then:
+
+      “Of course health counts—a healthy man has twice the chance of
+      being good,” he said.
+
+      “I don’t agree with you—I don’t believe in ‘muscular
+      Christianity.’”
+
+      “I do—I believe Christ had great physical vigor.”
+
+      “Oh, no,” Amory protested. “He worked too hard for that. I
+      imagine that when he died he was a broken-down man—and the great
+      saints haven’t been strong.”
+
+      “Half of them have.”
+
+      “Well, even granting that, I don’t think health has anything to
+      do with goodness; of course, it’s valuable to a great saint to be
+      able to stand enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers
+      rising on their toes in simulated virility, bellowing that
+      calisthenics will save the world—no, Burne, I can’t go that.”
+
+      “Well, let’s waive it—we won’t get anywhere, and besides I
+      haven’t quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here’s
+      something I _do_ know—personal appearance has a lot to do with
+      it.”
+
+      “Coloring?” Amory asked eagerly.
+
+      “Yes.”
+
+      “That’s what Tom and I figured,” Amory agreed. “We took the
+      year-books for the last ten years and looked at the pictures of
+      the senior council. I know you don’t think much of that august
+      body, but it does represent success here in a general way. Well,
+      I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are
+      blonds, are really light—yet _two-thirds_ of every senior council
+      are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you;
+      that means that out of every _fifteen_ light-haired men in the
+      senior class _one_ is on the senior council, and of the
+      dark-haired men it’s only one in _fifty_.”
+
+      “It’s true,” Burne agreed. “The light-haired man _is_ a higher
+      type, generally speaking. I worked the thing out with the
+      Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over
+      half of them were light-haired—yet think of the preponderant
+      number of brunettes in the race.”
+
+      “People unconsciously admit it,” said Amory. “You’ll notice a
+      blond person is _expected_ to talk. If a blond girl doesn’t talk
+      we call her a ‘doll’; if a light-haired man is silent he’s
+      considered stupid. Yet the world is full of ‘dark silent men’ and
+      ‘languorous brunettes’ who haven’t a brain in their heads, but
+      somehow are never accused of the dearth.”
+
+      “And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose
+      undoubtedly make the superior face.”
+
+      “I’m not so sure.” Amory was all for classical features.
+
+      “Oh, yes—I’ll show you,” and Burne pulled out of his desk a
+      photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy
+      celebrities—Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and others.
+
+      “Aren’t they wonderful?”
+
+      Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly.
+
+      “Burne, I think they’re the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came
+      across. They look like an old man’s home.”
+
+      “Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi’s
+      eyes.” His tone was reproachful.
+
+      Amory shook his head.
+
+      “No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want—but ugly
+      they certainly are.”
+
+      Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious
+      foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk.
+
+      Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night
+      he persuaded Amory to accompany him.
+
+      “I hate the dark,” Amory objected. “I didn’t use to—except when I
+      was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do—I’m a regular
+      fool about it.”
+
+      “That’s useless, you know.”
+
+      “Quite possibly.”
+
+      “We’ll go east,” Burne suggested, “and down that string of roads
+      through the woods.”
+
+      “Doesn’t sound very appealing to me,” admitted Amory reluctantly,
+      “but let’s go.”
+
+      They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a
+      brisk argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white
+      blots behind them.
+
+      “Any person with any imagination is bound to be afraid,” said
+      Burne earnestly. “And this very walking at night is one of the
+      things I was afraid about. I’m going to tell you why I can walk
+      anywhere now and not be afraid.”
+
+      “Go on,” Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the
+      woods, Burne’s nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his
+      subject.
+
+      “I used to come out here alone at night, oh, three months ago,
+      and I always stopped at that cross-road we just passed. There
+      were the woods looming up ahead, just as they do now, there were
+      dogs howling and the shadows and no human sound. Of course, I
+      peopled the woods with everything ghastly, just like you do;
+      don’t you?”
+
+      “I do,” Amory admitted.
+
+      “Well, I began analyzing it—my imagination persisted in sticking
+      horrors into the dark—so I stuck my imagination into the dark
+      instead, and let it look out at me—I let it play stray dog or
+      escaped convict or ghost, and then saw myself coming along the
+      road. That made it all right—as it always makes everything all
+      right to project yourself completely into another’s place. I knew
+      that if I were the dog or the convict or the ghost I wouldn’t be
+      a menace to Burne Holiday any more than he was a menace to me.
+      Then I thought of my watch. I’d better go back and leave it and
+      then essay the woods. No; I decided, it’s better on the whole
+      that I should lose a watch than that I should turn back—and I did
+      go into them—not only followed the road through them, but walked
+      into them until I wasn’t frightened any more—did it until one
+      night I sat down and dozed off in there; then I knew I was
+      through being afraid of the dark.”
+
+      “Lordy,” Amory breathed. “I couldn’t have done that. I’d have
+      come out half-way, and the first time an automobile passed and
+      made the dark thicker when its lamps disappeared, I’d have come
+      in.”
+
+      “Well,” Burne said suddenly, after a few moments’ silence, “we’re
+      half-way through, let’s turn back.”
+
+      On the return he launched into a discussion of will.
+
+      “It’s the whole thing,” he asserted. “It’s the one dividing line
+      between good and evil. I’ve never met a man who led a rotten life
+      and didn’t have a weak will.”
+
+      “How about great criminals?”
+
+      “They’re usually insane. If not, they’re weak. There is no such
+      thing as a strong, sane criminal.”
+
+      “Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?”
+
+      “Well?”
+
+      “He’s evil, I think, yet he’s strong and sane.”
+
+      “I’ve never met him. I’ll bet, though, that he’s stupid or
+      insane.”
+
+      “I’ve met him over and over and he’s neither. That’s why I think
+      you’re wrong.”
+
+      “I’m sure I’m not—and so I don’t believe in imprisonment except
+      for the insane.”
+
+      On this point Amory could not agree. It seemed to him that life
+      and history were rife with the strong criminal, keen, but often
+      self-deluding; in politics and business one found him and among
+      the old statesmen and kings and generals; but Burne never agreed
+      and their courses began to split on that point.
+
+      Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the world about
+      him. He resigned the vice-presidency of the senior class and took
+      to reading and walking as almost his only pursuits. He
+      voluntarily attended graduate lectures in philosophy and biology,
+      and sat in all of them with a rather pathetically intent look in
+      his eyes, as if waiting for something the lecturer would never
+      quite come to. Sometimes Amory would see him squirm in his seat;
+      and his face would light up; he was on fire to debate a point.
+
+      He grew more abstracted on the street and was even accused of
+      becoming a snob, but Amory knew it was nothing of the sort, and
+      once when Burne passed him four feet off, absolutely unseeingly,
+      his mind a thousand miles away, Amory almost choked with the
+      romantic joy of watching him. Burne seemed to be climbing heights
+      where others would be forever unable to get a foothold.
+
+      “I tell you,” Amory declared to Tom, “he’s the first contemporary
+      I’ve ever met whom I’ll admit is my superior in mental capacity.”
+
+      “It’s a bad time to admit it—people are beginning to think he’s
+      odd.”
+
+      “He’s way over their heads—you know you think so yourself when
+      you talk to him—Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against
+      ‘people.’ Success has completely conventionalized you.”
+
+      Tom grew rather annoyed.
+
+      “What’s he trying to do—be excessively holy?”
+
+      “No! not like anybody you’ve ever seen. Never enters the
+      Philadelphian Society. He has no faith in that rot. He doesn’t
+      believe that public swimming-pools and a kind word in time will
+      right the wrongs of the world; moreover, he takes a drink
+      whenever he feels like it.”
+
+      “He certainly is getting in wrong.”
+
+      “Have you talked to him lately?”
+
+      “No.”
+
+      “Then you haven’t any conception of him.”
+
+      The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how
+      the sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus.
+
+      “It’s odd,” Amory said to Tom one night when they had grown more
+      amicable on the subject, “that the people who violently
+      disapprove of Burne’s radicalism are distinctly the Pharisee
+      class—I mean they’re the best-educated men in college—the editors
+      of the papers, like yourself and Ferrenby, the younger
+      professors.... The illiterate athletes like Langueduc think he’s
+      getting eccentric, but they just say, ‘Good old Burne has got
+      some queer ideas in his head,’ and pass on—the Pharisee
+      class—Gee! they ridicule him unmercifully.”
+
+      The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a
+      recitation.
+
+      “Whither bound, Tsar?”
+
+      “Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby,” he waved a copy of
+      the morning’s Princetonian at Amory. “He wrote this editorial.”
+
+      “Going to flay him alive?”
+
+      “No—but he’s got me all balled up. Either I’ve misjudged him or
+      he’s suddenly become the world’s worst radical.”
+
+      Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an
+      account of the ensuing conversation. Burne had come into the
+      editor’s sanctum displaying the paper cheerfully.
+
+      “Hello, Jesse.”
+
+      “Hello there, Savonarola.”
+
+      “I just read your editorial.”
+
+      “Good boy—didn’t know you stooped that low.”
+
+      “Jesse, you startled me.”
+
+      “How so?”
+
+      “Aren’t you afraid the faculty’ll get after you if you pull this
+      irreligious stuff?”
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “Like this morning.”
+
+      “What the devil—that editorial was on the coaching system.”
+
+      “Yes, but that quotation—”
+
+      Jesse sat up.
+
+      “What quotation?”
+
+      “You know: ‘He who is not with me is against me.’”
+
+      “Well—what about it?”
+
+      Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed.
+
+      “Well, you say here—let me see.” Burne opened the paper and read:
+      “‘_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said
+      who was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and
+      puerile generalities.’”
+
+      “What of it?” Ferrenby began to look alarmed. “Oliver Cromwell
+      said it, didn’t he? or was it Washington, or one of the saints?
+      Good Lord, I’ve forgotten.”
+
+      Burne roared with laughter.
+
+      “Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse.”
+
+      “Who said it, for Pete’s sake?”
+
+      “Well,” said Burne, recovering his voice, “St. Matthew attributes
+      it to Christ.”
+
+      “My God!” cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the
+      waste-basket.
+
+
+      AMORY WRITES A POEM
+
+      The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the
+      chance of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its
+      stick-of-candy glamour might penetrate his disposition. One day
+      he ventured into a stock-company revival of a play whose name was
+      faintly familiar. The curtain rose—he watched casually as a girl
+      entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord
+      of memory. Where—? When—?
+
+      Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very
+      soft, vibrant voice: “Oh, I’m such a poor little fool; _do_ tell
+      me when I do wrong.”
+
+      The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of
+      Isabelle.
+
+      He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble
+      rapidly:
+
+   “Here in the figured dark I watch once more, There, with the
+   curtain, roll the years away; Two years of years—there was an idle
+   day Of ours, when happy endings didn’t bore Our unfermented souls; I
+   could adore Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay, Smiling a
+   repertoire while the poor play Reached me as a faint ripple reaches
+   shore.
+   “Yawning and wondering an evening through, I watch alone... and
+   chatterings, of course, Spoil the one scene which, somehow, _did_
+   have charms; You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you Right here! 
+   Where Mr. X defends divorce And What’s-Her-Name falls fainting in
+   his arms.”
+
+
+      STILL CALM
+
+      “Ghosts are such dumb things,” said Alec, “they’re slow-witted. I
+      can always outguess a ghost.”
+
+      “How?” asked Tom.
+
+      “Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use
+      _any_ discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom.”
+
+      “Go on, s’pose you think there’s maybe a ghost in your
+      bedroom—what measures do you take on getting home at night?”
+      demanded Amory, interested.
+
+      “Take a stick” answered Alec, with ponderous reverence, “one
+      about the length of a broom-handle. Now, the first thing to do is
+      to get the room _cleared_—to do this you rush with your eyes
+      closed into your study and turn on the lights—next, approaching
+      the closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four
+      times. Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. _Always,
+      always_ run the stick in viciously first—_never_ look first!”
+
+      “Of course, that’s the ancient Celtic school,” said Tom gravely.
+
+      “Yes—but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to
+      clear the closets and also for behind all doors—”
+
+      “And the bed,” Amory suggested.
+
+      “Oh, Amory, no!” cried Alec in horror. “That isn’t the way—the
+      bed requires different tactics—let the bed alone, as you value
+      your reason—if there is a ghost in the room and that’s only about
+      a third of the time, it is _almost always_ under the bed.”
+
+      “Well” Amory began.
+
+      Alec waved him into silence.
+
+      “Of _course_ you never look. You stand in the middle of the floor
+      and before he knows what you’re going to do make a sudden leap
+      for the bed—never walk near the bed; to a ghost your ankle is
+      your most vulnerable part—once in bed, you’re safe; he may lie
+      around under the bed all night, but you’re safe as daylight. If
+      you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head.”
+
+      “All that’s very interesting, Tom.”
+
+      “Isn’t it?” Alec beamed proudly. “All my own, too—the Sir Oliver
+      Lodge of the new world.”
+
+      Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The sense of going
+      forward in a direct, determined line had come back; youth was
+      stirring and shaking out a few new feathers. He had even stored
+      enough surplus energy to sally into a new pose.
+
+      “What’s the idea of all this ‘distracted’ stuff, Amory?” asked
+      Alec one day, and then as Amory pretended to be cramped over his
+      book in a daze: “Oh, don’t try to act Burne, the mystic, to me.”
+
+      Amory looked up innocently.
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “What?” mimicked Alec. “Are you trying to read yourself into a
+      rhapsody with—let’s see the book.”
+
+      He snatched it; regarded it derisively.
+
+      “Well?” said Amory a little stiffly.
+
+      “‘The Life of St. Teresa,’” read Alec aloud. “Oh, my gosh!”
+
+      “Say, Alec.”
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “Does it bother you?”
+
+      “Does what bother me?”
+
+      “My acting dazed and all that?”
+
+      “Why, no—of course it doesn’t _bother_ me.”
+
+      “Well, then, don’t spoil it. If I enjoy going around telling
+      people guilelessly that I think I’m a genius, let me do it.”
+
+      “You’re getting a reputation for being eccentric,” said Alec,
+      laughing, “if that’s what you mean.”
+
+      Amory finally prevailed, and Alec agreed to accept his face value
+      in the presence of others if he was allowed rest periods when
+      they were alone; so Amory “ran it out” at a great rate, bringing
+      the most eccentric characters to dinner, wild-eyed grad students,
+      preceptors with strange theories of God and government, to the
+      cynical amazement of the supercilious Cottage Club.
+
+      As February became slashed by sun and moved cheerfully into
+      March, Amory went several times to spend week-ends with
+      Monsignor; once he took Burne, with great success, for he took
+      equal pride and delight in displaying them to each other.
+      Monsignor took him several times to see Thornton Hancock, and
+      once or twice to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of
+      Rome-haunting American whom Amory liked immediately.
+
+      Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an
+      interesting P. S.:
+
+  “Do you know,” it ran, “that your third cousin, Clara Page, widowed
+  six months and very poor, is living in Philadelphia? I don’t think
+  you’ve ever met her, but I wish, as a favor to me, you’d go to see
+  her.  To my mind, she’s rather a remarkable woman, and just about
+  your age.”
+
+      Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor....
+
+
+      CLARA
+
+      She was immemorial.... Amory wasn’t good enough for Clara, Clara
+      of ripply golden hair, but then no man was. Her goodness was
+      above the prosy morals of the husband-seeker, apart from the dull
+      literature of female virtue.
+
+      Sorrow lay lightly around her, and when Amory found her in
+      Philadelphia he thought her steely blue eyes held only happiness;
+      a latent strength, a realism, was brought to its fullest
+      development by the facts that she was compelled to face. She was
+      alone in the world, with two small children, little money, and,
+      worst of all, a host of friends. He saw her that winter in
+      Philadelphia entertaining a houseful of men for an evening, when
+      he knew she had not a servant in the house except the little
+      colored girl guarding the babies overhead. He saw one of the
+      greatest libertines in that city, a man who was habitually drunk
+      and notorious at home and abroad, sitting opposite her for an
+      evening, discussing _girls’ boarding-schools_ with a sort of
+      innocent excitement. What a twist Clara had to her mind! She
+      could make fascinating and almost brilliant conversation out of
+      the thinnest air that ever floated through a drawing-room.
+
+      The idea that the girl was poverty-stricken had appealed to
+      Amory’s sense of situation. He arrived in Philadelphia expecting
+      to be told that 921 Ark Street was in a miserable lane of hovels.
+      He was even disappointed when it proved to be nothing of the
+      sort. It was an old house that had been in her husband’s family
+      for years. An elderly aunt, who objected to having it sold, had
+      put ten years’ taxes with a lawyer and pranced off to Honolulu,
+      leaving Clara to struggle with the heating-problem as best she
+      could. So no wild-haired woman with a hungry baby at her breast
+      and a sad Amelia-like look greeted him. Instead, Amory would have
+      thought from his reception that she had not a care in the world.
+
+      A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked contrasts to her
+      level-headedness—into these moods she slipped sometimes as a
+      refuge. She could do the most prosy things (though she was wise
+      enough never to stultify herself with such “household arts” as
+      _knitting_ and _embroidery_), yet immediately afterward pick up a
+      book and let her imagination rove as a formless cloud with the
+      wind. Deepest of all in her personality was the golden radiance
+      that she diffused around her. As an open fire in a dark room
+      throws romance and pathos into the quiet faces at its edge, so
+      she cast her lights and shadows around the rooms that held her,
+      until she made of her prosy old uncle a man of quaint and
+      meditative charm, metamorphosed the stray telegraph boy into a
+      Puck-like creature of delightful originality. At first this
+      quality of hers somehow irritated Amory. He considered his own
+      uniqueness sufficient, and it rather embarrassed him when she
+      tried to read new interests into him for the benefit of what
+      other adorers were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent
+      stage-manager were attempting to make him give a new
+      interpretation of a part he had conned for years.
+
+      But Clara talking, Clara telling a slender tale of a hatpin and
+      an inebriated man and herself.... People tried afterward to
+      repeat her anecdotes but for the life of them they could make
+      them sound like nothing whatever. They gave her a sort of
+      innocent attention and the best smiles many of them had smiled
+      for long; there were few tears in Clara, but people smiled
+      misty-eyed at her.
+
+      Very occasionally Amory stayed for little half-hours after the
+      rest of the court had gone, and they would have bread and jam and
+      tea late in the afternoon or “maple-sugar lunches,” as she called
+      them, at night.
+
+      “You _are_ remarkable, aren’t you!” Amory was becoming trite from
+      where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six
+      o’clock.
+
+      “Not a bit,” she answered. She was searching out napkins in the
+      sideboard. “I’m really most humdrum and commonplace. One of those
+      people who have no interest in anything but their children.”
+
+      “Tell that to somebody else,” scoffed Amory. “You know you’re
+      perfectly effulgent.” He asked her the one thing that he knew
+      might embarrass her. It was the remark that the first bore made
+      to Adam.
+
+      “Tell me about yourself.” And she gave the answer that Adam must
+      have given.
+
+      “There’s nothing to tell.”
+
+      But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the things he
+      thought about at night when the locusts sang in the sandy grass,
+      and he must have remarked patronizingly how _different_ he was
+      from Eve, forgetting how different she was from him... at any
+      rate, Clara told Amory much about herself that evening. She had
+      had a harried life from sixteen on, and her education had stopped
+      sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her library, Amory found a
+      tattered gray book out of which fell a yellow sheet that he
+      impudently opened. It was a poem that she had written at school
+      about a gray convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with her
+      cloak blown by the wind sitting atop of it and thinking about the
+      many-colored world. As a rule such sentiment bored him, but this
+      was done with so much simplicity and atmosphere, that it brought
+      a picture of Clara to his mind, of Clara on such a cool, gray day
+      with her keen blue eyes staring out, trying to see her tragedies
+      come marching over the gardens outside. He envied that poem. How
+      he would have loved to have come along and seen her on the wall
+      and talked nonsense or romance to her, perched above him in the
+      air. He began to be frightfully jealous of everything about
+      Clara: of her past, of her babies, of the men and women who
+      flocked to drink deep of her cool kindness and rest their tired
+      minds as at an absorbing play.
+
+      “_Nobody_ seems to bore you,” he objected.
+
+      “About half the world do,” she admitted, “but I think that’s a
+      pretty good average, don’t you?” and she turned to find something
+      in Browning that bore on the subject. She was the only person he
+      ever met who could look up passages and quotations to show him in
+      the middle of the conversation, and yet not be irritating to
+      distraction. She did it constantly, with such a serious
+      enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching her golden hair bent
+      over a book, brow wrinkled ever so little at hunting her
+      sentence.
+
+      Through early March he took to going to Philadelphia for
+      week-ends. Almost always there was some one else there and she
+      seemed not anxious to see him alone, for many occasions presented
+      themselves when a word from her would have given him another
+      delicious half-hour of adoration. But he fell gradually in love
+      and began to speculate wildly on marriage. Though this design
+      flowed through his brain even to his lips, still he knew
+      afterward that the desire had not been deeply rooted. Once he
+      dreamt that it had come true and woke up in a cold panic, for in
+      his dream she had been a silly, flaxen Clara, with the gold gone
+      out of her hair and platitudes falling insipidly from her
+      changeling tongue. But she was the first fine woman he ever knew
+      and one of the few good people who ever interested him. She made
+      her goodness such an asset. Amory had decided that most good
+      people either dragged theirs after them as a liability, or else
+      distorted it to artificial geniality, and of course there were
+      the ever-present prig and Pharisee—(but Amory never included
+      _them_ as being among the saved).
+
+
+      ST. CECILIA
+
+   “Over her gray and velvet dress, Under her molten, beaten hair,
+   Color of rose in mock distress Flushes and fades and makes her fair;
+   Fills the air from her to him With light and languor and little
+   sighs, Just so subtly he scarcely knows... Laughing lightning, color
+   of rose.”
+
+      “Do you like me?”
+
+      “Of course I do,” said Clara seriously.
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are
+      spontaneous in each of us—or were originally.”
+
+      “You’re implying that I haven’t used myself very well?”
+
+      Clara hesitated.
+
+      “Well, I can’t judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot
+      more, and I’ve been sheltered.”
+
+      “Oh, don’t stall, please, Clara,” Amory interrupted; “but do talk
+      about me a little, won’t you?”
+
+      “Surely, I’d adore to.” She didn’t smile.
+
+      “That’s sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully
+      conceited?”
+
+      “Well—no, you have tremendous vanity, but it’ll amuse the people
+      who notice its preponderance.”
+
+      “I see.”
+
+      “You’re really humble at heart. You sink to the third hell of
+      depression when you think you’ve been slighted. In fact, you
+      haven’t much self-respect.”
+
+      “Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let
+      me say a word.”
+
+      “Of course not—I can never judge a man while he’s talking. But
+      I’m not through; the reason you have so little real
+      self-confidence, even though you gravely announce to the
+      occasional philistine that you think you’re a genius, is that
+      you’ve attributed all sorts of atrocious faults to yourself and
+      are trying to live up to them. For instance, you’re always saying
+      that you are a slave to high-balls.”
+
+      “But I am, potentially.”
+
+      “And you say you’re a weak character, that you’ve no will.”
+
+      “Not a bit of will—I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my
+      hatred of boredom, to most of my desires—”
+
+      “You are not!” She brought one little fist down onto the other.
+      “You’re a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the
+      world, your imagination.”
+
+      “You certainly interest me. If this isn’t boring you, go on.”
+
+      “I notice that when you want to stay over an extra day from
+      college you go about it in a sure way. You never decide at first
+      while the merits of going or staying are fairly clear in your
+      mind. You let your imagination shinny on the side of your desires
+      for a few hours, and then you decide. Naturally your imagination,
+      after a little freedom, thinks up a million reasons why you
+      should stay, so your decision when it comes isn’t true. It’s
+      biassed.”
+
+      “Yes,” objected Amory, “but isn’t it lack of will-power to let my
+      imagination shinny on the wrong side?”
+
+      “My dear boy, there’s your big mistake. This has nothing to do
+      with will-power; that’s a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack
+      judgment—the judgment to decide at once when you know your
+      imagination will play you false, given half a chance.”
+
+      “Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Amory in surprise, “that’s the
+      last thing I expected.”
+
+      Clara didn’t gloat. She changed the subject immediately. But she
+      had started him thinking and he believed she was partly right. He
+      felt like a factory-owner who after accusing a clerk of
+      dishonesty finds that his own son, in the office, is changing the
+      books once a week. His poor, mistreated will that he had been
+      holding up to the scorn of himself and his friends, stood before
+      him innocent, and his judgment walked off to prison with the
+      unconfinable imp, imagination, dancing in mocking glee beside
+      him. Clara’s was the only advice he ever asked without dictating
+      the answer himself—except, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor
+      Darcy.
+
+      How he loved to do any sort of thing with Clara! Shopping with
+      her was a rare, epicurean dream. In every store where she had
+      ever traded she was whispered about as the beautiful Mrs. Page.
+
+      “I’ll bet she won’t stay single long.”
+
+      “Well, don’t scream it out. She ain’t lookin’ for no advice.”
+
+      “_Ain’t_ she beautiful!”
+
+   (Enter a floor-walker—silence till he moves forward, smirking.)
+
+      “Society person, ain’t she?”
+
+      “Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say.”
+
+      “Gee! girls, _ain’t_ she some kid!”
+
+      And Clara beamed on all alike. Amory believed that tradespeople
+      gave her discounts, sometimes to her knowledge and sometimes
+      without it. He knew she dressed very well, had always the best of
+      everything in the house, and was inevitably waited upon by the
+      head floor-walker at the very least.
+
+      Sometimes they would go to church together on Sunday and he would
+      walk beside her and revel in her cheeks moist from the soft water
+      in the new air. She was very devout, always had been, and God
+      knows what heights she attained and what strength she drew down
+      to herself when she knelt and bent her golden hair into the
+      stained-glass light.
+
+      “St. Cecelia,” he cried aloud one day, quite involuntarily, and
+      the people turned and peered, and the priest paused in his sermon
+      and Clara and Amory turned to fiery red.
+
+      That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that
+      night. He couldn’t help it.
+
+      They were walking through the March twilight where it was as warm
+      as June, and the joy of youth filled his soul so that he felt he
+      must speak.
+
+      “I think,” he said and his voice trembled, “that if I lost faith
+      in you I’d lose faith in God.”
+
+      She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the
+      matter.
+
+      “Nothing,” she said slowly, “only this: five men have said that
+      to me before, and it frightens me.”
+
+      “Oh, Clara, is that your fate!”
+
+      She did not answer.
+
+      “I suppose love to you is—” he began.
+
+      She turned like a flash.
+
+      “I have never been in love.”
+
+      They walked along, and he realized slowly how much she had told
+      him... never in love.... She seemed suddenly a daughter of light
+      alone. His entity dropped out of her plane and he longed only to
+      touch her dress with almost the realization that Joseph must have
+      had of Mary’s eternal significance. But quite mechanically he
+      heard himself saying:
+
+      “And I love you—any latent greatness that I’ve got is... oh, I
+      can’t talk, but Clara, if I come back in two years in a position
+      to marry you—”
+
+      She shook her head.
+
+      “No,” she said; “I’d never marry again. I’ve got my two children
+      and I want myself for them. I like you—I like all clever men, you
+      more than any—but you know me well enough to know that I’d never
+      marry a clever man—” She broke off suddenly.
+
+      “Amory.”
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “You’re not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did
+      you?”
+
+      “It was the twilight,” he said wonderingly. “I didn’t feel as
+      though I were speaking aloud. But I love you—or adore you—or
+      worship you—”
+
+      “There you go—running through your catalogue of emotions in five
+      seconds.”
+
+      He smiled unwillingly.
+
+      “Don’t make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_
+      depressing sometimes.”
+
+      “You’re not a light-weight, of all things,” she said intently,
+      taking his arm and opening wide her eyes—he could see their
+      kindliness in the fading dusk. “A light-weight is an eternal
+      nay.”
+
+      “There’s so much spring in the air—there’s so much lazy sweetness
+      in your heart.”
+
+      She dropped his arm.
+
+      “You’re all fine now, and I feel glorious. Give me a cigarette.
+      You’ve never seen me smoke, have you? Well, I do, about once a
+      month.”
+
+      And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like
+      two mad children gone wild with pale-blue twilight.
+
+      “I’m going to the country for to-morrow,” she announced, as she
+      stood panting, safe beyond the flare of the corner lamp-post.
+      “These days are too magnificent to miss, though perhaps I feel
+      them more in the city.”
+
+      “Oh, Clara!” Amory said; “what a devil you could have been if the
+      Lord had just bent your soul a little the other way!”
+
+      “Maybe,” she answered; “but I think not. I’m never really wild
+      and never have been. That little outburst was pure spring.”
+
+      “And you are, too,” said he.
+
+      They were walking along now.
+
+      “No—you’re wrong again, how can a person of your own self-reputed
+      brains be so constantly wrong about me? I’m the opposite of
+      everything spring ever stood for. It’s unfortunate, if I happen
+      to look like what pleased some soppy old Greek sculptor, but I
+      assure you that if it weren’t for my face I’d be a quiet nun in
+      the convent without”—then she broke into a run and her raised
+      voice floated back to him as he followed—“my precious babies,
+      which I must go back and see.”
+
+      She was the only girl he ever knew with whom he could understand
+      how another man might be preferred. Often Amory met wives whom he
+      had known as debutantes, and looking intently at them imagined
+      that he found something in their faces which said:
+
+      “Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_” Oh, the enormous conceit
+      of the man!
+
+      But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara’s
+      bright soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod.
+
+      “Golden, golden is the air—” he chanted to the little pools of
+      water. ... “Golden is the air, golden notes from golden
+      mandolins, golden frets of golden violins, fair, oh, wearily
+      fair.... Skeins from braided basket, mortals may not hold; oh,
+      what young extravagant God, who would know or ask it?... who
+      could give such gold...”
+
+
+      AMORY IS RESENTFUL
+
+      Slowly and inevitably, yet with a sudden surge at the last, while
+      Amory talked and dreamed, war rolled swiftly up the beach and
+      washed the sands where Princeton played. Every night the
+      gymnasium echoed as platoon after platoon swept over the floor
+      and shuffled out the basket-ball markings. When Amory went to
+      Washington the next week-end he caught some of the spirit of
+      crisis which changed to repulsion in the Pullman car coming back,
+      for the berths across from him were occupied by stinking
+      aliens—Greeks, he guessed, or Russians. He thought how much
+      easier patriotism had been to a homogeneous race, how much easier
+      it would have been to fight as the Colonies fought, or as the
+      Confederacy fought. And he did no sleeping that night, but
+      listened to the aliens guffaw and snore while they filled the car
+      with the heavy scent of latest America.
+
+      In Princeton every one bantered in public and told themselves
+      privately that their deaths at least would be heroic. The
+      literary students read Rupert Brooke passionately; the
+      lounge-lizards worried over whether the government would permit
+      the English-cut uniform for officers; a few of the hopelessly
+      lazy wrote to the obscure branches of the War Department, seeking
+      an easy commission and a soft berth.
+
+      Then, after a week, Amory saw Burne and knew at once that
+      argument would be futile—Burne had come out as a pacifist. The
+      socialist magazines, a great smattering of Tolstoi, and his own
+      intense longing for a cause that would bring out whatever
+      strength lay in him, had finally decided him to preach peace as a
+      subjective ideal.
+
+      “When the German army entered Belgium,” he began, “if the
+      inhabitants had gone peaceably about their business, the German
+      army would have been disorganized in—”
+
+      “I know,” Amory interrupted, “I’ve heard it all. But I’m not
+      going to talk propaganda with you. There’s a chance that you’re
+      right—but even so we’re hundreds of years before the time when
+      non-resistance can touch us as a reality.”
+
+      “But, Amory, listen—”
+
+      “Burne, we’d just argue—”
+
+      “Very well.”
+
+      “Just one thing—I don’t ask you to think of your family or
+      friends, because I know they don’t count a picayune with you
+      beside your sense of duty—but, Burne, how do you know that the
+      magazines you read and the societies you join and these idealists
+      you meet aren’t just plain _German?_”
+
+      “Some of them are, of course.”
+
+      “How do you know they aren’t _all_ pro-German—just a lot of weak
+      ones—with German-Jewish names.”
+
+      “That’s the chance, of course,” he said slowly. “How much or how
+      little I’m taking this stand because of propaganda I’ve heard, I
+      don’t know; naturally I think that it’s my most innermost
+      conviction—it seems a path spread before me just now.”
+
+      Amory’s heart sank.
+
+      “But think of the cheapness of it—no one’s really going to martyr
+      you for being a pacifist—it’s just going to throw you in with the
+      worst—”
+
+      “I doubt it,” he interrupted.
+
+      “Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me.”
+
+      “I know what you mean, and that’s why I’m not sure I’ll agitate.”
+
+      “You’re one man, Burne—going to talk to people who won’t
+      listen—with all God’s given you.”
+
+      “That’s what Stephen must have thought many years ago. But he
+      preached his sermon and they killed him. He probably thought as
+      he was dying what a waste it all was. But you see, I’ve always
+      felt that Stephen’s death was the thing that occurred to Paul on
+      the road to Damascus, and sent him to preach the word of Christ
+      all over the world.”
+
+      “Go on.”
+
+      “That’s all—this is my particular duty. Even if right now I’m
+      just a pawn—just sacrificed. God! Amory—you don’t think I like
+      the Germans!”
+
+      “Well, I can’t say anything else—I get to the end of all the
+      logic about non-resistance, and there, like an excluded middle,
+      stands the huge spectre of man as he is and always will be. And
+      this spectre stands right beside the one logical necessity of
+      Tolstoi’s, and the other logical necessity of Nietzsche’s—” Amory
+      broke off suddenly. “When are you going?”
+
+      “I’m going next week.”
+
+      “I’ll see you, of course.”
+
+      As he walked away it seemed to Amory that the look in his face
+      bore a great resemblance to that in Kerry’s when he had said
+      good-by under Blair Arch two years before. Amory wondered
+      unhappily why he could never go into anything with the primal
+      honesty of those two.
+
+      “Burne’s a fanatic,” he said to Tom, “and he’s dead wrong and,
+      I’m inclined to think, just an unconscious pawn in the hands of
+      anarchistic publishers and German-paid rag wavers—but he haunts
+      me—just leaving everything worth while—”
+
+      Burne left in a quietly dramatic manner a week later. He sold all
+      his possessions and came down to the room to say good-by, with a
+      battered old bicycle, on which he intended to ride to his home in
+      Pennsylvania.
+
+      “Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu,”
+      suggested Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and
+      Amory shook hands.
+
+      But Amory was not in a mood for that, and as he saw Burne’s long
+      legs propel his ridiculous bicycle out of sight beyond Alexander
+      Hall, he knew he was going to have a bad week. Not that he
+      doubted the war—Germany stood for everything repugnant to him;
+      for materialism and the direction of tremendous licentious force;
+      it was just that Burne’s face stayed in his memory and he was
+      sick of the hysteria he was beginning to hear.
+
+      “What on earth is the use of suddenly running down Goethe,” he
+      declared to Alec and Tom. “Why write books to prove he started
+      the war—or that that stupid, overestimated Schiller is a demon in
+      disguise?”
+
+      “Have you ever read anything of theirs?” asked Tom shrewdly.
+
+      “No,” Amory admitted.
+
+      “Neither have I,” he said laughing.
+
+      “People will shout,” said Alec quietly, “but Goethe’s on his same
+      old shelf in the library—to bore any one that wants to read him!”
+
+      Amory subsided, and the subject dropped.
+
+      “What are you going to do, Amory?”
+
+      “Infantry or aviation, I can’t make up my mind—I hate mechanics,
+      but then of course aviation’s the thing for me—”
+
+      “I feel as Amory does,” said Tom. “Infantry or aviation—aviation
+      sounds like the romantic side of the war, of course—like cavalry
+      used to be, you know; but like Amory I don’t know a horse-power
+      from a piston-rod.”
+
+      Somehow Amory’s dissatisfaction with his lack of enthusiasm
+      culminated in an attempt to put the blame for the whole war on
+      the ancestors of his generation... all the people who cheered for
+      Germany in 1870.... All the materialists rampant, all the
+      idolizers of German science and efficiency. So he sat one day in
+      an English lecture and heard “Locksley Hall” quoted and fell into
+      a brown study with contempt for Tennyson and all he stood for—for
+      he took him as a representative of the Victorians.
+
+  Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep Who sowed the
+  bitter harvest that your children go to reap—
+
+      scribbled Amory in his note-book. The lecturer was saying
+      something about Tennyson’s solidity and fifty heads were bent to
+      take notes. Amory turned over to a fresh page and began scrawling
+      again.
+
+ “They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, They
+ shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out—”
+
+      But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out.
+
+      “And entitled A Song in the Time of Order,” came the professor’s
+      voice, droning far away. “Time of Order”—Good Lord! Everything
+      crammed in the box and the Victorians sitting on the lid smiling
+      serenely.... With Browning in his Italian villa crying bravely:
+      “All’s for the best.” Amory scribbled again.
+
+ “You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, You thanked
+ him for your ‘glorious gains’—reproached him for ‘Cathay.’”
+
+      Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he
+      needed something to rhyme with:
+
+ “You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong
+ before...”
+
+      Well, anyway....
+
+ “You met your children in your home—‘I’ve fixed it up!’ you cried,
+ Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously—died.”
+
+      “That was to a great extent Tennyson’s idea,” came the lecturer’s
+      voice. “Swinburne’s Song in the Time of Order might well have
+      been Tennyson’s title. He idealized order against chaos, against
+      waste.”
+
+      At last Amory had it. He turned over another page and scrawled
+      vigorously for the twenty minutes that was left of the hour. Then
+      he walked up to the desk and deposited a page torn out of his
+      note-book.
+
+      “Here’s a poem to the Victorians, sir,” he said coldly.
+
+      The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly
+      through the door.
+
+      Here is what he had written:
+
+   “Songs in the time of order You left for us to sing, Proofs with
+   excluded middles, Answers to life in rhyme, Keys of the prison
+   warder And ancient bells to ring, Time was the end of riddles, We
+   were the end of time...
+    Here were domestic oceans And a sky that we might reach, Guns and a
+    guarded border, Gantlets—but not to fling, Thousands of old
+    emotions And a platitude for each, Songs in the time of order— And
+    tongues, that we might sing.”
+
+
+      THE END OF MANY THINGS
+
+      Early April slipped by in a haze—a haze of long evenings on the
+      club veranda with the graphophone playing “Poor Butterfly”
+      inside... for “Poor Butterfly” had been the song of that last
+      year. The war seemed scarcely to touch them and it might have
+      been one of the senior springs of the past, except for the
+      drilling every other afternoon, yet Amory realized poignantly
+      that this was the last spring under the old regime.
+
+      “This is the great protest against the superman,” said Amory.
+
+      “I suppose so,” Alec agreed.
+
+      “He’s absolutely irreconcilable with any Utopia. As long as he
+      occurs, there’s trouble and all the latent evil that makes a
+      crowd list and sway when he talks.”
+
+      “And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral
+      sense.”
+
+      “That’s all. I think the worst thing to contemplate is this—it’s
+      all happened before, how soon will it happen again? Fifty years
+      after Waterloo Napoleon was as much a hero to English school
+      children as Wellington. How do we know our grandchildren won’t
+      idolize Von Hindenburg the same way?”
+
+      “What brings it about?”
+
+      “Time, damn it, and the historian. If we could only learn to look
+      on evil as evil, whether it’s clothed in filth or monotony or
+      magnificence.”
+
+      “God! Haven’t we raked the universe over the coals for four
+      years?”
+
+      Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom and Amory, bound
+      in the morning for different training-camps, paced the shadowy
+      walks as usual and seemed still to see around them the faces of
+      the men they knew.
+
+      “The grass is full of ghosts to-night.”
+
+      “The whole campus is alive with them.”
+
+      They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver
+      of the slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees.
+
+      “You know,” whispered Tom, “what we feel now is the sense of all
+      the gorgeous youth that has rioted through here in two hundred
+      years.”
+
+      A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch—broken voices
+      for some long parting.
+
+      “And what we leave here is more than this class; it’s the whole
+      heritage of youth. We’re just one generation—we’re breaking all
+      the links that seemed to bind us here to top-booted and
+      high-stocked generations. We’ve walked arm and arm with Burr and
+      Light-Horse Harry Lee through half these deep-blue nights.”
+
+      “That’s what they are,” Tom tangented off, “deep blue—a bit of
+      color would spoil them, make them exotic. Spires, against a sky
+      that’s a promise of dawn, and blue light on the slate roofs—it
+      hurts... rather—”
+
+      “Good-by, Aaron Burr,” Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall,
+      “you and I knew strange corners of life.”
+
+      His voice echoed in the stillness.
+
+      “The torches are out,” whispered Tom. “Ah, Messalina, the long
+      shadows are building minarets on the stadium—”
+
+      For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and
+      then they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes.
+
+      “Damn!”
+
+      “Damn!”
+
+      The last light fades and drifts across the land—the low, long
+      land, the sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening tune again
+      their lyres and wander singing in a plaintive band down the long
+      corridors of trees; pale fires echo the night from tower top to
+      tower: Oh, sleep that dreams, and dream that never tires, press
+      from the petals of the lotus flower something of this to keep,
+      the essence of an hour.
+
+      No more to wait the twilight of the moon in this sequestered vale
+      of star and spire, for one eternal morning of desire passes to
+      time and earthy afternoon. Here, Heraclitus, did you find in fire
+      and shifting things the prophecy you hurled down the dead years;
+      this midnight my desire will see, shadowed among the embers,
+      furled in flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+      INTERLUDE
+
+      May, 1917-February, 1919
+
+      A letter dated January, 1918, written by Monsignor Darcy to
+      Amory, who is a second lieutenant in the 171st Infantry, Port of
+      Embarkation, Camp Mills, Long Island.
+
+      MY DEAR BOY:
+
+      All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the
+      rest I merely search back in a restive memory, a thermometer that
+      records only fevers, and match you with what I was at your age.
+      But men will chatter and you and I will still shout our
+      futilities to each other across the stage until the last silly
+      curtain falls _plump!_ upon our bobbing heads. But you are
+      starting the spluttering magic-lantern show of life with much the
+      same array of slides as I had, so I need to write you if only to
+      shriek the colossal stupidity of people....
+
+      This is the end of one thing: for better or worse you will never
+      again be quite the Amory Blaine that I knew, never again will we
+      meet as we have met, because your generation is growing hard,
+      much harder than mine ever grew, nourished as they were on the
+      stuff of the nineties.
+
+      Amory, lately I reread Aeschylus and there in the divine irony of
+      the “Agamemnon” I find the only answer to this bitter age—all the
+      world tumbled about our ears, and the closest parallel ages back
+      in that hopeless resignation. There are times when I think of the
+      men out there as Roman legionaries, miles from their corrupt
+      city, stemming back the hordes... hordes a little more menacing,
+      after all, than the corrupt city... another blind blow at the
+      race, furies that we passed with ovations years ago, over whose
+      corpses we bleated triumphantly all through the Victorian era....
+
+      And afterward an out-and-out materialistic world—and the Catholic
+      Church. I wonder where you’ll fit in. Of one thing I’m
+      sure—Celtic you’ll live and Celtic you’ll die; so if you don’t
+      use heaven as a continual referendum for your ideas you’ll find
+      earth a continual recall to your ambitions.
+
+      Amory, I’ve discovered suddenly that I’m an old man. Like all old
+      men, I’ve had dreams sometimes and I’m going to tell you of them.
+      I’ve enjoyed imagining that you were my son, that perhaps when I
+      was young I went into a state of coma and begat you, and when I
+      came to, had no recollection of it... it’s the paternal instinct,
+      Amory—celibacy goes deeper than the flesh....
+
+      Sometimes I think that the explanation of our deep resemblance is
+      some common ancestor, and I find that the only blood that the
+      Darcys and the O’Haras have in common is that of the
+      O’Donahues... Stephen was his name, I think....
+
+      When the lightning strikes one of us it strikes both: you had
+      hardly arrived at the port of embarkation when I got my papers to
+      start for Rome, and I am waiting every moment to be told where to
+      take ship. Even before you get this letter I shall be on the
+      ocean; then will come your turn. You went to war as a gentleman
+      should, just as you went to school and college, because it was
+      the thing to do. It’s better to leave the blustering and
+      tremulo-heroism to the middle classes; they do it so much better.
+
+      Do you remember that week-end last March when you brought Burne
+      Holiday from Princeton to see me? What a magnificent boy he is!
+      It gave me a frightful shock afterward when you wrote that he
+      thought me splendid; how could he be so deceived? Splendid is the
+      one thing that neither you nor I are. We are many other
+      things—we’re extraordinary, we’re clever, we could be said, I
+      suppose, to be brilliant. We can attract people, we can make
+      atmosphere, we can almost lose our Celtic souls in Celtic
+      subtleties, we can almost always have our own way; but
+      splendid—rather not!
+
+      I am going to Rome with a wonderful dossier and letters of
+      introduction that cover every capital in Europe, and there will
+      be “no small stir” when I get there. How I wish you were with me!
+      This sounds like a rather cynical paragraph, not at all the sort
+      of thing that a middle-aged clergyman should write to a youth
+      about to depart for the war; the only excuse is that the
+      middle-aged clergyman is talking to himself. There are deep
+      things in us and you know what they are as well as I do. We have
+      great faith, though yours at present is uncrystallized; we have a
+      terrible honesty that all our sophistry cannot destroy and, above
+      all, a childlike simplicity that keeps us from ever being really
+      malicious.
+
+      I have written a keen for you which follows. I am sorry your
+      cheeks are not up to the description I have written of them, but
+      you _will_ smoke and read all night—
+
+      At any rate here it is:
+
+      A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the
+      King of Foreign.
+
+ “Ochone He is gone from me the son of my mind And he in his golden
+ youth like Angus Oge Angus of the bright birds And his mind strong and
+ subtle like the mind of Cuchulin on Muirtheme.
+  Awirra sthrue His brow is as white as the milk of the cows of Maeve
+  And his cheeks like the cherries of the tree And it bending down to
+  Mary and she feeding the Son of God.
+  Aveelia Vrone His hair is like the golden collar of the Kings at Tara
+  And his eyes like the four gray seas of Erin. And they swept with the
+  mists of rain.
+  Mavrone go Gudyo He to be in the joyful and red battle Amongst the
+  chieftains and they doing great deeds of valor His life to go from
+  him It is the chords of my own soul would be loosed.
+  A Vich Deelish My heart is in the heart of my son And my life is in
+  his life surely A man can be twice young In the life of his sons
+  only.
+  Jia du Vaha Alanav May the Son of God be above him and beneath him,
+  before him and behind him May the King of the elements cast a mist
+  over the eyes of the King of Foreign, May the Queen of the Graces
+  lead him by the hand the way he can go through the midst of his
+  enemies and they not seeing him
+  May Patrick of the Gael and Collumb of the Churches and the five
+  thousand Saints of Erin be better than a shield to him And he got
+  into the fight. Och Ochone.”
+
+      Amory—Amory—I feel, somehow, that this is all; one or both of us
+      is not going to last out this war.... I’ve been trying to tell
+      you how much this reincarnation of myself in you has meant in the
+      last few years... curiously alike we are... curiously unlike.
+      Good-by, dear boy, and God be with you. THAYER DARCY.
+
+
+      EMBARKING AT NIGHT
+
+      Amory moved forward on the deck until he found a stool under an
+      electric light. He searched in his pocket for note-book and
+      pencil and then began to write, slowly, laboriously:
+
+ “We leave to-night... Silent, we filled the still, deserted street, A
+ column of dim gray, And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat Along
+ the moonless way; The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet That turned
+ from night and day.
+    And so we linger on the windless decks, See on the spectre shore
+    Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks... Oh, shall we
+    then deplore Those futile years! See how the sea is white! The
+    clouds have broken and the heavens burn To hollow highways, paved
+    with gravelled light The churning of the waves about the stern
+    Rises to one voluminous nocturne, ... We leave to-night.”
+
+      A letter from Amory, headed “Brest, March 11th, 1919,” to
+      Lieutenant T. P. D’Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga.
+
+      DEAR BAUDELAIRE:—
+
+      We meet in Manhattan on the 30th of this very mo.; we then
+      proceed to take a very sporty apartment, you and I and Alec, who
+      is at me elbow as I write. I don’t know what I’m going to do but
+      I have a vague dream of going into politics. Why is it that the
+      pick of the young Englishmen from Oxford and Cambridge go into
+      politics and in the U. S. A. we leave it to the muckers?—raised
+      in the ward, educated in the assembly and sent to Congress,
+      fat-paunched bundles of corruption, devoid of “both ideas and
+      ideals” as the debaters used to say. Even forty years ago we had
+      good men in politics, but we, we are brought up to pile up a
+      million and “show what we are made of.” Sometimes I wish I’d been
+      an Englishman; American life is so damned dumb and stupid and
+      healthy.
+
+      Since poor Beatrice died I’ll probably have a little money, but
+      very darn little. I can forgive mother almost everything except
+      the fact that in a sudden burst of religiosity toward the end,
+      she left half of what remained to be spent in stained-glass
+      windows and seminary endowments. Mr. Barton, my lawyer, writes me
+      that my thousands are mostly in street railways and that the said
+      Street R.R. s are losing money because of the five-cent fares.
+      Imagine a salary list that gives $350 a month to a man that can’t
+      read and write!—yet I believe in it, even though I’ve seen what
+      was once a sizable fortune melt away between speculation,
+      extravagance, the democratic administration, and the income
+      tax—modern, that’s me all over, Mabel.
+
+      At any rate we’ll have really knock-out rooms—you can get a job
+      on some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc Company
+      or whatever it is that his people own—he’s looking over my
+      shoulder and he says it’s a brass company, but I don’t think it
+      matters much, do you? There’s probably as much corruption in
+      zinc-made money as brass-made money. As for the well-known Amory,
+      he would write immortal literature if he were sure enough about
+      anything to risk telling any one else about it. There is no more
+      dangerous gift to posterity than a few cleverly turned
+      platitudes.
+
+      Tom, why don’t you become a Catholic? Of course to be a good one
+      you’d have to give up those violent intrigues you used to tell me
+      about, but you’d write better poetry if you were linked up to
+      tall golden candlesticks and long, even chants, and even if the
+      American priests are rather burgeois, as Beatrice used to say,
+      still you need only go to the sporty churches, and I’ll introduce
+      you to Monsignor Darcy who really is a wonder.
+
+      Kerry’s death was a blow, so was Jesse’s to a certain extent. And
+      I have a great curiosity to know what queer corner of the world
+      has swallowed Burne. Do you suppose he’s in prison under some
+      false name? I confess that the war instead of making me orthodox,
+      which is the correct reaction, has made me a passionate agnostic.
+      The Catholic Church has had its wings clipped so often lately
+      that its part was timidly negligible, and they haven’t any good
+      writers any more. I’m sick of Chesterton.
+
+      I’ve only discovered one soldier who passed through the
+      much-advertised spiritual crisis, like this fellow, Donald
+      Hankey, and the one I knew was already studying for the ministry,
+      so he was ripe for it. I honestly think that’s all pretty much
+      rot, though it seemed to give sentimental comfort to those at
+      home; and may make fathers and mothers appreciate their children.
+      This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and fleeting at
+      best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one that
+      discovered God.
+
+      But us—you and me and Alec—oh, we’ll get a Jap butler and dress
+      for dinner and have wine on the table and lead a contemplative,
+      emotionless life until we decide to use machine-guns with the
+      property owners—or throw bombs with the Bolshevik God! Tom, I
+      hope something happens. I’m restless as the devil and have a
+      horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.
+
+      The place at Lake Geneva is now for rent but when I land I’m
+      going West to see Mr. Barton and get some details. Write me care
+      of the Blackstone, Chicago.
+
+              S’ever, dear Boswell,
+                                  SAMUEL JOHNSON.
+
+
+
+
+
+      BOOK TWO—The Education of a Personage
+
+      CHAPTER 1. The Debutante
+
+
+      The time is February. The place is a large, dainty bedroom in the
+      Connage house on Sixty-eighth Street, New York. A girl’s room:
+      pink walls and curtains and a pink bedspread on a cream-colored
+      bed. Pink and cream are the motifs of the room, but the only
+      article of furniture in full view is a luxurious dressing-table
+      with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On the walls there is
+      an expensive print of “Cherry Ripe,” a few polite dogs by
+      Landseer, and the “King of the Black Isles,” by Maxfield Parrish.
+
+      Great disorder consisting of the following items: (1) seven or
+      eight empty cardboard boxes, with tissue-paper tongues hanging
+      panting from their mouths; (2) an assortment of street dresses
+      mingled with their sisters of the evening, all upon the table,
+      all evidently new; (3) a roll of tulle, which has lost its
+      dignity and wound itself tortuously around everything in sight,
+      and (4) upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that
+      beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill called forth
+      by the finery displayed and one is possessed by a desire to see
+      the princess for whose benefit—Look! There’s some one!
+      Disappointment! This is only a maid hunting for something—she
+      lifts a heap from a chair—Not there; another heap, the
+      dressing-table, the chiffonier drawers. She brings to light
+      several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama but this does
+      not satisfy her—she goes out.
+
+      An indistinguishable mumble from the next room.
+
+      Now, we are getting warm. This is Alec’s mother, Mrs. Connage,
+      ample, dignified, rouged to the dowager point and quite worn out.
+      Her lips move significantly as she looks for IT. Her search is
+      less thorough than the maid’s but there is a touch of fury in it,
+      that quite makes up for its sketchiness. She stumbles on the
+      tulle and her “damn” is quite audible. She retires, empty-handed.
+
+      More chatter outside and a girl’s voice, a very spoiled voice,
+      says: “Of all the stupid people—”
+
+      After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled
+      voice, but a younger edition. This is Cecelia Connage, sixteen,
+      pretty, shrewd, and constitutionally good-humored. She is dressed
+      for the evening in a gown the obvious simplicity of which
+      probably bores her. She goes to the nearest pile, selects a small
+      pink garment and holds it up appraisingly.
+
+      CECELIA: Pink?
+
+      ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes!
+
+      CECELIA: _Very_ snappy?
+
+      ROSALIND: Yes!
+
+      CECELIA: I’ve got it!
+
+      (She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and
+      commences to shimmy enthusiastically.)
+
+      ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing—trying it on?
+
+      (CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right
+      shoulder.
+
+      From the other door, enters ALEC CONNAGE. He looks around quickly
+      and in a huge voice shouts: Mama! There is a chorus of protest
+      from next door and encouraged he starts toward it, but is
+      repelled by another chorus.)
+
+      ALEC: So _that’s_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here.
+
+      CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs.
+
+      ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him
+      I’m sorry that I can’t meet him now.
+
+      ALEC: He’s heard a lot about you all. I wish you’d hurry.
+      Father’s telling him all about the war and he’s restless. He’s
+      sort of temperamental.
+
+      (This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.)
+
+      CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you
+      mean—temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters.
+
+      ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff.
+
+      CECELIA: Does he play the piano?
+
+      ALEC: Don’t think so.
+
+      CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink?
+
+      ALEC: Yes—nothing queer about him.
+
+      CECELIA: Money?
+
+      ALEC: Good Lord—ask him, he used to have a lot, and he’s got some
+      income now.
+
+      (MRS. CONNAGE appears.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we’re glad to have any friend of
+      yours—
+
+      ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Of course, I want to. But I think it’s so childish
+      of you to leave a perfectly good home to go and live with two
+      other boys in some impossible apartment. I hope it isn’t in order
+      that you can all drink as much as you want. (She pauses.) He’ll
+      be a little neglected to-night. This is Rosalind’s week, you see.
+      When a girl comes out, she needs _all_ the attention.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and
+      hooking me.
+
+      (MRS. CONNAGE goes.)
+
+      ALEC: Rosalind hasn’t changed a bit.
+
+      CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She’s awfully spoiled.
+
+      ALEC: She’ll meet her match to-night.
+
+      CECELIA: Who—Mr. Amory Blaine?
+
+      (ALEC nods.)
+
+      CECELIA: Well, Rosalind has still to meet the man she can’t
+      outdistance. Honestly, Alec, she treats men terribly. She abuses
+      them and cuts them and breaks dates with them and yawns in their
+      faces—and they come back for more.
+
+      ALEC: They love it.
+
+      CECELIA: They hate it. She’s a—she’s a sort of vampire, I
+      think—and she can make girls do what she wants usually—only she
+      hates girls.
+
+      ALEC: Personality runs in our family.
+
+      CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me.
+
+      ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself?
+
+      CECELIA: Not particularly well. Oh, she’s average—smokes
+      sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissed—Oh, yes—common
+      knowledge—one of the effects of the war, you know.
+
+      (Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind’s almost finished so I can go down and
+      meet your friend.
+
+      (ALEC and his mother go out.)
+
+      ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother—
+
+      CECELIA: Mother’s gone down.
+
+      (And now ROSALIND enters. ROSALIND is—utterly ROSALIND. She is
+      one of those girls who need never make the slightest effort to
+      have men fall in love with them. Two types of men seldom do: dull
+      men are usually afraid of her cleverness and intellectual men are
+      usually afraid of her beauty. All others are hers by natural
+      prerogative.
+
+      If ROSALIND could be spoiled the process would have been complete
+      by this time, and as a matter of fact, her disposition is not all
+      it should be; she wants what she wants when she wants it and she
+      is prone to make every one around her pretty miserable when she
+      doesn’t get it—but in the true sense she is not spoiled. Her
+      fresh enthusiasm, her will to grow and learn, her endless faith
+      in the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage and fundamental
+      honesty—these things are not spoiled.
+
+      There are long periods when she cordially loathes her whole
+      family. She is quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem
+      for herself and laissez faire for others. She loves shocking
+      stories: she has that coarse streak that usually goes with
+      natures that are both fine and big. She wants people to like her,
+      but if they do not it never worries her or changes her. She is by
+      no means a model character.
+
+      The education of all beautiful women is the knowledge of men.
+      ROSALIND had been disappointed in man after man as individuals,
+      but she had great faith in man as a sex. Women she detested. They
+      represented qualities that she felt and despised in
+      herself—incipient meanness, conceit, cowardice, and petty
+      dishonesty. She once told a roomful of her mother’s friends that
+      the only excuse for women was the necessity for a disturbing
+      element among men. She danced exceptionally well, drew cleverly
+      but hastily, and had a startling facility with words, which she
+      used only in love-letters.
+
+      But all criticism of ROSALIND ends in her beauty. There was that
+      shade of glorious yellow hair, the desire to imitate which
+      supports the dye industry. There was the eternal kissable mouth,
+      small, slightly sensual, and utterly disturbing. There were gray
+      eyes and an unimpeachable skin with two spots of vanishing color.
+      She was slender and athletic, without underdevelopment, and it
+      was a delight to watch her move about a room, walk along a
+      street, swing a golf club, or turn a “cartwheel.”
+
+      A last qualification—her vivid, instant personality escaped that
+      conscious, theatrical quality that AMORY had found in ISABELLE.
+      MONSIGNOR DARCY would have been quite up a tree whether to call
+      her a personality or a personage. She was perhaps the delicious,
+      inexpressible, once-in-a-century blend.
+
+      On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, stray
+      wisdom, quite like a happy little girl. Her mother’s maid has
+      just done her hair, but she has decided impatiently that she can
+      do a better job herself. She is too nervous just now to stay in
+      one place. To that we owe her presence in this littered room. She
+      is going to speak. ISABELLE’S alto tones had been like a violin,
+      but if you could hear ROSALIND, you would say her voice was
+      musical as a waterfall.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Honestly, there are only two costumes in the world that
+      I really enjoy being in—(Combing her hair at the dressing-table.)
+      One’s a hoop skirt with pantaloons; the other’s a one-piece
+      bathing-suit. I’m quite charming in both of them.
+
+      CECELIA: Glad you’re coming out?
+
+      ROSALIND: Yes; aren’t you?
+
+      CECELIA: (Cynically) You’re glad so you can get married and live
+      on Long Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life
+      to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link.
+
+      ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I’ve _found_ it one.
+
+      CECELIA: Ha!
+
+      ROSALIND: Cecelia, darling, you don’t know what a trial it is to
+      be—like me. I’ve got to keep my face like steel in the street to
+      keep men from winking at me. If I laugh hard from a front row in
+      the theatre, the comedian plays to me for the rest of the
+      evening. If I drop my voice, my eyes, my handkerchief at a dance,
+      my partner calls me up on the ’phone every day for a week.
+
+      CECELIA: It must be an awful strain.
+
+      ROSALIND: The unfortunate part is that the only men who interest
+      me at all are the totally ineligible ones. Now—if I were poor I’d
+      go on the stage.
+
+      CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting
+      you do.
+
+      ROSALIND: Sometimes when I’ve felt particularly radiant I’ve
+      thought, why should this be wasted on one man?
+
+      CECELIA: Often when you’re particularly sulky, I’ve wondered why
+      it should all be wasted on just one family. (Getting up.) I think
+      I’ll go down and meet Mr. Amory Blaine. I like temperamental men.
+
+      ROSALIND: There aren’t any. Men don’t know how to be really angry
+      or really happy—and the ones that do, go to pieces.
+
+      CECELIA: Well, I’m glad I don’t have all your worries. I’m
+      engaged.
+
+      ROSALIND: (With a scornful smile) Engaged? Why, you little
+      lunatic! If mother heard you talking like that she’d send you off
+      to boarding-school, where you belong.
+
+      CECELIA: You won’t tell her, though, because I know things I
+      could tell—and you’re too selfish!
+
+      ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you
+      engaged to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store?
+
+      CECELIA: Cheap wit—good-by, darling, I’ll see you later.
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that—you’re such a help.
+
+      (Exit CECELIA. ROSALIND finished her hair and rises, humming. She
+      goes up to the mirror and starts to dance in front of it on the
+      soft carpet. She watches not her feet, but her eyes—never
+      casually but always intently, even when she smiles. The door
+      suddenly opens and then slams behind AMORY, very cool and
+      handsome as usual. He melts into instant confusion.)
+
+      HE: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought—
+
+      SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you’re Amory Blaine, aren’t you?
+
+      HE: (Regarding her closely) And you’re Rosalind?
+
+      SHE: I’m going to call you Amory—oh, come in—it’s all
+      right—mother’ll be right in—(under her breath) unfortunately.
+
+      HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me.
+
+      SHE: This is No Man’s Land.
+
+      HE: This is where you—you—(pause)
+
+      SHE: Yes—all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See,
+      here’s my rouge—eye pencils.
+
+      HE: I didn’t know you were that way.
+
+      SHE: What did you expect?
+
+      HE: I thought you’d be sort of—sort of—sexless, you know, swim
+      and play golf.
+
+      SHE: Oh, I do—but not in business hours.
+
+      HE: Business?
+
+      SHE: Six to two—strictly.
+
+      HE: I’d like to have some stock in the corporation.
+
+      SHE: Oh, it’s not a corporation—it’s just “Rosalind, Unlimited.”
+      Fifty-one shares, name, good-will, and everything goes at $25,000
+      a year.
+
+      HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition.
+
+      SHE: Well, Amory, you don’t mind—do you? When I meet a man that
+      doesn’t bore me to death after two weeks, perhaps it’ll be
+      different.
+
+      HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on
+      women.
+
+      SHE: I’m not really feminine, you know—in my mind.
+
+      HE: (Interested) Go on.
+
+      SHE: No, you—you go on—you’ve made me talk about myself. That’s
+      against the rules.
+
+      HE: Rules?
+
+      SHE: My own rules—but you—Oh, Amory, I hear you’re brilliant. The
+      family expects _so_ much of you.
+
+      HE: How encouraging!
+
+      SHE: Alec said you’d taught him to think. Did you? I didn’t
+      believe any one could.
+
+      HE: No. I’m really quite dull.
+
+      (He evidently doesn’t intend this to be taken seriously.)
+
+      SHE: Liar.
+
+      HE: I’m—I’m religious—I’m literary. I’ve—I’ve even written poems.
+
+      SHE: Vers libre—splendid! (She declaims.)
+
+   “The trees are green, The birds are singing in the trees, The girl
+   sips her poison The bird flies away the girl dies.”
+
+      HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind.
+
+      SHE: (Suddenly) I like you.
+
+      HE: Don’t.
+
+      SHE: Modest too—
+
+      HE: I’m afraid of you. I’m always afraid of a girl—until I’ve
+      kissed her.
+
+      SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over.
+
+      HE: So I’ll always be afraid of you.
+
+      SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will.
+
+      (A slight hesitation on both their parts.)
+
+      HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing
+      to ask.
+
+      SHE: (Knowing what’s coming) After five minutes.
+
+      HE: But will you—kiss me? Or are you afraid?
+
+      SHE: I’m never afraid—but your reasons are so poor.
+
+      HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you.
+
+      SHE: So do I.
+
+      (They kiss—definitely and thoroughly.)
+
+      HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity
+      satisfied?
+
+      SHE: Is yours?
+
+      HE: No, it’s only aroused.
+
+      (He looks it.)
+
+      SHE: (Dreamily) I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss
+      dozens more.
+
+      HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could—like that.
+
+      SHE: Most people like the way I kiss.
+
+      HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more,
+      Rosalind.
+
+      SHE: No—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one.
+
+      HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule?
+
+      SHE: I make rules to fit the cases.
+
+      HE: You and I are somewhat alike—except that I’m years older in
+      experience.
+
+      SHE: How old are you?
+
+      HE: Almost twenty-three. You?
+
+      SHE: Nineteen—just.
+
+      HE: I suppose you’re the product of a fashionable school.
+
+      SHE: No—I’m fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence—I’ve
+      forgotten why.
+
+      HE: What’s your general trend?
+
+      SHE: Oh, I’m bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond
+      of admiration—
+
+      HE: (Suddenly) I don’t want to fall in love with you—
+
+      SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to.
+
+      HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth.
+
+      SHE: Hush! Please don’t fall in love with my mouth—hair, eyes,
+      shoulders, slippers—but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love
+      with my mouth.
+
+      HE: It’s quite beautiful.
+
+      SHE: It’s too small.
+
+      HE: No it isn’t—let’s see.
+
+      (He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.)
+
+      SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet.
+
+      HE: (Frightened) Lord help me.
+
+      SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don’t—if it’s so hard.
+
+      HE: Shall we pretend? So soon?
+
+      SHE: We haven’t the same standards of time as other people.
+
+      HE: Already it’s—other people.
+
+      SHE: Let’s pretend.
+
+      HE: No—I can’t—it’s sentiment.
+
+      SHE: You’re not sentimental?
+
+      HE: No, I’m romantic—a sentimental person thinks things will
+      last—a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t.
+      Sentiment is emotional.
+
+      SHE: And you’re not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably
+      flatter yourself that that’s a superior attitude.
+
+      HE: Well—Rosalind, Rosalind, don’t argue—kiss me again.
+
+      SHE: (Quite chilly now) No—I have no desire to kiss you.
+
+      HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago.
+
+      SHE: This is now.
+
+      HE: I’d better go.
+
+      SHE: I suppose so.
+
+      (He goes toward the door.)
+
+      SHE: Oh!
+
+      (He turns.)
+
+      SHE: (Laughing) Score—Home Team: One hundred—Opponents: Zero.
+
+      (He starts back.)
+
+      SHE: (Quickly) Rain—no game.
+
+      (He goes out.)
+
+      (She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a cigarette-case
+      and hides it in the side drawer of a desk. Her mother enters,
+      note-book in hand.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Good—I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone before
+      we go down-stairs.
+
+      ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me!
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn’t what he once had.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don’t talk about money.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: You can’t do anything without it. This is our last
+      year in this house—and unless things change Cecelia won’t have
+      the advantages you’ve had.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well—what is it?
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: So I ask you to please mind me in several things
+      I’ve put down in my note-book. The first one is: don’t disappear
+      with young men. There may be a time when it’s valuable, but at
+      present I want you on the dance-floor where I can find you. There
+      are certain men I want to have you meet and I don’t like finding
+      you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silliness with
+      any one—or listening to it.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: And don’t waste a lot of time with the college
+      set—little boys nineteen and twenty years old. I don’t mind a
+      prom or a football game, but staying away from advantageous
+      parties to eat in little cafes down-town with Tom, Dick, and
+      Harry—
+
+      ROSALIND: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high
+      as her mother’s) Mother, it’s done—you can’t run everything now
+      the way you did in the early nineties.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor
+      friends of your father’s that I want you to meet
+      to-night—youngish men.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five?
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not?
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right—they know life and are so
+      adorably tired looking (shakes her head)—but they _will_ dance.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: I haven’t met Mr. Blaine—but I don’t think you’ll
+      care for him. He doesn’t sound like a money-maker.
+
+      ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I’ll marry a ton of
+      it—out of sheer boredom.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Referring to note-book) I had a wire from
+      Hartford. Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now there’s a young man I
+      like, and he’s floating in money. It seems to me that since you
+      seem tired of Howard Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some
+      encouragement. This is the third time he’s been up in a month.
+
+      ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie?
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he
+      comes.
+
+      ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs.
+      They’re all wrong.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you
+      to-night.
+
+      ROSALIND: Don’t you think I’m beautiful?
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are.
+
+      (From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the
+      roll of a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Come!
+
+      ROSALIND: One minute!
+
+      (Her mother leaves. ROSALIND goes to the glass where she gazes at
+      herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches
+      her mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and
+      leaves the room. Silence for a moment. A few chords from the
+      piano, the discreet patter of faint drums, the rustle of new
+      silk, all blend on the staircase outside and drift in through the
+      partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the lighted hall. The
+      laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. Then some
+      one comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is
+      CECELIA. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers,
+      hesitates—then to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case
+      and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing,
+      walks toward the mirror.)
+
+      CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming
+      out is _such_ a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around
+      so much before one is seventeen, that it’s positively anticlimax.
+      (Shaking hands with a visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your
+      grace—I b’lieve I’ve heard my sister speak of you. Have a
+      puff—they’re very good. They’re—they’re Coronas. You don’t smoke?
+      What a pity! The king doesn’t allow it, I suppose. Yes, I’ll
+      dance.
+
+      (So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her
+      arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving
+      in her hand.)
+
+
+      SEVERAL HOURS LATER
+
+      The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable
+      leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the
+      middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very
+      dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a
+      fox-trot.
+
+      ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD
+      GILLESPIE, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously
+      very unhappy, and she is quite bored.
+
+      GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the
+      same toward you.
+
+      ROSALIND: But you don’t look the same to me.
+
+      GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me
+      because I was so blasé, so indifferent—I still am.
+
+      ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had
+      brown eyes and thin legs.
+
+      GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown. You’re a
+      vampire, that’s all.
+
+      ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the
+      piano score. What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural. I
+      used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your
+      eyes wherever I go.
+
+      GILLESPIE: I love you.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it.
+
+      GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea
+      that after a girl was kissed she was—was—won.
+
+      ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again
+      every time you see me.
+
+      GILLESPIE: Are you serious?
+
+      ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses:
+      First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were
+      engaged. Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and
+      deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a
+      girl, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of
+      1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because he can’t kiss
+      her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man
+      nowadays.
+
+      GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men?
+
+      ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment,
+      when he’s interested. There is a moment—Oh, just before the first
+      kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worth while.
+
+      GILLESPIE: And then?
+
+      ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty
+      soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you—he sulks, he
+      won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play—Victory!
+
+      (Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to
+      his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)
+
+      RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.
+
+      ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t
+      got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.
+
+      (They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.)
+
+      RYDER: Your party is certainly a success.
+
+      ROSALIND: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind
+      sitting out a minute?
+
+      RYDER: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing" idea.
+      See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.
+
+      ROSALIND: Dawson!
+
+      RYDER: What?
+
+      ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me.
+
+      RYDER: (Startled) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable!
+
+      ROSALIND: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who
+      marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean.
+
+      RYDER: Oh, I wouldn’t say that.
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am—especially to the people nearest to me.
+      (She rises.) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to
+      dance. Mother is probably having a fit.
+
+      (Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.)
+
+      CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.
+
+      ALEC: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to.
+
+      CECELIA: Good heavens, no—with whom would I begin the next dance?
+      (Sighs.) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers
+      went back.
+
+      ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with
+      Rosalind.
+
+      CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.
+
+      ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls—I don’t know. I’m
+      awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to
+      break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.
+
+      CECELIA: He’s very good looking.
+
+      ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl
+      doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.
+
+      CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret.
+
+      ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some
+      that the Lord gave you a pug nose.
+
+      (Enter MRS. CONNAGE.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind?
+
+      ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to
+      find out. She’d naturally be with us.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor
+      millionaires to meet her.
+
+      ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: I’m perfectly serious—for all I know she may be at
+      the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her
+      debut. You look left and I’ll—
+
+      ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the
+      cellar?
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be
+      there?
+
+      CECELIA: He’s only joking, mother.
+
+      ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some
+      high hurdler.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Let’s look right away.
+
+      (They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.)
+
+      GILLESPIE: Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed
+      thing about me?
+
+      (AMORY walks in briskly.)
+
+      AMORY: My dance.
+
+      ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.
+
+      GILLESPIE: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?
+
+      AMORY: Yes.
+
+      GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the—the Middle
+      West, isn’t it?
+
+      AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather
+      be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.
+
+      GILLESPIE: What!
+
+      AMORY: Oh, no offense.
+
+      (GILLESPIE bows and leaves.)
+
+      ROSALIND: He’s too much _people_.
+
+      AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once.
+
+      ROSALIND: So?
+
+      AMORY: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except
+      what I read into her.
+
+      ROSALIND: What happened?
+
+      AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I
+      was—then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical,
+      you know.
+
+      ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical?
+
+      AMORY: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.
+
+      ROSALIND: What are you going to do?
+
+      AMORY: Can’t say—run for President, write—
+
+      ROSALIND: Greenwich Village?
+
+      AMORY: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.
+
+      ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.
+
+      AMORY: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?
+
+      AMORY: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you
+      were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell in love.
+
+      ROSALIND: I’ve suggested pretending.
+
+      AMORY: If we did it would be very big.
+
+      ROSALIND: Why?
+
+      AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of
+      great loves.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.
+
+      (Very deliberately they kiss.)
+
+      AMORY: I can’t say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful.
+
+      ROSALIND: Not that.
+
+      AMORY: What then?
+
+      ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real
+      sentiment—and I never find it.
+
+      AMORY: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.
+
+      ROSALIND: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic
+      taste.
+
+      (Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into
+      the room. ROSALIND rises.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”
+
+      (He looks at her.)
+
+      AMORY: Well?
+
+      ROSALIND: Well?
+
+      AMORY: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you.
+
+      ROSALIND: I love you—now.
+
+      (They kiss.)
+
+      AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done?
+
+      ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.
+
+      AMORY: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I
+      saw you.
+
+      ROSALIND: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night.
+
+      (Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says:
+      “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.)
+
+      ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t
+      care who knows what I do.
+
+      AMORY: Say it!
+
+      ROSALIND: I love you—now. (They part.) Oh—I am very youthful,
+      thank God—and rather beautiful, thank God—and happy, thank God,
+      thank God—(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy,
+      adds) Poor Amory!
+
+      (He kisses her again.)
+
+
+      KISMET
+
+      Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately
+      in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of
+      them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion
+      that washed over them.
+
+      “It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother,
+      “but it’s not inane.”
+
+      The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March,
+      where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather
+      exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and
+      touring Italy with Rosalind.
+
+      They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly
+      every evening—always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they
+      feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of
+      this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance,
+      seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of
+      marrying in July—in June. All life was transmitted into terms of
+      their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were
+      nullified—their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep;
+      their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely
+      regretted juvenalia.
+
+      For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete
+      bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation.
+
+
+      A LITTLE INTERLUDE
+
+      Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as
+      inevitably his—the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim
+      streets ... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading
+      harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of
+      life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night
+      of streets and singing—he moved in a half-dream through the crowd
+      as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager
+      feet from every corner.... How the unforgettable faces of dusk
+      would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures,
+      would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness
+      than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now
+      were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer
+      air.
+
+      The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom’s
+      cigarette where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut
+      behind him, Amory stood a moment with his back against it.
+
+      “Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business
+      to-day?”
+
+      Amory sprawled on a couch.
+
+      “I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling
+      agency was displaced quickly by another picture.
+
+      “My God! She’s wonderful!”
+
+      Tom sighed.
+
+      “I can’t tell you,” repeated Amory, “just how wonderful she is. I
+      don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.”
+
+      Another sigh came from the window—quite a resigned sigh.
+
+      “She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.”
+
+      He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.
+
+      “Oh, _Golly_, Tom!”
+
+
+      BITTER SWEET
+
+      “Sit like we do,” she whispered.
+
+      He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could
+      nestle inside them.
+
+      “I knew you’d come to-night,” she said softly, “like summer, just
+      when I needed you most... darling... darling...”
+
+      His lips moved lazily over her face.
+
+      “You _taste_ so good,” he sighed.
+
+      “How do you mean, lover?”
+
+      “Oh, just sweet, just sweet...” he held her closer.
+
+      “Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me I’ll marry
+      you.”
+
+      “We won’t have much at first.”
+
+      “Don’t!” she cried. “It hurts when you reproach yourself for what
+      you can’t give me. I’ve got your precious self—and that’s enough
+      for me.”
+
+      “Tell me...”
+
+      “You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.”
+
+      “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”
+
+      “I love you, Amory, with all my heart.”
+
+      “Always, will you?”
+
+      “All my life—Oh, Amory—”
+
+      “What?”
+
+      “I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I
+      want to have your babies.”
+
+      “But I haven’t any people.”
+
+      “Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.”
+
+      “I’ll do what you want,” he said.
+
+      “No, I’ll do what _you_ want. We’re _you_—not me. Oh, you’re so
+      much a part, so much all of me...”
+
+      He closed his eyes.
+
+      “I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this
+      was—was the high point?...”
+
+      She looked at him dreamily.
+
+      “Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there’s sadness, too. I
+      suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the
+      scent of roses and then the death of roses—”
+
+      “Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony....”
+
+      “And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us—”
+
+      “He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.”
+
+      “I’m not his, I’m yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first
+      time I regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss
+      can mean.”
+
+      Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the
+      office—and where they might live. Sometimes, when he was
+      particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he
+      loved that Rosalind—all Rosalinds—as he had never in the world
+      loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours.
+
+
+      AQUATIC INCIDENT
+
+      One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident down-town
+      took lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him.
+      Gillespie after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he
+      began by telling Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly
+      eccentric.
+
+      He had gone with her on a swimming party up in Westchester
+      County, and some one mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been
+      there one day on a visit and had dived from the top of a rickety,
+      thirty-foot summer-house. Immediately Rosalind insisted that
+      Howard should climb up with her to see what it looked like.
+
+      A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a
+      form shot by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan
+      dive, had sailed through the air into the clear water.
+
+      “Of course _I_ had to go, after that—and I nearly killed myself.
+      I thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the
+      party tried it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me
+      why I stooped over when I dove. ‘It didn’t make it any easier,’
+      she said, ‘it just took all the courage out of it.’ I ask you,
+      what can a man do with a girl like that? Unnecessary, I call it.”
+
+      Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly
+      all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow
+      optimists.
+
+
+      FIVE WEEKS LATER
+
+      Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is alone,
+      sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at
+      nothing. She has changed perceptibly—she is a trifle thinner for
+      one thing; the light in her eyes is not so bright; she looks
+      easily a year older.
+
+      Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in
+      ROSALIND with a nervous glance.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night?
+
+      (ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play,
+      “Et tu, Brutus.” (She perceives that she is talking to herself.)
+      Rosalind! I asked you who is coming to-night?
+
+      ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh—what—oh—Amory—
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately
+      that I couldn’t imagine _which_ one. (ROSALIND doesn’t answer.)
+      Dawson Ryder is more patient than I thought he’d be. You haven’t
+      given him an evening this week.
+
+      ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her
+      face.) Mother—please—
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won’t interfere. You’ve already wasted over
+      two months on a theoretical genius who hasn’t a penny to his
+      name, but _go_ ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won’t
+      interfere.
+
+      ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a
+      little income—and you know he’s earning thirty-five dollars a
+      week in advertising—
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn’t buy your clothes. (She pauses but
+      ROSALIND makes no reply.) I have your best interests at heart
+      when I tell you not to take a step you’ll spend your days
+      regretting. It’s not as if your father could help you. Things
+      have been hard for him lately and he’s an old man. You’d be
+      dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born boy, but a
+      dreamer—merely _clever_. (She implies that this quality in itself
+      is rather vicious.)
+
+      ROSALIND: For heaven’s sake, mother—
+
+      (A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately.
+      AMORY’S friends have been telling him for ten days that he “looks
+      like the wrath of God,” and he does. As a matter of fact he has
+      not been able to eat a mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.)
+
+      AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage.
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory.
+
+      (AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glances—and ALEC comes in. ALEC’S
+      attitude throughout has been neutral. He believes in his heart
+      that the marriage would make AMORY mediocre and ROSALIND
+      miserable, but he feels a great sympathy for both of them.)
+
+      ALEC: Hi, Amory!
+
+      AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he’d meet you at the theatre.
+
+      ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How’s the advertising to-day? Write
+      some brilliant copy?
+
+      AMORY: Oh, it’s about the same. I got a raise—(Every one looks at
+      him rather eagerly)—of two dollars a week. (General collapse.)
+
+      MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car.
+
+      (A good night, rather chilly in sections. After MRS. CONNAGE and
+      ALEC go out there is a pause. ROSALIND still stares moodily at
+      the fireplace. AMORY goes to her and puts his arm around her.)
+
+      AMORY: Darling girl.
+
+      (They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it
+      with kisses and holds it to her breast.)
+
+      ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than anything. I see
+      them often when you’re away from me—so tired; I know every line
+      of them. Dear hands!
+
+      (Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry—a
+      tearless sobbing.)
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind!
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, we’re so darned pitiful!
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind!
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die!
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind, another night of this and I’ll go to pieces.
+      You’ve been this way four days now. You’ve got to be more
+      encouraging or I can’t work or eat or sleep. (He looks around
+      helplessly as if searching for new words to clothe an old,
+      shopworn phrase.) We’ll have to make a start. I like having to
+      make a start together. (His forced hopefulness fades as he sees
+      her unresponsive.) What’s the matter? (He gets up suddenly and
+      starts to pace the floor.) It’s Dawson Ryder, that’s what it is.
+      He’s been working on your nerves. You’ve been with him every
+      afternoon for a week. People come and tell me they’ve seen you
+      together, and I have to smile and nod and pretend it hasn’t the
+      slightest significance for me. And you won’t tell me anything as
+      it develops.
+
+      ROSALIND: Amory, if you don’t sit down I’ll scream.
+
+      AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don’t
+      you?
+
+      AMORY: Yes.
+
+      ROSALIND: You know I’ll always love you—
+
+      AMORY: Don’t talk that way; you frighten me. It sounds as if we
+      weren’t going to have each other. (She cries a little and rising
+      from the couch goes to the armchair.) I’ve felt all afternoon
+      that things were worse. I nearly went wild down at the
+      office—couldn’t write a line. Tell me everything.
+
+      ROSALIND: There’s nothing to tell, I say. I’m just nervous.
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind, you’re playing with the idea of marrying Dawson
+      Ryder.
+
+      ROSALIND: (After a pause) He’s been asking me to all day.
+
+      AMORY: Well, he’s got his nerve!
+
+      ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him.
+
+      AMORY: Don’t say that. It hurts me.
+
+      ROSALIND: Don’t be a silly idiot. You know you’re the only man
+      I’ve ever loved, ever will love.
+
+      AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let’s get married—next week.
+
+      ROSALIND: We can’t.
+
+      AMORY: Why not?
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, we can’t. I’d be your squaw—in some horrible place.
+
+      AMORY: We’ll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month
+      all told.
+
+      ROSALIND: Darling, I don’t even do my own hair, usually.
+
+      AMORY: I’ll do it for you.
+
+      ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks.
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind, you _can’t_ be thinking of marrying some one
+      else. Tell me! You leave me in the dark. I can help you fight it
+      out if you’ll only tell me.
+
+      ROSALIND: It’s just—us. We’re pitiful, that’s all. The very
+      qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a
+      failure.
+
+      AMORY: (Grimly) Go on.
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh—it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He’s so reliable, I almost
+      feel that he’d be a—a background.
+
+      AMORY: You don’t love him.
+
+      ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he’s a good man and a
+      strong one.
+
+      AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes—he’s that.
+
+      ROSALIND: Well—here’s one little thing. There was a little poor
+      boy we met in Rye Tuesday afternoon—and, oh, Dawson took him on
+      his lap and talked to him and promised him an Indian suit—and
+      next day he remembered and bought it—and, oh, it was so sweet and
+      I couldn’t help thinking he’d be so nice to—to our children—take
+      care of them—and I wouldn’t have to worry.
+
+      AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind!
+
+      ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don’t look so consciously
+      suffering.
+
+      AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other!
+
+      ROSALIND: (Commencing to sob again) It’s been so perfect—you and
+      I. So like a dream that I’d longed for and never thought I’d
+      find. The first real unselfishness I’ve ever felt in my life. And
+      I can’t see it fade out in a colorless atmosphere!
+
+      AMORY: It won’t—it won’t!
+
+      ROSALIND: I’d rather keep it as a beautiful memory—tucked away in
+      my heart.
+
+      AMORY: Yes, women can do that—but not men. I’d remember always,
+      not the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness,
+      the long bitterness.
+
+      ROSALIND: Don’t!
+
+      AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a
+      gate shut and barred—you don’t dare be my wife.
+
+      ROSALIND: No—no—I’m taking the hardest course, the strongest
+      course. Marrying you would be a failure and I never fail—if you
+      don’t stop walking up and down I’ll scream!
+
+      (Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.)
+
+      AMORY: Come over here and kiss me.
+
+      ROSALIND: No.
+
+      AMORY: Don’t you _want_ to kiss me?
+
+      ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly.
+
+      AMORY: The beginning of the end.
+
+      ROSALIND: (With a burst of insight) Amory, you’re young. I’m
+      young. People excuse us now for our poses and vanities, for
+      treating people like Sancho and yet getting away with it. They
+      excuse us now. But you’ve got a lot of knocks coming to you—
+
+      AMORY: And you’re afraid to take them with me.
+
+      ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere—you’ll
+      say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh—but listen:
+
+   “For this is wisdom—to love and live, To take what fate or the gods
+   may give, To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips
+   and caress the hair, Speed passion’s ebb as we greet its flow, To
+   have and to hold, and, in time—let go.”
+
+      AMORY: But we haven’t had.
+
+      ROSALIND: Amory, I’m yours—you know it. There have been times in
+      the last month I’d have been completely yours if you’d said so.
+      But I can’t marry you and ruin both our lives.
+
+      AMORY: We’ve got to take our chance for happiness.
+
+      ROSALIND: Dawson says I’d learn to love him.
+
+      (AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life
+      seems suddenly gone out of him.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine
+      life without you.
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind, we’re on each other’s nerves. It’s just that
+      we’re both high-strung, and this week—
+
+      (His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his
+      face in her hands, kisses him.)
+
+      ROSALIND: I can’t, Amory. I can’t be shut away from the trees and
+      flowers, cooped up in a little flat, waiting for you. You’d hate
+      me in a narrow atmosphere. I’d make you hate me.
+
+      (Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.)
+
+      AMORY: Rosalind—
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go—Don’t make it harder! I can’t stand it—
+
+      AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what
+      you’re saying? Do you mean forever?
+
+      (There is a difference somehow in the quality of their
+      suffering.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Can’t you see—
+
+      AMORY: I’m afraid I can’t if you love me. You’re afraid of taking
+      two years’ knocks with me.
+
+      ROSALIND: I wouldn’t be the Rosalind you love.
+
+      AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can’t give you up! I can’t,
+      that’s all! I’ve got to have you!
+
+      ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You’re being a baby now.
+
+      AMORY: (Wildly) I don’t care! You’re spoiling our lives!
+
+      ROSALIND: I’m doing the wise thing, the only thing.
+
+      AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder?
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, don’t ask me. You know I’m old in some ways—in
+      others—well, I’m just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty
+      things and cheerfulness—and I dread responsibility. I don’t want
+      to think about pots and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry
+      whether my legs will get slick and brown when I swim in the
+      summer.
+
+      AMORY: And you love me.
+
+      ROSALIND: That’s just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much.
+      We can’t have any more scenes like this.
+
+      (She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their
+      eyes blind again with tears.)
+
+      AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don’t! Keep it,
+      please—oh, don’t break my heart!
+
+      (She presses the ring softly into his hand.)
+
+      ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You’d better go.
+
+      AMORY: Good-by—
+
+      (She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite
+      sadness.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Don’t ever forget me, Amory—
+
+      AMORY: Good-by—
+
+      (He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it—she sees him
+      throw back his head—and he is gone. Gone—she half starts from the
+      lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.)
+
+      ROSALIND: Oh, God, I want to die! (After a moment she rises and
+      with her eyes closed feels her way to the door. Then she turns
+      and looks once more at the room. Here they had sat and dreamed:
+      that tray she had so often filled with matches for him; that
+      shade that they had discreetly lowered one long Sunday afternoon.
+      Misty-eyed she stands and remembers; she speaks aloud.) Oh,
+      Amory, what have I done to you?
+
+      (And deep under the aching sadness that will pass in time,
+      Rosalind feels that she has lost something, she knows not what,
+      she knows not why.)
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence
+
+
+      The Knickerbocker Bar, beamed upon by Maxfield Parrish’s jovial,
+      colorful “Old King Cole,” was well crowded. Amory stopped in the
+      entrance and looked at his wrist-watch; he wanted particularly to
+      know the time, for something in his mind that catalogued and
+      classified liked to chip things off cleanly. Later it would
+      satisfy him in a vague way to be able to think “that thing ended
+      at exactly twenty minutes after eight on Thursday, June 10,
+      1919.” This was allowing for the walk from her house—a walk
+      concerning which he had afterward not the faintest recollection.
+
+      He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of worry and
+      nervousness, of sleepless nights, of untouched meals, culminating
+      in the emotional crisis and Rosalind’s abrupt decision—the strain
+      of it had drugged the foreground of his mind into a merciful
+      coma. As he fumbled clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch
+      table, a man approached and spoke to him, and the olives dropped
+      from his nervous hands.
+
+      “Well, Amory...”
+
+      It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the
+      name.
+
+      “Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying.
+
+      “Name’s Jim Wilson—you’ve forgotten.”
+
+      “Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember.”
+
+      “Going to reunion?”
+
+      “You know!” Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to
+      reunion.
+
+      “Get overseas?”
+
+      Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping back to let some
+      one pass, he knocked the dish of olives to a crash on the floor.
+
+      “Too bad,” he muttered. “Have a drink?”
+
+      Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on
+      the back.
+
+      “You’ve had plenty, old boy.”
+
+      Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the
+      scrutiny.
+
+      “Plenty, hell!” said Amory finally. “I haven’t had a drink
+      to-day.”
+
+      Wilson looked incredulous.
+
+      “Have a drink or not?” cried Amory rudely.
+
+      Together they sought the bar.
+
+      “Rye high.”
+
+      “I’ll just take a Bronx.”
+
+      Wilson had another; Amory had several more. They decided to sit
+      down. At ten o’clock Wilson was displaced by Carling, class of
+      ’15. Amory, his head spinning gorgeously, layer upon layer of
+      soft satisfaction setting over the bruised spots of his spirit,
+      was discoursing volubly on the war.
+
+      “’S a mental was’e,” he insisted with owl-like wisdom. “Two years
+      my life spent inalleshual vacuity. Los’ idealism, got be physcal
+      anmal,” he shook his fist expressively at Old King Cole, “got be
+      Prussian ’bout ev’thing, women ’specially. Use’ be straight ’bout
+      women college. Now don’givadam.” He expressed his lack of
+      principle by sweeping a seltzer bottle with a broad gesture to
+      noisy extinction on the floor, but this did not interrupt his
+      speech. “Seek pleasure where find it for to-morrow die. ’At’s
+      philos’phy for me now on.”
+
+      Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued:
+
+      “Use’ wonder ’bout things—people satisfied compromise,
+      fif’y-fif’y att’tude on life. Now don’ wonder, don’ wonder—” He
+      became so emphatic in impressing on Carling the fact that he
+      didn’t wonder that he lost the thread of his discourse and
+      concluded by announcing to the bar at large that he was a
+      “physcal anmal.”
+
+      “What are you celebrating, Amory?”
+
+      Amory leaned forward confidentially.
+
+      “Cel’brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can’t tell
+      you ’bout it—”
+
+      He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender:
+
+      “Give him a bromo-seltzer.”
+
+      Amory shook his head indignantly.
+
+      “None that stuff!”
+
+      “But listen, Amory, you’re making yourself sick. You’re white as
+      a ghost.”
+
+      Amory considered the question. He tried to look at himself in the
+      mirror but even by squinting up one eye could only see as far as
+      the row of bottles behind the bar.
+
+      “Like som’n solid. We go get some—some salad.”
+
+      He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance, but letting
+      go of the bar was too much for him, and he slumped against a
+      chair.
+
+      “We’ll go over to Shanley’s,” suggested Carling, offering an
+      elbow.
+
+      With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion
+      enough to propel him across Forty-second Street.
+
+      Shanley’s was very dim. He was conscious that he was talking in a
+      loud voice, very succinctly and convincingly, he thought, about a
+      desire to crush people under his heel. He consumed three club
+      sandwiches, devouring each as though it were no larger than a
+      chocolate-drop. Then Rosalind began popping into his mind again,
+      and he found his lips forming her name over and over. Next he was
+      sleepy, and he had a hazy, listless sense of people in dress
+      suits, probably waiters, gathering around the table....
+
+      ... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a
+      knot in his shoe-lace.
+
+      “Nemmine,” he managed to articulate drowsily. “Sleep in ’em....”
+
+
+      STILL ALCOHOLIC
+
+      He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings,
+      evidently a bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was
+      whirring and picture after picture was forming and blurring and
+      melting before his eyes, but beyond the desire to laugh he had no
+      entirely conscious reaction. He reached for the ’phone beside his
+      bed.
+
+      “Hello—what hotel is this—?
+
+      “Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls—”
+
+      He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they’d send up a
+      bottle or just two of those little glass containers. Then, with
+      an effort, he struggled out of bed and ambled into the bathroom.
+
+      When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a towel, he found
+      the bar boy with the drinks and had a sudden desire to kid him.
+      On reflection he decided that this would be undignified, so he
+      waved him away.
+
+      As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the
+      isolated pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day
+      before. Again he saw Rosalind curled weeping among the pillows,
+      again he felt her tears against his cheek. Her words began
+      ringing in his ears: “Don’t ever forget me, Amory—don’t ever
+      forget me—”
+
+      “Hell!” he faltered aloud, and then he choked and collapsed on
+      the bed in a shaken spasm of grief. After a minute he opened his
+      eyes and regarded the ceiling.
+
+      “Damned fool!” he exclaimed in disgust, and with a voluminous
+      sigh rose and approached the bottle. After another glass he gave
+      way loosely to the luxury of tears. Purposely he called up into
+      his mind little incidents of the vanished spring, phrased to
+      himself emotions that would make him react even more strongly to
+      sorrow.
+
+      “We were so happy,” he intoned dramatically, “so very happy.”
+      Then he gave way again and knelt beside the bed, his head
+      half-buried in the pillow.
+
+      “My own girl—my own—Oh—”
+
+      He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from
+      his eyes.
+
+      “Oh... my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted!... Oh, my girl,
+      come back, come back! I need you... need you... we’re so pitiful
+      ... just misery we brought each other.... She’ll be shut away
+      from me.... I can’t see her; I can’t be her friend. It’s got to
+      be that way—it’s got to be—”
+
+      And then again:
+
+      “We’ve been so happy, so very happy....”
+
+      He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an ecstasy of
+      sentiment, and then lay exhausted while he realized slowly that
+      he had been very drunk the night before, and that his head was
+      spinning again wildly. He laughed, rose, and crossed again to
+      Lethe....
+
+      At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and the riot
+      began again. He had a vague recollection afterward of discussing
+      French poetry with a British officer who was introduced to him as
+      “Captain Corn, of his Majesty’s Foot,” and he remembered
+      attempting to recite “Clair de Lune” at luncheon; then he slept
+      in a big, soft chair until almost five o’clock when another crowd
+      found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic dressing of
+      several temperaments for the ordeal of dinner. They selected
+      theatre tickets at Tyson’s for a play that had a four-drink
+      programme—a play with two monotonous voices, with turbid, gloomy
+      scenes, and lighting effects that were hard to follow when his
+      eyes behaved so amazingly. He imagined afterward that it must
+      have been “The Jest.”...
+
+      ... Then the Cocoanut Grove, where Amory slept again on a little
+      balcony outside. Out in Shanley’s, Yonkers, he became almost
+      logical, and by a careful control of the number of high-balls he
+      drank, grew quite lucid and garrulous. He found that the party
+      consisted of five men, two of whom he knew slightly; he became
+      righteous about paying his share of the expense and insisted in a
+      loud voice on arranging everything then and there to the
+      amusement of the tables around him....
+
+      Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next
+      table, so Amory rose and, approaching gallantly, introduced
+      himself... this involved him in an argument, first with her
+      escort and then with the headwaiter—Amory’s attitude being a
+      lofty and exaggerated courtesy... he consented, after being
+      confronted with irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own
+      table.
+
+      “Decided to commit suicide,” he announced suddenly.
+
+      “When? Next year?”
+
+      “Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore,
+      get into a hot bath and open a vein.”
+
+      “He’s getting morbid!”
+
+      “You need another rye, old boy!”
+
+      “We’ll all talk it over to-morrow.”
+
+      But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least.
+
+      “Did you ever get that way?” he demanded confidentially
+      fortaccio.
+
+      “Sure!”
+
+      “Often?”
+
+      “My chronic state.”
+
+      This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed
+      sometimes that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that
+      there was nothing to live for. “Captain Corn,” who had somehow
+      rejoined the party, said that in his opinion it was when one’s
+      health was bad that one felt that way most. Amory’s suggestion
+      was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken glass in it,
+      and drink it off. To his relief no one applauded the idea, so
+      having finished his high-ball, he balanced his chin in his hand
+      and his elbow on the table—a most delicate, scarcely noticeable
+      sleeping position, he assured himself—and went into a deep
+      stupor....
+
+      He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with
+      brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes.
+
+      “Take me home!” she cried.
+
+      “Hello!” said Amory, blinking.
+
+      “I like you,” she announced tenderly.
+
+      “I like you too.”
+
+      He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that
+      one of his party was arguing with him.
+
+      “Fella I was with’s a damn fool,” confided the blue-eyed woman.
+      “I hate him. I want to go home with you.”
+
+      “You drunk?” queried Amory with intense wisdom.
+
+      She nodded coyly.
+
+      “Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.”
+
+      At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his
+      detainers and approached.
+
+      “Say!” he said fiercely. “I brought this girl out here and you’re
+      butting in!”
+
+      Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer.
+
+      “You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man.
+
+      Amory tried to make his eyes threatening.
+
+      “You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention
+      to the girl.
+
+      “Love first sight,” he suggested.
+
+      “I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_
+      have beautiful eyes.
+
+      Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory’s ear.
+
+      “That’s just Margaret Diamond. She’s drunk and this fellow here
+      brought her. Better let her go.”
+
+      “Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I’m
+      no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?—am I?”
+
+      “Let her go!”
+
+      “It’s _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!”
+
+      The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl
+      threatened, but a sleek waiter bent back Margaret Diamond’s
+      fingers until she released her hold on Amory, whereupon she
+      slapped the waiter furiously in the face and flung her arms about
+      her raging original escort.
+
+      “Oh, Lord!” cried Amory.
+
+      “Let’s go!”
+
+      “Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!”
+
+      “Check, waiter.”
+
+      “C’mon, Amory. Your romance is over.”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “You don’t know how true you spoke. No idea. ’At’s the whole
+      trouble.”
+
+
+      AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION
+
+      Two mornings later he knocked at the president’s door at Bascome
+      and Barlow’s advertising agency.
+
+      “Come in!”
+
+      Amory entered unsteadily.
+
+      “’Morning, Mr. Barlow.”
+
+      Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his
+      mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen.
+
+      “Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven’t seen you for several days.”
+
+      “No,” said Amory. “I’m quitting.”
+
+      “Well—well—this is—”
+
+      “I don’t like it here.”
+
+      “I’m sorry. I thought our relations had been quite—ah—pleasant.
+      You seemed to be a hard worker—a little inclined perhaps to write
+      fancy copy—”
+
+      “I just got tired of it,” interrupted Amory rudely. “It didn’t
+      matter a damn to me whether Harebell’s flour was any better than
+      any one else’s. In fact, I never ate any of it. So I got tired of
+      telling people about it—oh, I know I’ve been drinking—”
+
+      Mr. Barlow’s face steeled by several ingots of expression.
+
+      “You asked for a position—”
+
+      Amory waved him to silence.
+
+      “And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a
+      week—less than a good carpenter.”
+
+      “You had just started. You’d never worked before,” said Mr.
+      Barlow coolly.
+
+      “But it took about ten thousand dollars to educate me where I
+      could write your darned stuff for you. Anyway, as far as length
+      of service goes, you’ve got stenographers here you’ve paid
+      fifteen a week for five years.”
+
+      “I’m not going to argue with you, sir,” said Mr. Barlow rising.
+
+      “Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I’m quitting.”
+
+      They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and
+      then Amory turned and left the office.
+
+
+      A LITTLE LULL
+
+      Four days after that he returned at last to the apartment. Tom
+      was engaged on a book review for The New Democracy on the staff
+      of which he was employed. They regarded each other for a moment
+      in silence.
+
+      “Well?”
+
+      “Well?”
+
+      “Good Lord, Amory, where’d you get the black eye—and the jaw?”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “That’s a mere nothing.”
+
+      He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders.
+
+      “Look here!”
+
+      Tom emitted a low whistle.
+
+      “What hit you?”
+
+      Amory laughed again.
+
+      “Oh, a lot of people. I got beaten up. Fact.” He slowly replaced
+      his shirt. “It was bound to come sooner or later and I wouldn’t
+      have missed it for anything.”
+
+      “Who was it?”
+
+      “Well, there were some waiters and a couple of sailors and a few
+      stray pedestrians, I guess. It’s the strangest feeling. You ought
+      to get beaten up just for the experience of it. You fall down
+      after a while and everybody sort of slashes in at you before you
+      hit the ground—then they kick you.”
+
+      Tom lighted a cigarette.
+
+      “I spent a day chasing you all over town, Amory. But you always
+      kept a little ahead of me. I’d say you’ve been on some party.”
+
+      Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette.
+
+      “You sober now?” asked Tom quizzically.
+
+      “Pretty sober. Why?”
+
+      “Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home
+      and live, so he—”
+
+      A spasm of pain shook Amory.
+
+      “Too bad.”
+
+      “Yes, it is too bad. We’ll have to get some one else if we’re
+      going to stay here. The rent’s going up.”
+
+      “Sure. Get anybody. I’ll leave it to you, Tom.”
+
+      Amory walked into his bedroom. The first thing that met his
+      glance was a photograph of Rosalind that he had intended to have
+      framed, propped up against a mirror on his dresser. He looked at
+      it unmoved. After the vivid mental pictures of her that were his
+      portion at present, the portrait was curiously unreal. He went
+      back into the study.
+
+      “Got a cardboard box?”
+
+      “No,” answered Tom, puzzled. “Why should I have? Oh, yes—there
+      may be one in Alec’s room.”
+
+      Eventually Amory found what he was looking for and, returning to
+      his dresser, opened a drawer full of letters, notes, part of a
+      chain, two little handkerchiefs, and some snap-shots. As he
+      transferred them carefully to the box his mind wandered to some
+      place in a book where the hero, after preserving for a year a
+      cake of his lost love’s soap, finally washed his hands with it.
+      He laughed and began to hum “After you’ve gone” ... ceased
+      abruptly...
+
+      The string broke twice, and then he managed to secure it, dropped
+      the package into the bottom of his trunk, and having slammed the
+      lid returned to the study.
+
+      “Going out?” Tom’s voice held an undertone of anxiety.
+
+      “Uh-huh.”
+
+      “Where?”
+
+      “Couldn’t say, old keed.”
+
+      “Let’s have dinner together.”
+
+      “Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I’d eat with him.”
+
+      “Oh.”
+
+      “By-by.”
+
+      Amory crossed the street and had a high-ball; then he walked to
+      Washington Square and found a top seat on a bus. He disembarked
+      at Forty-third Street and strolled to the Biltmore bar.
+
+      “Hi, Amory!”
+
+      “What’ll you have?”
+
+      “Yo-ho! Waiter!”
+
+
+      TEMPERATURE NORMAL
+
+      The advent of prohibition with the “thirsty-first” put a sudden
+      stop to the submerging of Amory’s sorrows, and when he awoke one
+      morning to find that the old bar-to-bar days were over, he had
+      neither remorse for the past three weeks nor regret that their
+      repetition was impossible. He had taken the most violent, if the
+      weakest, method to shield himself from the stabs of memory, and
+      while it was not a course he would have prescribed for others, he
+      found in the end that it had done its business: he was over the
+      first flush of pain.
+
+      Don’t misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind as he would never
+      love another living person. She had taken the first flush of his
+      youth and brought from his unplumbed depths tenderness that had
+      surprised him, gentleness and unselfishness that he had never
+      given to another creature. He had later love-affairs, but of a
+      different sort: in those he went back to that, perhaps, more
+      typical frame of mind, in which the girl became the mirror of a
+      mood in him. Rosalind had drawn out what was more than passionate
+      admiration; he had a deep, undying affection for Rosalind.
+
+      But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic tragedy,
+      culminating in the arabesque nightmare of his three weeks’ spree,
+      that he was emotionally worn out. The people and surroundings
+      that he remembered as being cool or delicately artificial, seemed
+      to promise him a refuge. He wrote a cynical story which featured
+      his father’s funeral and despatched it to a magazine, receiving
+      in return a check for sixty dollars and a request for more of the
+      same tone. This tickled his vanity, but inspired him to no
+      further effort.
+
+      He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed by “A Portrait
+      of the Artist as a Young Man”; intensely interested by “Joan and
+      Peter” and “The Undying Fire,” and rather surprised by his
+      discovery through a critic named Mencken of several excellent
+      American novels: “Vandover and the Brute,” “The Damnation of
+      Theron Ware,” and “Jennie Gerhardt.” Mackenzie, Chesterton,
+      Galsworthy, Bennett, had sunk in his appreciation from sagacious,
+      life-saturated geniuses to merely diverting contemporaries.
+      Shaw’s aloof clarity and brilliant consistency and the gloriously
+      intoxicated efforts of H. G. Wells to fit the key of romantic
+      symmetry into the elusive lock of truth, alone won his rapt
+      attention.
+
+      He wanted to see Monsignor Darcy, to whom he had written when he
+      landed, but he had not heard from him; besides he knew that a
+      visit to Monsignor would entail the story of Rosalind, and the
+      thought of repeating it turned him cold with horror.
+
+      In his search for cool people he remembered Mrs. Lawrence, a very
+      intelligent, very dignified lady, a convert to the church, and a
+      great devotee of Monsignor’s.
+
+      He called her on the ’phone one day. Yes, she remembered him
+      perfectly; no, Monsignor wasn’t in town, was in Boston she
+      thought; he’d promised to come to dinner when he returned.
+      Couldn’t Amory take luncheon with her?
+
+      “I thought I’d better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said rather
+      ambiguously when he arrived.
+
+      “Monsignor was here just last week,” said Mrs. Lawrence
+      regretfully. “He was very anxious to see you, but he’d left your
+      address at home.”
+
+      “Did he think I’d plunged into Bolshevism?” asked Amory,
+      interested.
+
+      “Oh, he’s having a frightful time.”
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity.”
+
+      “So?”
+
+      “He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was
+      greatly distressed because the receiving committee, when they
+      rode in an automobile, _would_ put their arms around the
+      President.”
+
+      “I don’t blame him.”
+
+      “Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in
+      the army? You look a great deal older.”
+
+      “That’s from another, more disastrous battle,” he answered,
+      smiling in spite of himself. “But the army—let me see—well, I
+      discovered that physical courage depends to a great extent on the
+      physical shape a man is in. I found that I was as brave as the
+      next man—it used to worry me before.”
+
+      “What else?”
+
+      “Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they get used to
+      it, and the fact that I got a high mark in the psychological
+      examination.”
+
+      Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a great relief to be
+      in this cool house on Riverside Drive, away from more condensed
+      New York and the sense of people expelling great quantities of
+      breath into a little space. Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely of
+      Beatrice, not in temperament, but in her perfect grace and
+      dignity. The house, its furnishings, the manner in which dinner
+      was served, were in immense contrast to what he had met in the
+      great places on Long Island, where the servants were so obtrusive
+      that they had positively to be bumped out of the way, or even in
+      the houses of more conservative “Union Club” families. He
+      wondered if this air of symmetrical restraint, this grace, which
+      he felt was continental, was distilled through Mrs. Lawrence’s
+      New England ancestry or acquired in long residence in Italy and
+      Spain.
+
+      Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his tongue, and he
+      talked, with what he felt was something of his old charm, of
+      religion and literature and the menacing phenomena of the social
+      order. Mrs. Lawrence was ostensibly pleased with him, and her
+      interest was especially in his mind; he wanted people to like his
+      mind again—after a while it might be such a nice place in which
+      to live.
+
+      “Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you’re his reincarnation, that
+      your faith will eventually clarify.”
+
+      “Perhaps,” he assented. “I’m rather pagan at present. It’s just
+      that religion doesn’t seem to have the slightest bearing on life
+      at my age.”
+
+      When he left her house he walked down Riverside Drive with a
+      feeling of satisfaction. It was amusing to discuss again such
+      subjects as this young poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, or the Irish
+      Republic. Between the rancid accusations of Edward Carson and
+      Justice Cohalan he had completely tired of the Irish question;
+      yet there had been a time when his own Celtic traits were pillars
+      of his personal philosophy.
+
+      There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this
+      revival of old interests did not mean that he was backing away
+      from it again—backing away from life itself.
+
+
+      RESTLESSNESS
+
+      “I’m tres old and tres bored, Tom,” said Amory one day,
+      stretching himself at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He
+      always felt most natural in a recumbent position.
+
+      “You used to be entertaining before you started to write,” he
+      continued. “Now you save any idea that you think would do to
+      print.”
+
+      Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality. They had
+      decided that with economy they could still afford the apartment,
+      which Tom, with the domesticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond
+      of. The old English hunting prints on the wall were Tom’s, and
+      the large tapestry by courtesy, a relic of decadent days in
+      college, and the great profusion of orphaned candlesticks and the
+      carved Louis XV chair in which no one could sit more than a
+      minute without acute spinal disorders—Tom claimed that this was
+      because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan’s wraith—at any
+      rate, it was Tom’s furniture that decided them to stay.
+
+      They went out very little: to an occasional play, or to dinner at
+      the Ritz or the Princeton Club. With prohibition the great
+      rendezvous had received their death wounds; no longer could one
+      wander to the Biltmore bar at twelve or five and find congenial
+      spirits, and both Tom and Amory had outgrown the passion for
+      dancing with mid-Western or New Jersey debbies at the
+      Club-de-Vingt (surnamed the “Club de Gink”) or the Plaza Rose
+      Room—besides even that required several cocktails “to come down
+      to the intellectual level of the women present,” as Amory had
+      once put it to a horrified matron.
+
+      Amory had lately received several alarming letters from Mr.
+      Barton—the Lake Geneva house was too large to be easily rented;
+      the best rent obtainable at present would serve this year to
+      little more than pay for the taxes and necessary improvements; in
+      fact, the lawyer suggested that the whole property was simply a
+      white elephant on Amory’s hands. Nevertheless, even though it
+      might not yield a cent for the next three years, Amory decided
+      with a vague sentimentality that for the present, at any rate, he
+      would not sell the house.
+
+      This particular day on which he announced his ennui to Tom had
+      been quite typical. He had risen at noon, lunched with Mrs.
+      Lawrence, and then ridden abstractedly homeward atop one of his
+      beloved buses.
+
+      “Why shouldn’t you be bored,” yawned Tom. “Isn’t that the
+      conventional frame of mind for the young man of your age and
+      condition?”
+
+      “Yes,” said Amory speculatively, “but I’m more than bored; I am
+      restless.”
+
+      “Love and war did for you.”
+
+      “Well,” Amory considered, “I’m not sure that the war itself had
+      any great effect on either you or me—but it certainly ruined the
+      old backgrounds, sort of killed individualism out of our
+      generation.”
+
+      Tom looked up in surprise.
+
+      “Yes it did,” insisted Amory. “I’m not sure it didn’t kill it out
+      of the whole world. Oh, Lord, what a pleasure it used to be to
+      dream I might be a really great dictator or writer or religious
+      or political leader—and now even a Leonardo da Vinci or Lorenzo
+      de Medici couldn’t be a real old-fashioned bolt in the world.
+      Life is too huge and complex. The world is so overgrown that it
+      can’t lift its own fingers, and I was planning to be such an
+      important finger—”
+
+      “I don’t agree with you,” Tom interrupted. “There never were men
+      placed in such egotistic positions since—oh, since the French
+      Revolution.”
+
+      Amory disagreed violently.
+
+      “You’re mistaking this period when every nut is an individualist
+      for a period of individualism. Wilson has only been powerful when
+      he has represented; he’s had to compromise over and over again.
+      Just as soon as Trotsky and Lenin take a definite, consistent
+      stand they’ll become merely two-minute figures like Kerensky.
+      Even Foch hasn’t half the significance of Stonewall Jackson. War
+      used to be the most individualistic pursuit of man, and yet the
+      popular heroes of the war had neither authority nor
+      responsibility: Guynemer and Sergeant York. How could a schoolboy
+      make a hero of Pershing? A big man has no time really to do
+      anything but just sit and be big.”
+
+      “Then you don’t think there will be any more permanent world
+      heroes?”
+
+      “Yes—in history—not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty
+      getting material for a new chapter on ‘The Hero as a Big Man.’”
+
+      “Go on. I’m a good listener to-day.”
+
+      “People try so hard to believe in leaders now, pitifully hard.
+      But we no sooner get a popular reformer or politician or soldier
+      or writer or philosopher—a Roosevelt, a Tolstoi, a Wood, a Shaw,
+      a Nietzsche, than the cross-currents of criticism wash him away.
+      My Lord, no man can stand prominence these days. It’s the surest
+      path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over
+      and over.”
+
+      “Then you blame it on the press?”
+
+      “Absolutely. Look at you; you’re on The New Democracy, considered
+      the most brilliant weekly in the country, read by the men who do
+      things and all that. What’s your business? Why, to be as clever,
+      as interesting, and as brilliantly cynical as possible about
+      every man, doctrine, book, or policy that is assigned you to deal
+      with. The more strong lights, the more spiritual scandal you can
+      throw on the matter, the more money they pay you, the more the
+      people buy the issue. You, Tom d’Invilliers, a blighted Shelley,
+      changing, shifting, clever, unscrupulous, represent the critical
+      consciousness of the race—Oh, don’t protest, I know the stuff. I
+      used to write book reviews in college; I considered it rare sport
+      to refer to the latest honest, conscientious effort to propound a
+      theory or a remedy as a ‘welcome addition to our light summer
+      reading.’ Come on now, admit it.”
+
+      Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly.
+
+      “We _want_ to believe. Young students try to believe in older
+      authors, constituents try to believe in their Congressmen,
+      countries try to believe in their statesmen, but they _can’t_.
+      Too many voices, too much scattered, illogical, ill-considered
+      criticism. It’s worse in the case of newspapers. Any rich,
+      unprogressive old party with that particularly grasping,
+      acquisitive form of mentality known as financial genius can own a
+      paper that is the intellectual meat and drink of thousands of
+      tired, hurried men, men too involved in the business of modern
+      living to swallow anything but predigested food. For two cents
+      the voter buys his politics, prejudices, and philosophy. A year
+      later there is a new political ring or a change in the paper’s
+      ownership, consequence: more confusion, more contradiction, a
+      sudden inrush of new ideas, their tempering, their distillation,
+      the reaction against them—”
+
+      He paused only to get his breath.
+
+      “And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to paper until my
+      ideas either clarify or depart entirely; I have quite enough sins
+      on my soul without putting dangerous, shallow epigrams into
+      people’s heads; I might cause a poor, inoffensive capitalist to
+      have a vulgar liaison with a bomb, or get some innocent little
+      Bolshevik tangled up with a machine-gun bullet—”
+
+      Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection
+      with The New Democracy.
+
+      “What’s all this got to do with your being bored?”
+
+      Amory considered that it had much to do with it.
+
+      “How’ll I fit in?” he demanded. “What am I for? To propagate the
+      race? According to the American novels we are led to believe that
+      the ‘healthy American boy’ from nineteen to twenty-five is an
+      entirely sexless animal. As a matter of fact, the healthier he is
+      the less that’s true. The only alternative to letting it get you
+      is some violent interest. Well, the war is over; I believe too
+      much in the responsibilities of authorship to write just now; and
+      business, well, business speaks for itself. It has no connection
+      with anything in the world that I’ve ever been interested in,
+      except a slim, utilitarian connection with economics. What I’d
+      see of it, lost in a clerkship, for the next and best ten years
+      of my life would have the intellectual content of an industrial
+      movie.”
+
+      “Try fiction,” suggested Tom.
+
+      “Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write stories—get
+      afraid I’m doing it instead of living—get thinking maybe life is
+      waiting for me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic
+      City or on the lower East Side.
+
+      “Anyway,” he continued, “I haven’t the vital urge. I wanted to be
+      a regular human being but the girl couldn’t see it that way.”
+
+      “You’ll find another.”
+
+      “God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl
+      had been worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the
+      girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody. If I thought
+      there’d be another I’d lose my remaining faith in human nature.
+      Maybe I’ll play—but Rosalind was the only girl in the wide world
+      that could have held me.”
+
+      “Well,” yawned Tom, “I’ve played confidant a good hour by the
+      clock. Still, I’m glad to see you’re beginning to have violent
+      views again on something.”
+
+      “I am,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “Yet when I see a happy family
+      it makes me sick at my stomach—”
+
+      “Happy families try to make people feel that way,” said Tom
+      cynically.
+
+
+      TOM THE CENSOR
+
+      There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom,
+      wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American
+      literature. Words failed him.
+
+      “Fifty thousand dollars a year,” he would cry. “My God! Look at
+      them, look at them—Edna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst,
+      Mary Roberts Rinehart—not producing among ’em one story or novel
+      that will last ten years. This man Cobb—I don’t tink he’s either
+      clever or amusing—and what’s more, I don’t think very many people
+      do, except the editors. He’s just groggy with advertising. And—oh
+      Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey—”
+
+      “They try.”
+
+      “No, they don’t even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they
+      won’t sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can’t_
+      write, I’ll admit. I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real,
+      comprehensive picture of American life, but his style and
+      perspective are barbarous. Ernest Poole and Dorothy Canfield try
+      but they’re hindered by their absolute lack of any sense of
+      humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of spreading it
+      thin. Every author ought to write every book as if he were going
+      to be beheaded the day he finished it.”
+
+      “Is that double entente?”
+
+      “Don’t slow me up! Now there’s a few of ’em that seem to have
+      some cultural background, some intelligence and a good deal of
+      literary felicity but they just simply won’t write honestly;
+      they’d all claim there was no public for good stuff. Then why the
+      devil is it that Wells, Conrad, Galsworthy, Shaw, Bennett, and
+      the rest depend on America for over half their sales?”
+
+      “How does little Tommy like the poets?”
+
+      Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely
+      beside the chair and emitted faint grunts.
+
+      “I’m writing a satire on ’em now, calling it ‘Boston Bards and
+      Hearst Reviewers.’”
+
+      “Let’s hear it,” said Amory eagerly.
+
+      “I’ve only got the last few lines done.”
+
+      “That’s very modern. Let’s hear ’em, if they’re funny.”
+
+      Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud,
+      pausing at intervals so that Amory could see that it was free
+      verse:
+
+   “So Walter Arensberg, Alfred Kreymborg, Carl Sandburg, Louis
+   Untermeyer, Eunice Tietjens, Clara Shanafelt, James Oppenheim,
+   Maxwell Bodenheim, Richard Glaenzer, Scharmel Iris, Conrad Aiken, I
+   place your names here So that you may live If only as names,
+   Sinuous, mauve-colored names, In the Juvenalia Of my collected
+   editions.”
+
+      Amory roared.
+
+      “You win the iron pansy. I’ll buy you a meal on the arrogance of
+      the last two lines.”
+
+      Amory did not entirely agree with Tom’s sweeping damnation of
+      American novelists and poets. He enjoyed both Vachel Lindsay and
+      Booth Tarkington, and admired the conscientious, if slender,
+      artistry of Edgar Lee Masters.
+
+      “What I hate is this idiotic drivel about ‘I am God—I am man—I
+      ride the winds—I look through the smoke—I am the life sense.’”
+
+      “It’s ghastly!”
+
+      “And I wish American novelists would give up trying to make
+      business romantically interesting. Nobody wants to read about it,
+      unless it’s crooked business. If it was an entertaining subject
+      they’d buy the life of James J. Hill and not one of these long
+      office tragedies that harp along on the significance of smoke—”
+
+      “And gloom,” said Tom. “That’s another favorite, though I’ll
+      admit the Russians have the monopoly. Our specialty is stories
+      about little girls who break their spines and get adopted by
+      grouchy old men because they smile so much. You’d think we were a
+      race of cheerful cripples and that the common end of the Russian
+      peasant was suicide—”
+
+      “Six o’clock,” said Amory, glancing at his wrist-watch. “I’ll buy
+      you a grea’ big dinner on the strength of the Juvenalia of your
+      collected editions.”
+
+
+      LOOKING BACKWARD
+
+      July sweltered out with a last hot week, and Amory in another
+      surge of unrest realized that it was just five months since he
+      and Rosalind had met. Yet it was already hard for him to
+      visualize the heart-whole boy who had stepped off the transport,
+      passionately desiring the adventure of life. One night while the
+      heat, overpowering and enervating, poured into the windows of his
+      room he struggled for several hours in a vague effort to
+      immortalize the poignancy of that time.
+
+  The February streets, wind-washed by night, blow full of strange
+  half-intermittent damps, bearing on wasted walks in shining sight wet
+  snow plashed into gleams under the lamps, like golden oil from some
+  divine machine, in an hour of thaw and stars.
+  Strange damps—full of the eyes of many men, crowded with life borne
+  in upon a lull....  Oh, I was young, for I could turn again to you,
+  most finite and most beautiful, and taste the stuff of
+  half-remembered dreams, sweet and new on your mouth.
+ ... There was a tanging in the midnight air—silence was dead and sound
+ not yet awoken—Life cracked like ice!—one brilliant note and there,
+ radiant and pale, you stood... and spring had broken. (The icicles
+ were short upon the roofs and the changeling city swooned.)
+  Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two ghosts kissed,
+  high on the long, mazed wires—eerie half-laughter echoes here and
+  leaves only a fatuous sigh for young desires; regret has followed
+  after things she loved, leaving the great husk.
+
+
+      ANOTHER ENDING
+
+      In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had
+      evidently just stumbled on his address:
+
+      MY DEAR BOY:—
+
+      Your last letter was quite enough to make me worry about you. It
+      was not a bit like yourself. Reading between the lines I should
+      imagine that your engagement to this girl is making you rather
+      unhappy, and I see you have lost all the feeling of romance that
+      you had before the war. You make a great mistake if you think you
+      can be romantic without religion. Sometimes I think that with
+      both of us the secret of success, when we find it, is the
+      mystical element in us: something flows into us that enlarges our
+      personalities, and when it ebbs out our personalities shrink; I
+      should call your last two letters rather shrivelled. Beware of
+      losing yourself in the personality of another being, man or
+      woman.
+
+      His Eminence Cardinal O’Neill and the Bishop of Boston are
+      staying with me at present, so it is hard for me to get a moment
+      to write, but I wish you would come up here later if only for a
+      week-end. I go to Washington this week.
+
+      What I shall do in the future is hanging in the balance.
+      Absolutely between ourselves I should not be surprised to see the
+      red hat of a cardinal descend upon my unworthy head within the
+      next eight months. In any event, I should like to have a house in
+      New York or Washington where you could drop in for week-ends.
+
+      Amory, I’m very glad we’re both alive; this war could easily have
+      been the end of a brilliant family. But in regard to matrimony,
+      you are now at the most dangerous period of your life. You might
+      marry in haste and repent at leisure, but I think you won’t. From
+      what you write me about the present calamitous state of your
+      finances, what you want is naturally impossible. However, if I
+      judge you by the means I usually choose, I should say that there
+      will be something of an emotional crisis within the next year.
+
+      Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you.
+
+          With greatest affection,
+                              THAYER DARCY.
+
+      Within a week after the receipt of this letter their little
+      household fell precipitously to pieces. The immediate cause was
+      the serious and probably chronic illness of Tom’s mother. So they
+      stored the furniture, gave instructions to sublet and shook hands
+      gloomily in the Pennsylvania Station. Amory and Tom seemed always
+      to be saying good-by.
+
+      Feeling very much alone, Amory yielded to an impulse and set off
+      southward, intending to join Monsignor in Washington. They missed
+      connections by two hours, and, deciding to spend a few days with
+      an ancient, remembered uncle, Amory journeyed up through the
+      luxuriant fields of Maryland into Ramilly County. But instead of
+      two days his stay lasted from mid-August nearly through
+      September, for in Maryland he met Eleanor.
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 3. Young Irony
+
+
+      For years afterward when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still
+      to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills
+      into the places beside his heart. The night when they rode up the
+      slope and watched the cold moon float through the clouds, he lost
+      a further part of him that nothing could restore; and when he
+      lost it he lost also the power of regretting it. Eleanor was,
+      say, the last time that evil crept close to Amory under the mask
+      of beauty, the last weird mystery that held him with wild
+      fascination and pounded his soul to flakes.
+
+      With her his imagination ran riot and that is why they rode to
+      the highest hill and watched an evil moon ride high, for they
+      knew then that they could see the devil in each other. But
+      Eleanor—did Amory dream her? Afterward their ghosts played, yet
+      both of them hoped from their souls never to meet. Was it the
+      infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of
+      himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind? She
+      will have no other adventure like Amory, and if she reads this
+      she will say:
+
+      “And Amory will have no other adventure like me.”
+
+      Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh.
+
+      Eleanor tried to put it on paper once:
+
+   “The fading things we only know We’ll have forgotten... Put away...
+   Desires that melted with the snow, And dreams begotten This to-day:
+   The sudden dawns we laughed to greet, That all could see, that none
+   could share, Will be but dawns... and if we meet We shall not care.
+    Dear... not one tear will rise for this... A little while hence No
+    regret Will stir for a remembered kiss— Not even silence, When
+    we’ve met, Will give old ghosts a waste to roam, Or stir the
+    surface of the sea... If gray shapes drift beneath the foam We
+    shall not see.”
+
+      They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_
+      and _see_ couldn’t possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor
+      had part of another verse that she couldn’t find a beginning for:
+
+   “... But wisdom passes... still the years Will feed us wisdom.... 
+   Age will go Back to the old— For all our tears We shall not know.”
+
+      Eleanor hated Maryland passionately. She belonged to the oldest
+      of the old families of Ramilly County and lived in a big, gloomy
+      house with her grandfather. She had been born and brought up in
+      France.... I see I am starting wrong. Let me begin again.
+
+      Amory was bored, as he usually was in the country. He used to go
+      for far walks by himself—and wander along reciting “Ulalume” to
+      the corn-fields, and congratulating Poe for drinking himself to
+      death in that atmosphere of smiling complacency. One afternoon he
+      had strolled for several miles along a road that was new to him,
+      and then through a wood on bad advice from a colored woman...
+      losing himself entirely. A passing storm decided to break out,
+      and to his great impatience the sky grew black as pitch and the
+      rain began to splatter down through the trees, become suddenly
+      furtive and ghostly. Thunder rolled with menacing crashes up the
+      valley and scattered through the woods in intermittent batteries.
+      He stumbled blindly on, hunting for a way out, and finally,
+      through webs of twisted branches, caught sight of a rift in the
+      trees where the unbroken lightning showed open country. He rushed
+      to the edge of the woods and then hesitated whether or not to
+      cross the fields and try to reach the shelter of the little house
+      marked by a light far down the valley. It was only half past
+      five, but he could see scarcely ten steps before him, except when
+      the lightning made everything vivid and grotesque for great
+      sweeps around.
+
+      Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a
+      low, husky voice, a girl’s voice, and whoever was singing was
+      very close to him. A year before he might have laughed, or
+      trembled; but in his restless mood he only stood and listened
+      while the words sank into his consciousness:
+
+   “Les sanglots longs Des violons De l’automne Blessent mon coeur
+   D’une langueur Monotone.”
+
+      The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a
+      quaver. The girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed
+      to come vaguely from a haystack about twenty feet in front of
+      him.
+
+      Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that
+      soared and hung and fell and blended with the rain:
+
+   “Tout suffocant Et bleme quand Sonne l’heure Je me souviens Des
+   jours anciens Et je pleure....”
+
+      “Who the devil is there in Ramilly County,” muttered Amory aloud,
+      “who would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a
+      soaking haystack?”
+
+      “Somebody’s there!” cried the voice unalarmed. “Who are
+      you?—Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?”
+
+      “I’m Don Juan!” Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above
+      the noise of the rain and the wind.
+
+      A delighted shriek came from the haystack.
+
+      “I know who you are—you’re the blond boy that likes ‘Ulalume’—I
+      recognize your voice.”
+
+      “How do I get up?” he cried from the foot of the haystack,
+      whither he had arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the
+      edge—it was so dark that Amory could just make out a patch of
+      damp hair and two eyes that gleamed like a cat’s.
+
+      “Run back!” came the voice, “and jump and I’ll catch your
+      hand—no, not there—on the other side.”
+
+      He followed directions and as he sprawled up the side, knee-deep
+      in hay, a small, white hand reached out, gripped his, and helped
+      him onto the top.
+
+      “Here you are, Juan,” cried she of the damp hair. “Do you mind if
+      I drop the Don?”
+
+      “You’ve got a thumb like mine!” he exclaimed.
+
+      “And you’re holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my
+      face.” He dropped it quickly.
+
+      As if in answer to his prayers came a flash of lightning and he
+      looked eagerly at her who stood beside him on the soggy haystack,
+      ten feet above the ground. But she had covered her face and he
+      saw nothing but a slender figure, dark, damp, bobbed hair, and
+      the small white hands with the thumbs that bent back like his.
+
+      “Sit down,” she suggested politely, as the dark closed in on
+      them. “If you’ll sit opposite me in this hollow you can have half
+      of the raincoat, which I was using as a water-proof tent until
+      you so rudely interrupted me.”
+
+      “I was asked,” Amory said joyfully; “you asked me—you know you
+      did.”
+
+      “Don Juan always manages that,” she said, laughing, “but I shan’t
+      call you that any more, because you’ve got reddish hair. Instead
+      you can recite ‘Ulalume’ and I’ll be Psyche, your soul.”
+
+      Amory flushed, happily invisible under the curtain of wind and
+      rain. They were sitting opposite each other in a slight hollow in
+      the hay with the raincoat spread over most of them, and the rain
+      doing for the rest. Amory was trying desperately to see Psyche,
+      but the lightning refused to flash again, and he waited
+      impatiently. Good Lord! supposing she wasn’t beautiful—supposing
+      she was forty and pedantic—heavens! Suppose, only suppose, she
+      was mad. But he knew the last was unworthy. Here had Providence
+      sent a girl to amuse him just as it sent Benvenuto Cellini men to
+      murder, and he was wondering if she was mad, just because she
+      exactly filled his mood.
+
+      “I’m not,” she said.
+
+      “Not what?”
+
+      “Not mad. I didn’t think you were mad when I first saw you, so it
+      isn’t fair that you should think so of me.”
+
+      “How on earth—”
+
+      As long as they knew each other Eleanor and Amory could be “on a
+      subject” and stop talking with the definite thought of it in
+      their heads, yet ten minutes later speak aloud and find that
+      their minds had followed the same channels and led them each to a
+      parallel idea, an idea that others would have found absolutely
+      unconnected with the first.
+
+      “Tell me,” he demanded, leaning forward eagerly, “how do you know
+      about ‘Ulalume’—how did you know the color of my hair? What’s
+      your name? What were you doing here? Tell me all at once!”
+
+      Suddenly the lightning flashed in with a leap of overreaching
+      light and he saw Eleanor, and looked for the first time into
+      those eyes of hers. Oh, she was magnificent—pale skin, the color
+      of marble in starlight, slender brows, and eyes that glittered
+      green as emeralds in the blinding glare. She was a witch, of
+      perhaps nineteen, he judged, alert and dreamy and with the
+      tell-tale white line over her upper lip that was a weakness and a
+      delight. He sank back with a gasp against the wall of hay.
+
+      “Now you’ve seen me,” she said calmly, “and I suppose you’re
+      about to say that my green eyes are burning into your brain.”
+
+      “What color is your hair?” he asked intently. “It’s bobbed, isn’t
+      it?”
+
+      “Yes, it’s bobbed. I don’t know what color it is,” she answered,
+      musing, “so many men have asked me. It’s medium, I suppose—No one
+      ever looks long at my hair. I’ve got beautiful eyes, though,
+      haven’t I. I don’t care what you say, I have beautiful eyes.”
+
+      “Answer my question, Madeline.”
+
+      “Don’t remember them all—besides my name isn’t Madeline, it’s
+      Eleanor.”
+
+      “I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor—you have that
+      Eleanor look. You know what I mean.”
+
+      There was a silence as they listened to the rain.
+
+      “It’s going down my neck, fellow lunatic,” she offered finally.
+
+      “Answer my questions.”
+
+      “Well—name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down
+      road; nearest living relation to be notified, grandfather—Ramilly
+      Savage; height, five feet four inches; number on watch-case, 3077
+      W; nose, delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny—”
+
+      “And me,” Amory interrupted, “where did you see me?”
+
+      “Oh, you’re one of _those_ men,” she answered haughtily, “must
+      lug old self into conversation. Well, my boy, I was behind a
+      hedge sunning myself one day last week, and along comes a man
+      saying in a pleasant, conceited way of talking:
+
+    “‘And now when the night was senescent’ (says he) ‘And the star
+    dials pointed to morn At the end of the path a liquescent’ (says
+    he) ‘And nebulous lustre was born.’
+
+      “So I poked my eyes up over the hedge, but you had started to
+      run, for some unknown reason, and so I saw but the back of your
+      beautiful head. ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘there’s a man for whom many of us
+      might sigh,’ and I continued in my best Irish—”
+
+      “All right,” Amory interrupted. “Now go back to yourself.”
+
+      “Well, I will. I’m one of those people who go through the world
+      giving other people thrills, but getting few myself except those
+      I read into men on such nights as these. I have the social
+      courage to go on the stage, but not the energy; I haven’t the
+      patience to write books; and I never met a man I’d marry.
+      However, I’m only eighteen.”
+
+      The storm was dying down softly and only the wind kept up its
+      ghostly surge and made the stack lean and gravely settle from
+      side to side. Amory was in a trance. He felt that every moment
+      was precious. He had never met a girl like this before—she would
+      never seem quite the same again. He didn’t at all feel like a
+      character in a play, the appropriate feeling in an unconventional
+      situation—instead, he had a sense of coming home.
+
+      “I have just made a great decision,” said Eleanor after another
+      pause, “and that is why I’m here, to answer another of your
+      questions. I have just decided that I don’t believe in
+      immortality.”
+
+      “Really! how banal!”
+
+      “Frightfully so,” she answered, “but depressing with a stale,
+      sickly depression, nevertheless. I came out here to get wet—like
+      a wet hen; wet hens always have great clarity of mind,” she
+      concluded.
+
+      “Go on,” Amory said politely.
+
+      “Well—I’m not afraid of the dark, so I put on my slicker and
+      rubber boots and came out. You see I was always afraid, before,
+      to say I didn’t believe in God—because the lightning might strike
+      me—but here I am and it hasn’t, of course, but the main point is
+      that this time I wasn’t any more afraid of it than I had been
+      when I was a Christian Scientist, like I was last year. So now I
+      know I’m a materialist and I was fraternizing with the hay when
+      you came out and stood by the woods, scared to death.”
+
+      “Why, you little wretch—” cried Amory indignantly. “Scared of
+      what?”
+
+      “_Yourself!_” she shouted, and he jumped. She clapped her hands
+      and laughed. “See—see! Conscience—kill it like me! Eleanor
+      Savage, materiologist—no jumping, no starting, come early—”
+
+      “But I _have_ to have a soul,” he objected. “I can’t be
+      rational—and I won’t be molecular.”
+
+      She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and
+      whispered with a sort of romantic finality:
+
+      “I thought so, Juan, I feared so—you’re sentimental. You’re not
+      like me. I’m a romantic little materialist.”
+
+      “I’m not sentimental—I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you
+      know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the
+      romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.”
+      (This was an ancient distinction of Amory’s.)
+
+      “Epigrams. I’m going home,” she said sadly. “Let’s get off the
+      haystack and walk to the cross-roads.”
+
+      They slowly descended from their perch. She would not let him
+      help her down and motioning him away arrived in a graceful lump
+      in the soft mud where she sat for an instant, laughing at
+      herself. Then she jumped to her feet and slipped her hand into
+      his, and they tiptoed across the fields, jumping and swinging
+      from dry spot to dry spot. A transcendent delight seemed to
+      sparkle in every pool of water, for the moon had risen and the
+      storm had scurried away into western Maryland. When Eleanor’s arm
+      touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he
+      should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was
+      painting wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his
+      eyes as ever he did when he walked with her—she was a feast and a
+      folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a
+      haystack and see life through her green eyes. His paganism soared
+      that night and when she faded out like a gray ghost down the
+      road, a deep singing came out of the fields and filled his way
+      homeward. All night the summer moths flitted in and out of
+      Amory’s window; all night large looming sounds swayed in mystic
+      revery through the silver grain—and he lay awake in the clear
+      darkness.
+
+
+      SEPTEMBER
+
+      Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically.
+
+      “I never fall in love in August or September,” he proffered.
+
+      “When then?”
+
+      “Christmas or Easter. I’m a liturgist.”
+
+      “Easter!” She turned up her nose. “Huh! Spring in corsets!”
+
+      “Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn’t she? Easter has her hair
+      braided, wears a tailored suit.”
+
+  “Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. Over the splendor and
+  speed of thy feet—”
+
+      quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: “I suppose Hallowe’en is a
+      better day for autumn than Thanksgiving.”
+
+      “Much better—and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but
+      summer...”
+
+      “Summer has no day,” she said. “We can’t possibly have a summer
+      love. So many people have tried that the name’s become
+      proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a
+      charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April.
+      It’s a sad season of life without growth.... It has no day.”
+
+      “Fourth of July,” Amory suggested facetiously.
+
+      “Don’t be funny!” she said, raking him with her eyes.
+
+      “Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?”
+
+      She thought a moment.
+
+      “Oh, I suppose heaven would, if there was one,” she said finally,
+      “a sort of pagan heaven—you ought to be a materialist,” she
+      continued irrelevantly.
+
+      “Why?”
+
+      “Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert
+      Brooke.”
+
+      To some extent Amory tried to play Rupert Brooke as long as he
+      knew Eleanor. What he said, his attitude toward life, toward her,
+      toward himself, were all reflexes of the dead Englishman’s
+      literary moods. Often she sat in the grass, a lazy wind playing
+      with her short hair, her voice husky as she ran up and down the
+      scale from Grantchester to Waikiki. There was something most
+      passionate in Eleanor’s reading aloud. They seemed nearer, not
+      only mentally, but physically, when they read, than when she was
+      in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half into love
+      almost from the first. Yet was Amory capable of love now? He
+      could, as always, run through the emotions in a half hour, but
+      even while they revelled in their imaginations, he knew that
+      neither of them could care as he had cared once before—I suppose
+      that was why they turned to Brooke, and Swinburne, and Shelley.
+      Their chance was to make everything fine and finished and rich
+      and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden tentacles from his
+      imagination to hers, that would take the place of the great, deep
+      love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream.
+
+      One poem they read over and over; Swinburne’s “Triumph of Time,”
+      and four lines of it rang in his memory afterward on warm nights
+      when he saw the fireflies among dusky tree trunks and heard the
+      low drone of many frogs. Then Eleanor seemed to come out of the
+      night and stand by him, and he heard her throaty voice, with its
+      tone of a fleecy-headed drum, repeating:
+
+   “Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, To think of things that
+   are well outworn; Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, The dream
+   foregone and the deed foreborne?”
+
+      They were formally introduced two days later, and his aunt told
+      him her history. The Ramillys were two: old Mr. Ramilly and his
+      granddaughter, Eleanor. She had lived in France with a restless
+      mother whom Amory imagined to have been very like his own, on
+      whose death she had come to America, to live in Maryland. She had
+      gone to Baltimore first to stay with a bachelor uncle, and there
+      she insisted on being a debutante at the age of seventeen. She
+      had a wild winter and arrived in the country in March, having
+      quarrelled frantically with all her Baltimore relatives, and
+      shocked them into fiery protest. A rather fast crowd had come
+      out, who drank cocktails in limousines and were promiscuously
+      condescending and patronizing toward older people, and Eleanor
+      with an esprit that hinted strongly of the boulevards, led many
+      innocents still redolent of St. Timothy’s and Farmington, into
+      paths of Bohemian naughtiness. When the story came to her uncle,
+      a forgetful cavalier of a more hypocritical era, there was a
+      scene, from which Eleanor emerged, subdued but rebellious and
+      indignant, to seek haven with her grandfather who hovered in the
+      country on the near side of senility. That’s as far as her story
+      went; she told him the rest herself, but that was later.
+
+      Often they swam and as Amory floated lazily in the water he shut
+      his mind to all thoughts except those of hazy soap-bubble lands
+      where the sun splattered through wind-drunk trees. How could any
+      one possibly think or worry, or do anything except splash and
+      dive and loll there on the edge of time while the flower months
+      failed. Let the days move over—sadness and memory and pain
+      recurred outside, and here, once more, before he went on to meet
+      them he wanted to drift and be young.
+
+      There were days when Amory resented that life had changed from an
+      even progress along a road stretching ever in sight, with the
+      scenery merging and blending, into a succession of quick,
+      unrelated scenes—two years of sweat and blood, that sudden absurd
+      instinct for paternity that Rosalind had stirred; the
+      half-sensual, half-neurotic quality of this autumn with Eleanor.
+      He felt that it would take all time, more than he could ever
+      spare, to glue these strange cumbersome pictures into the
+      scrap-book of his life. It was all like a banquet where he sat
+      for this half-hour of his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant
+      epicurean courses.
+
+      Dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded
+      together. For months it seemed that he had alternated between
+      being borne along a stream of love or fascination, or left in an
+      eddy, and in the eddies he had not desired to think, rather to be
+      picked up on a wave’s top and swept along again.
+
+      “The despairing, dying autumn and our love—how well they
+      harmonize!” said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by
+      the water.
+
+      “The Indian summer of our hearts—” he ceased.
+
+      “Tell me,” she said finally, “was she light or dark?”
+
+      “Light.”
+
+      “Was she more beautiful than I am?”
+
+      “I don’t know,” said Amory shortly.
+
+      One night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great
+      burden of glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with
+      Amory and Eleanor, dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal
+      beauty in curious elfin love moods. Then they turned out of the
+      moonlight into the trellised darkness of a vine-hung pagoda,
+      where there were scents so plaintive as to be nearly musical.
+
+      “Light a match,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”
+
+      Scratch! Flare!
+
+      The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and
+      to be there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow
+      oddly familiar. Amory thought how it was only the past that ever
+      seemed strange and unbelievable. The match went out.
+
+      “It’s black as pitch.”
+
+      “We’re just voices now,” murmured Eleanor, “little lonesome
+      voices. Light another.”
+
+      “That was my last match.”
+
+      Suddenly he caught her in his arms.
+
+      “You _are_ mine—you know you’re mine!” he cried wildly... the
+      moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened... the
+      fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from
+      the glory of their eyes.
+
+
+      THE END OF SUMMER
+
+      “No wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs... the
+      water in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so
+      inters the golden token in its icy mass,” chanted Eleanor to the
+      trees that skeletoned the body of the night. “Isn’t it ghostly
+      here? If you can hold your horse’s feet up, let’s cut through the
+      woods and find the hidden pools.”
+
+      “It’s after one, and you’ll get the devil,” he objected, “and I
+      don’t know enough about horses to put one away in the pitch
+      dark.”
+
+      “Shut up, you old fool,” she whispered irrelevantly, and, leaning
+      over, she patted him lazily with her riding-crop. “You can leave
+      your old plug in our stable and I’ll send him over to-morrow.”
+
+      “But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old
+      plug at seven o’clock.”
+
+      “Don’t be a spoil-sport—remember, you have a tendency toward
+      wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my
+      life.”
+
+      Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her,
+      grasped her hand.
+
+      “Say I am—_quick_, or I’ll pull you over and make you ride behind
+      me.”
+
+      She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly.
+
+      “Oh, do!—or rather, don’t! Why are all the exciting things so
+      uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and ski-ing in Canada?
+      By the way, we’re going to ride up Harper’s Hill. I think that
+      comes in our programme about five o’clock.”
+
+      “You little devil,” Amory growled. “You’re going to make me stay
+      up all night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day
+      to-morrow, going back to New York.”
+
+      “Hush! some one’s coming along the road—let’s go! Whoo-ee-oop!”
+      And with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a
+      series of shivers, she turned her horse into the woods and Amory
+      followed slowly, as he had followed her all day for three weeks.
+
+      The summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching
+      Eleanor, a graceful, facile Manfred, build herself intellectual
+      and imaginative pyramids while she revelled in the
+      artificialities of the temperamental teens and they wrote poetry
+      at the dinner-table.
+
+  When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered
+  o’er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed
+  her eyes with life and death:
+  “Thru Time I’ll save my love!” he said... yet Beauty vanished with
+  his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead...
+  —Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair:
+  “Who’d learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet
+  there”...  So all my words, however true, might sing you to a
+  thousandth June, and no one ever _know_ that you were Beauty for an
+  afternoon.
+
+      So he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of
+      the “Dark Lady of the Sonnets,” and how little we remembered her
+      as the great man wanted her remembered. For what Shakespeare
+      _must_ have desired, to have been able to write with such divine
+      despair, was that the lady should live... and now we have no real
+      interest in her.... The irony of it is that if he had cared
+      _more_ for the poem than for the lady the sonnet would be only
+      obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have read it
+      after twenty years....
+
+      This was the last night Amory ever saw Eleanor. He was leaving in
+      the morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by
+      the cold moonlight. She wanted to talk, she said—perhaps the last
+      time in her life that she could be rational (she meant pose with
+      comfort). So they had turned into the woods and rode for half an
+      hour with scarcely a word, except when she whispered “Damn!” at a
+      bothersome branch—whispered it as no other girl was ever able to
+      whisper it. Then they started up Harper’s Hill, walking their
+      tired horses.
+
+      “Good Lord! It’s quiet here!” whispered Eleanor; “much more
+      lonesome than the woods.”
+
+      “I hate woods,” Amory said, shuddering. “Any kind of foliage or
+      underbrush at night. Out here it’s so broad and easy on the
+      spirit.”
+
+      “The long slope of a long hill.”
+
+      “And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it.”
+
+      “And thee and me, last and most important.”
+
+      It was quiet that night—the straight road they followed up to the
+      edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at any time. Only an
+      occasional negro cabin, silver-gray in the rock-ribbed moonlight,
+      broke the long line of bare ground; behind lay the black edge of
+      the woods like a dark frosting on white cake, and ahead the
+      sharp, high horizon. It was much colder—so cold that it settled
+      on them and drove all the warm nights from their minds.
+
+      “The end of summer,” said Eleanor softly. “Listen to the beat of
+      our horses’ hoofs—‘tump-tump-tump-a-tump.’ Have you ever been
+      feverish and had all noises divide into ‘tump-tump-tump’ until
+      you could swear eternity was divisible into so many tumps? That’s
+      the way I feel—old horses go tump-tump.... I guess that’s the
+      only thing that separates horses and clocks from us. Human beings
+      can’t go ‘tump-tump-tump’ without going crazy.”
+
+      The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and
+      shivered.
+
+      “Are you very cold?” asked Amory.
+
+      “No, I’m thinking about myself—my black old inside self, the real
+      one, with the fundamental honesty that keeps me from being
+      absolutely wicked by making me realize my own sins.”
+
+      They were riding up close by the cliff and Amory gazed over.
+      Where the fall met the ground a hundred feet below, a black
+      stream made a sharp line, broken by tiny glints in the swift
+      water.
+
+      “Rotten, rotten old world,” broke out Eleanor suddenly, “and the
+      wretchedest thing of all is me—oh, _why_ am I a girl? Why am I
+      not a stupid—? Look at you; you’re stupider than I am, not much,
+      but some, and you can lope about and get bored and then lope
+      somewhere else, and you can play around with girls without being
+      involved in meshes of sentiment, and you can do anything and be
+      justified—and here am I with the brains to do everything, yet
+      tied to the sinking ship of future matrimony. If I were born a
+      hundred years from now, well and good, but now what’s in store
+      for me—I have to marry, that goes without saying. Who? I’m too
+      bright for most men, and yet I have to descend to their level and
+      let them patronize my intellect in order to get their attention.
+      Every year that I don’t marry I’ve got less chance for a
+      first-class man. At the best I can have my choice from one or two
+      cities and, of course, I have to marry into a dinner-coat.
+
+      “Listen,” she leaned close again, “I like clever men and
+      good-looking men, and, of course, no one cares more for
+      personality than I do. Oh, just one person in fifty has any
+      glimmer of what sex is. I’m hipped on Freud and all that, but
+      it’s rotten that every bit of _real_ love in the world is
+      ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy.”
+      She finished as suddenly as she began.
+
+      “Of course, you’re right,” Amory agreed. “It’s a rather
+      unpleasant overpowering force that’s part of the machinery under
+      everything. It’s like an actor that lets you see his mechanics!
+      Wait a minute till I think this out....”
+
+      He paused and tried to get a metaphor. They had turned the cliff
+      and were riding along the road about fifty feet to the left.
+
+      “You see every one’s got to have some cloak to throw around it.
+      The mediocre intellects, Plato’s second class, use the remnants
+      of romantic chivalry diluted with Victorian sentiment—and we who
+      consider ourselves the intellectuals cover it up by pretending
+      that it’s another side of us, has nothing to do with our shining
+      brains; we pretend that the fact that we realize it is really
+      absolving us from being a prey to it. But the truth is that sex
+      is right in the middle of our purest abstractions, so close that
+      it obscures vision.... I can kiss you now and will. ...” He
+      leaned toward her in his saddle, but she drew away.
+
+      “I can’t—I can’t kiss you now—I’m more sensitive.”
+
+      “You’re more stupid then,” he declared rather impatiently.
+      “Intellect is no protection from sex any more than convention
+      is...”
+
+      “What is?” she fired up. “The Catholic Church or the maxims of
+      Confucius?”
+
+      Amory looked up, rather taken aback.
+
+      “That’s your panacea, isn’t it?” she cried. “Oh, you’re just an
+      old hypocrite, too. Thousands of scowling priests keeping the
+      degenerate Italians and illiterate Irish repentant with
+      gabble-gabble about the sixth and ninth commandments. It’s just
+      all cloaks, sentiment and spiritual rouge and panaceas. I’ll tell
+      you there is no God, not even a definite abstract goodness; so
+      it’s all got to be worked out for the individual by the
+      individual here in high white foreheads like mine, and you’re too
+      much the prig to admit it.” She let go her reins and shook her
+      little fists at the stars.
+
+      “If there’s a God let him strike me—strike me!”
+
+      “Talking about God again after the manner of atheists,” Amory
+      said sharply. His materialism, always a thin cloak, was torn to
+      shreds by Eleanor’s blasphemy.... She knew it and it angered him
+      that she knew it.
+
+      “And like most intellectuals who don’t find faith convenient,” he
+      continued coldly, “like Napoleon and Oscar Wilde and the rest of
+      your type, you’ll yell loudly for a priest on your death-bed.”
+
+      Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her.
+
+      “Will I?” she said in a queer voice that scared him. “Will I?
+      Watch! _I’m going over the cliff!_” And before he could interfere
+      she had turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the
+      plateau.
+
+      He wheeled and started after her, his body like ice, his nerves
+      in a vast clangor. There was no chance of stopping her. The moon
+      was under a cloud and her horse would step blindly over. Then
+      some ten feet from the edge of the cliff she gave a sudden shriek
+      and flung herself sideways—plunged from her horse and, rolling
+      over twice, landed in a pile of brush five feet from the edge.
+      The horse went over with a frantic whinny. In a minute he was by
+      Eleanor’s side and saw that her eyes were open.
+
+      “Eleanor!” he cried.
+
+      She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with
+      sudden tears.
+
+      “Eleanor, are you hurt?”
+
+      “No; I don’t think so,” she said faintly, and then began weeping.
+
+      “My horse dead?”
+
+      “Good God—Yes!”
+
+      “Oh!” she wailed. “I thought I was going over. I didn’t know—”
+
+      He helped her gently to her feet and boosted her onto his saddle.
+      So they started homeward; Amory walking and she bent forward on
+      the pommel, sobbing bitterly.
+
+      “I’ve got a crazy streak,” she faltered, “twice before I’ve done
+      things like that. When I was eleven mother went—went mad—stark
+      raving crazy. We were in Vienna—”
+
+      All the way back she talked haltingly about herself, and Amory’s
+      love waned slowly with the moon. At her door they started from
+      habit to kiss good night, but she could not run into his arms,
+      nor were they stretched to meet her as in the week before. For a
+      minute they stood there, hating each other with a bitter sadness.
+      But as Amory had loved himself in Eleanor, so now what he hated
+      was only a mirror. Their poses were strewn about the pale dawn
+      like broken glass. The stars were long gone and there were left
+      only the little sighing gusts of wind and the silences between...
+      but naked souls are poor things ever, and soon he turned homeward
+      and let new lights come in with the sun.
+
+
+      A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER
+
+ “Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water, Lisping its music and
+ bearing a burden of light, Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant
+ daughter... Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night.
+ Walking alone... was it splendor, or what, we were bound with, Deep in
+ the time when summer lets down her hair? Shadows we loved and the
+ patterns they covered the ground with Tapestries, mystical, faint in
+ the breathless air.
+  That was the day... and the night for another story, Pale as a dream
+  and shadowed with pencilled trees— Ghosts of the stars came by who
+  had sought for glory, Whispered to us of peace in the plaintive
+  breeze, Whispered of old dead faiths that the day had shattered,
+  Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon; That was the urge
+  that we knew and the language that mattered That was the debt that we
+  paid to the usurer June.
+  Here, deepest of dreams, by the waters that bring not Anything back
+  of the past that we need not know, What if the light is but sun and
+  the little streams sing not, We are together, it seems... I have
+  loved you so... What did the last night hold, with the summer over,
+  Drawing us back to the home in the changing glade? _What leered out
+  of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ God!... till you stirred in your
+  sleep... and were wild afraid...
+  Well... we have passed... we are chronicle now to the eerie. Curious
+  metal from meteors that failed in the sky; Earth-born the tireless is
+  stretched by the water, quite weary, Close to this ununderstandable
+  changeling that’s I... Fear is an echo we traced to Security’s
+  daughter; Now we are faces and voices... and less, too soon,
+  Whispering half-love over the lilt of the water... Youth the penny
+  that bought delight of the moon.”
+
+
+      A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED “SUMMER STORM”
+
+   “Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling, Faint winds, and
+   far away a fading laughter... And the rain and over the fields a
+   voice calling...
+    Our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above, Slides on the sun
+    and flutters there to waft her Sisters on.  The shadow of a dove
+    Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; And down the
+    valley through the crying trees The body of the darker storm flies;
+    brings With its new air the breath of sunken seas And slender
+    tenuous thunder... But I wait... Wait for the mists and for the
+    blacker rain— Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, Happier
+    winds that pile her hair; Again They tear me, teach me, strew the
+    heavy air Upon me, winds that I know, and storm.
+    There was a summer every rain was rare; There was a season every
+    wind was warm.... And now you pass me in the mist... your hair
+    Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more In that wild
+    irony, that gay despair That made you old when we have met before;
+    Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain, Across the fields,
+    blown with the stemless flowers, With your old hopes, dead leaves
+    and loves again— Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours
+    (Whispers will creep into the growing dark... Tumult will die over
+    the trees) Now night Tears from her wetted breast the splattered
+    blouse Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright, To
+    cover with her hair the eerie green... Love for the dusk... Love
+    for the glistening after; Quiet the trees to their last tops...
+    serene...
+    Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter...”
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice
+
+
+      Atlantic City. Amory paced the board walk at day’s end, lulled by
+      the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the
+      half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had
+      treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. It seemed
+      still to whisper of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under
+      raven-figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks
+      of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark July into
+      the North Sea.
+
+      “Well—Amory Blaine!”
+
+      Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had
+      drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the
+      driver’s seat.
+
+      “Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec.
+
+      Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps
+      approached the car. He and Alec had been meeting intermittently,
+      but the barrier of Rosalind lay always between them. He was sorry
+      for this; he hated to lose Alec.
+
+      “Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully.”
+
+      “How d’y do?”
+
+      “Amory,” said Alec exuberantly, “if you’ll jump in we’ll take you
+      to some secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of Bourbon.”
+
+      Amory considered.
+
+      “That’s an idea.”
+
+      “Step in—move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at
+      you.”
+
+      Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy,
+      vermilion-lipped blonde.
+
+      “Hello, Doug Fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “Walking for
+      exercise or hunting for company?”
+
+      “I was counting the waves,” replied Amory gravely. “I’m going in
+      for statistics.”
+
+      “Don’t kid me, Doug.”
+
+      When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the
+      car among deep shadows.
+
+      “What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded,
+      as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug.
+
+      Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason
+      for coming to the coast.
+
+      “Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked
+      instead.
+
+      “Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park—”
+
+      “Lord, Alec! It’s hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are
+      all three dead.”
+
+      Alec shivered.
+
+      “Don’t talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.”
+
+      Jill seemed to agree.
+
+      “Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to
+      drink deep—it’s good and scarce these days.”
+
+      “What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are—”
+
+      “Why, New York, I suppose—”
+
+      “I mean to-night, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d
+      better help me out.”
+
+      “Glad to.”
+
+      “You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath between at the
+      Ranier, and he’s got to go back to New York. I don’t want to have
+      to move. Question is, will you occupy one of the rooms?”
+
+      Amory was willing, if he could get in right away.
+
+      “You’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.”
+
+      Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left
+      the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel.
+
+      He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire
+      to work or write, love or dissipate. For the first time in his
+      life he rather longed for death to roll over his generation,
+      obliterating their petty fevers and struggles and exultations.
+      His youth seemed never so vanished as now in the contrast between
+      the utter loneliness of this visit and that riotous, joyful party
+      of four years before. Things that had been the merest
+      commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of beauty
+      around him, all desire, had flown away and the gaps they left
+      were filled only with the great listlessness of his disillusion.
+
+      “To hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst in him.” This
+      sentence was the thesis of most of his bad nights, of which he
+      felt this was to be one. His mind had already started to play
+      variations on the subject. Tireless passion, fierce jealousy,
+      longing to possess and crush—these alone were left of all his
+      love for Rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss
+      of his youth—bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love’s
+      exaltation.
+
+      In his room he undressed and wrapping himself in blankets to keep
+      out the chill October air drowsed in an armchair by the open
+      window.
+
+      He remembered a poem he had read months before:
+
+   “Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, I waste my years
+   sailing along the sea—”
+
+      Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that
+      waste implied. He felt that life had rejected him.
+
+      “Rosalind! Rosalind!” He poured the words softly into the
+      half-darkness until she seemed to permeate the room; the wet salt
+      breeze filled his hair with moisture, the rim of a moon seared
+      the sky and made the curtains dim and ghostly. He fell asleep.
+
+      When he awoke it was very late and quiet. The blanket had slipped
+      partly off his shoulders and he touched his skin to find it damp
+      and cold.
+
+      Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away.
+
+      He became rigid.
+
+      “Don’t make a sound!” It was Alec’s voice. “Jill—do you hear me?”
+
+      “Yes—” breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the
+      bathroom.
+
+      Then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere along the
+      corridor outside. It was a mumbling of men’s voices and a
+      repeated muffled rapping. Amory threw off the blankets and moved
+      close to the bathroom door.
+
+      “My God!” came the girl’s voice again. “You’ll have to let them
+      in.”
+
+      “Sh!”
+
+      Suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at Amory’s hall door
+      and simultaneously out of the bathroom came Alec, followed by the
+      vermilion-lipped girl. They were both clad in pajamas.
+
+      “Amory!” an anxious whisper.
+
+      “What’s the trouble?”
+
+      “It’s house detectives. My God, Amory—they’re just looking for a
+      test-case—”
+
+      “Well, better let them in.”
+
+      “You don’t understand. They can get me under the Mann Act.”
+
+      The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure
+      in the darkness.
+
+      Amory tried to plan quickly.
+
+      “You make a racket and let them in your room,” he suggested
+      anxiously, “and I’ll get her out by this door.”
+
+      “They’re here too, though. They’ll watch this door.”
+
+      “Can’t you give a wrong name?”
+
+      “No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they’d trail
+      the auto license number.”
+
+      “Say you’re married.”
+
+      “Jill says one of the house detectives knows her.”
+
+      The girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; lay there
+      listening wretchedly to the knocking which had grown gradually to
+      a pounding. Then came a man’s voice, angry and imperative:
+
+      “Open up or we’ll break the door in!”
+
+      In the silence when this voice ceased Amory realized that there
+      were other things in the room besides people... over and around
+      the figure crouched on the bed there hung an aura, gossamer as a
+      moonbeam, tainted as stale, weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively
+      brooding already over the three of them... and over by the window
+      among the stirring curtains stood something else, featureless and
+      indistinguishable, yet strangely familiar.... Simultaneously two
+      great cases presented themselves side by side to Amory; all that
+      took place in his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than
+      ten seconds.
+
+      The first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was
+      the great impersonality of sacrifice—he perceived that what we
+      call love and hate, reward and punishment, had no more to do with
+      it than the date of the month. He quickly recapitulated the story
+      of a sacrifice he had heard of in college: a man had cheated in
+      an examination; his roommate in a gust of sentiment had taken the
+      entire blame—due to the shame of it the innocent one’s entire
+      future seemed shrouded in regret and failure, capped by the
+      ingratitude of the real culprit. He had finally taken his own
+      life—years afterward the facts had come out. At the time the
+      story had both puzzled and worried Amory. Now he realized the
+      truth; that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. It was like a
+      great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power—to
+      certain people at certain times an essential luxury, carrying
+      with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a security but
+      an infinite risk. Its very momentum might drag him down to
+      ruin—the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible
+      might leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island
+      of despair.
+
+      ... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for
+      having done so much for him....
+
+      ... All this was flung before Amory like an opened scroll, while
+      ulterior to him and speculating upon him were those two
+      breathless, listening forces: the gossamer aura that hung over
+      and about the girl and that familiar thing by the window.
+
+      Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal;
+      sacrifice should be eternally supercilious.
+
+      _Weep not for me but for thy children._
+
+      That—thought Amory—would be somehow the way God would talk to me.
+
+      Amory felt a sudden surge of joy and then like a face in a
+      motion-picture the aura over the bed faded out; the dynamic
+      shadow by the window, that was as near as he could name it,
+      remained for the fraction of a moment and then the breeze seemed
+      to lift it swiftly out of the room. He clinched his hands in
+      quick ecstatic excitement... the ten seconds were up....
+
+      “Do what I say, Alec—do what I say. Do you understand?”
+
+      Alec looked at him dumbly—his face a tableau of anguish.
+
+      “You have a family,” continued Amory slowly. “You have a family
+      and it’s important that you should get out of this. Do you hear
+      me?” He repeated clearly what he had said. “Do you hear me?”
+
+      “I hear you.” The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never
+      for a second left Amory’s.
+
+      “Alec, you’re going to lie down here. If any one comes in you act
+      drunk. You do what I say—if you don’t I’ll probably kill you.”
+
+      There was another moment while they stared at each other. Then
+      Amory went briskly to the bureau and, taking his pocket-book,
+      beckoned peremptorily to the girl. He heard one word from Alec
+      that sounded like “penitentiary,” then he and Jill were in the
+      bathroom with the door bolted behind them.
+
+      “You’re here with me,” he said sternly. “You’ve been with me all
+      evening.”
+
+      She nodded, gave a little half cry.
+
+      In a second he had the door of the other room open and three men
+      entered. There was an immediate flood of electric light and he
+      stood there blinking.
+
+      “You’ve been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “Well?”
+
+      The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a
+      check suit.
+
+      “All right, Olson.”
+
+      “I got you, Mr. O’May,” said Olson, nodding. The other two took a
+      curious glance at their quarry and then withdrew, closing the
+      door angrily behind them.
+
+      The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously.
+
+      “Didn’t you ever hear of the Mann Act? Coming down here with
+      her,” he indicated the girl with his thumb, “with a New York
+      license on your car—to a hotel like _this_.” He shook his head
+      implying that he had struggled over Amory but now gave him up.
+
+      “Well,” said Amory rather impatiently, “what do you want us to
+      do?”
+
+      “Get dressed, quick—and tell your friend not to make such a
+      racket.” Jill was sobbing noisily on the bed, but at these words
+      she subsided sulkily and, gathering up her clothes, retired to
+      the bathroom. As Amory slipped into Alec’s B. V. D.’s he found
+      that his attitude toward the situation was agreeably humorous.
+      The aggrieved virtue of the burly man made him want to laugh.
+
+      “Anybody else here?” demanded Olson, trying to look keen and
+      ferret-like.
+
+      “Fellow who had the rooms,” said Amory carelessly. “He’s drunk as
+      an owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o’clock.”
+
+      “I’ll take a look at him presently.”
+
+      “How did you find out?” asked Amory curiously.
+
+      “Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman.”
+
+      Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if
+      rather untidily arrayed.
+
+      “Now then,” began Olson, producing a note-book, “I want your real
+      names—no damn John Smith or Mary Brown.”
+
+      “Wait a minute,” said Amory quietly. “Just drop that big-bully
+      stuff. We merely got caught, that’s all.”
+
+      Olson glared at him.
+
+      “Name?” he snapped.
+
+      Amory gave his name and New York address.
+
+      “And the lady?”
+
+      “Miss Jill—”
+
+      “Say,” cried Olson indignantly, “just ease up on the nursery
+      rhymes. What’s your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?”
+
+      “Oh, my God!” cried the girl cupping her tear-stained face in her
+      hands. “I don’t want my mother to know. I don’t want my mother to
+      know.”
+
+      “Come on now!”
+
+      “Shut up!” cried Amory at Olson.
+
+      An instant’s pause.
+
+      “Stella Robbins,” she faltered finally. “General Delivery,
+      Rugway, New Hampshire.”
+
+      Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very
+      ponderously.
+
+      “By rights the hotel could turn the evidence over to the police
+      and you’d go to penitentiary, you would, for bringin’ a girl from
+      one State to ’nother f’r immoral purp’ses—” He paused to let the
+      majesty of his words sink in. “But—the hotel is going to let you
+      off.”
+
+      “It doesn’t want to get in the papers,” cried Jill fiercely. “Let
+      us off! Huh!”
+
+      A great lightness surrounded Amory. He realized that he was safe
+      and only then did he appreciate the full enormity of what he
+      might have incurred.
+
+      “However,” continued Olson, “there’s a protective association
+      among the hotels. There’s been too much of this stuff, and we got
+      a ’rangement with the newspapers so that you get a little free
+      publicity. Not the name of the hotel, but just a line sayin’ that
+      you had a little trouble in ’lantic City. See?”
+
+      “I see.”
+
+      “You’re gettin’ off light—damn light—but—”
+
+      “Come on,” said Amory briskly. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t
+      need a valedictory.”
+
+      Olson walked through the bathroom and took a cursory glance at
+      Alec’s still form. Then he extinguished the lights and motioned
+      them to follow him. As they walked into the elevator Amory
+      considered a piece of bravado—yielded finally. He reached out and
+      tapped Olson on the arm.
+
+      “Would you mind taking off your hat? There’s a lady in the
+      elevator.”
+
+      Olson’s hat came off slowly. There was a rather embarrassing two
+      minutes under the lights of the lobby while the night clerk and a
+      few belated guests stared at them curiously; the loudly dressed
+      girl with bent head, the handsome young man with his chin several
+      points aloft; the inference was quite obvious. Then the chill
+      outdoors—where the salt air was fresher and keener still with the
+      first hints of morning.
+
+      “You can get one of those taxis and beat it,” said Olson,
+      pointing to the blurred outline of two machines whose drivers
+      were presumably asleep inside.
+
+      “Good-by,” said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but
+      Amory snorted, and, taking the girl’s arm, turned away.
+
+      “Where did you tell the driver to go?” she asked as they whirled
+      along the dim street.
+
+      “The station.”
+
+      “If that guy writes my mother—”
+
+      “He won’t. Nobody’ll ever know about this—except our friends and
+      enemies.”
+
+      Dawn was breaking over the sea.
+
+      “It’s getting blue,” she said.
+
+      “It does very well,” agreed Amory critically, and then as an
+      after-thought: “It’s almost breakfast-time—do you want something
+      to eat?”
+
+      “Food—” she said with a cheerful laugh. “Food is what queered the
+      party. We ordered a big supper to be sent up to the room about
+      two o’clock. Alec didn’t give the waiter a tip, so I guess the
+      little bastard snitched.”
+
+      Jill’s low spirits seemed to have gone faster than the scattering
+      night. “Let me tell you,” she said emphatically, “when you want
+      to stage that sorta party stay away from liquor, and when you
+      want to get tight stay away from bedrooms.”
+
+      “I’ll remember.”
+
+      He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of
+      an all-night restaurant.
+
+      “Is Alec a great friend of yours?” asked Jill as they perched
+      themselves on high stools inside, and set their elbows on the
+      dingy counter.
+
+      “He used to be. He probably won’t want to be any more—and never
+      understand why.”
+
+      “It was sorta crazy you takin’ all that blame. Is he pretty
+      important? Kinda more important than you are?”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “That remains to be seen,” he answered. “That’s the question.”
+
+
+      THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS
+
+      Two days later back in New York Amory found in a newspaper what
+      he had been searching for—a dozen lines which announced to whom
+      it might concern that Mr. Amory Blaine, who “gave his address”
+      as, etc., had been requested to leave his hotel in Atlantic City
+      because of entertaining in his room a lady _not_ his wife.
+
+      Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was
+      a longer paragraph of which the first words were:
+
+      “Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of
+      their daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford,
+      Connecticut—”
+
+      He dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a frightened,
+      sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was gone,
+      definitely, finally gone. Until now he had half unconsciously
+      cherished the hope deep in his heart that some day she would need
+      him and send for him, cry that it had been a mistake, that her
+      heart ached only for the pain she had caused him. Never again
+      could he find even the sombre luxury of wanting her—not this
+      Rosalind, harder, older—nor any beaten, broken woman that his
+      imagination brought to the door of his forties—Amory had wanted
+      her youth, the fresh radiance of her mind and body, the stuff
+      that she was selling now once and for all. So far as he was
+      concerned, young Rosalind was dead.
+
+      A day later came a crisp, terse letter from Mr. Barton in
+      Chicago, which informed him that as three more street-car
+      companies had gone into the hands of receivers he could expect
+      for the present no further remittances. Last of all, on a dazed
+      Sunday night, a telegram told him of Monsignor Darcy’s sudden
+      death in Philadelphia five days before.
+
+      He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains
+      of the room in Atlantic City.
+
+
+
+
+      CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage
+
+
+   “A fathom deep in sleep I lie With old desires, restrained before,
+   To clamor lifeward with a cry, As dark flies out the greying door;
+   And so in quest of creeds to share I seek assertive day again... But
+   old monotony is there: Endless avenues of rain.
+    Oh, might I rise again!  Might I Throw off the heat of that old
+    wine, See the new morning mass the sky With fairy towers, line on
+    line; Find each mirage in the high air A symbol, not a dream
+    again... But old monotony is there: Endless avenues of rain.”
+
+      Under the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, watching the
+      first great drops of rain splatter down and flatten to dark
+      stains on the sidewalk. The air became gray and opalescent; a
+      solitary light suddenly outlined a window over the way; then
+      another light; then a hundred more danced and glimmered into
+      vision. Under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned
+      yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out
+      glistening sheens along the already black pavement. The unwelcome
+      November rain had perversely stolen the day’s last hour and
+      pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.
+
+      The silence of the theatre behind him ended with a curious
+      snapping sound, followed by the heavy roaring of a rising crowd
+      and the interlaced clatter of many voices. The matinee was over.
+
+      He stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the throng
+      pass. A small boy rushed out, sniffed in the damp, fresh air and
+      turned up the collar of his coat; came three or four couples in a
+      great hurry; came a further scattering of people whose eyes as
+      they emerged glanced invariably, first at the wet street, then at
+      the rain-filled air, finally at the dismal sky; last a dense,
+      strolling mass that depressed him with its heavy odor compounded
+      of the tobacco smell of the men and the fetid sensuousness of
+      stale powder on women. After the thick crowd came another
+      scattering; a stray half-dozen; a man on crutches; finally the
+      rattling bang of folding seats inside announced that the ushers
+      were at work.
+
+      New York seemed not so much awakening as turning over in its bed.
+      Pallid men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a
+      great swarm of tired, magpie girls from a department-store
+      crowded along with shrieks of strident laughter, three to an
+      umbrella; a squad of marching policemen passed, already
+      miraculously protected by oilskin capes.
+
+      The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous
+      unpleasant aspects of city life without money occurred to him in
+      threatening procession. There was the ghastly, stinking crush of
+      the subway—the car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out
+      like dull bores who grab your arm with another story; the
+      querulous worry as to whether some one isn’t leaning on you; a
+      man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her for it;
+      the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a squalid
+      phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the
+      smells of the food men ate—at best just people—too hot or too
+      cold, tired, worried.
+
+      He pictured the rooms where these people lived—where the patterns
+      of the blistered wall-papers were heavy reiterated sunflowers on
+      green and yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and
+      gloomy hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the
+      buildings; where even love dressed as seduction—a sordid murder
+      around the corner, illicit motherhood in the flat above. And
+      always there was the economical stuffiness of indoor winter, and
+      the long summers, nightmares of perspiration between sticky
+      enveloping walls... dirty restaurants where careless, tired
+      people helped themselves to sugar with their own used
+      coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl.
+
+      It was not so bad where there were only men or else only women;
+      it was when they were vilely herded that it all seemed so rotten.
+      It was some shame that women gave off at having men see them
+      tired and poor—it was some disgust that men had for women who
+      were tired and poor. It was dirtier than any battle-field he had
+      seen, harder to contemplate than any actual hardship moulded of
+      mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere wherein birth and
+      marriage and death were loathsome, secret things.
+
+      He remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had
+      brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell
+      of it had suddenly cleared the air and given every one in the car
+      a momentary glow.
+
+      “I detest poor people,” thought Amory suddenly. “I hate them for
+      being poor. Poverty may have been beautiful once, but it’s rotten
+      now. It’s the ugliest thing in the world. It’s essentially
+      cleaner to be corrupt and rich than it is to be innocent and
+      poor.” He seemed to see again a figure whose significance had
+      once impressed him—a well-dressed young man gazing from a club
+      window on Fifth Avenue and saying something to his companion with
+      a look of utter disgust. Probably, thought Amory, what he said
+      was: “My God! Aren’t people horrible!”
+
+      Never before in his life had Amory considered poor people. He
+      thought cynically how completely he was lacking in all human
+      sympathy. O. Henry had found in these people romance, pathos,
+      love, hate—Amory saw only coarseness, physical filth, and
+      stupidity. He made no self-accusations: never any more did he
+      reproach himself for feelings that were natural and sincere. He
+      accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable,
+      unmoral. This problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached
+      to some grander, more dignified attitude might some day even be
+      his problem; at present it roused only his profound distaste.
+
+      He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging the blind, black menace
+      of umbrellas, and standing in front of Delmonico’s hailed an
+      auto-bus. Buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the
+      roof, where he rode in solitary state through the thin,
+      persistent rain, stung into alertness by the cool moisture
+      perpetually reborn on his cheek. Somewhere in his mind a
+      conversation began, rather resumed its place in his attention. It
+      was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike as
+      questioner and answerer:
+
+      Question.—Well—what’s the situation?
+
+      Answer.—That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name.
+
+      Q.—You have the Lake Geneva estate.
+
+      A.—But I intend to keep it.
+
+      Q.—Can you live?
+
+      A.—I can’t imagine not being able to. People make money in books
+      and I’ve found that I can always do the things that people do in
+      books. Really they are the only things I can do.
+
+      Q.—Be definite.
+
+      A.—I don’t know what I’ll do—nor have I much curiosity. To-morrow
+      I’m going to leave New York for good. It’s a bad town unless
+      you’re on top of it.
+
+      Q.—Do you want a lot of money?
+
+      A.—No. I am merely afraid of being poor.
+
+      Q.—Very afraid?
+
+      A.—Just passively afraid.
+
+      Q.—Where are you drifting?
+
+      A.—Don’t ask _me!_
+
+      Q.—Don’t you care?
+
+      A.—Rather. I don’t want to commit moral suicide.
+
+      Q.—Have you no interests left?
+
+      A.—None. I’ve no more virtue to lose. Just as a cooling pot gives
+      off heat, so all through youth and adolescence we give off
+      calories of virtue. That’s what’s called ingenuousness.
+
+      Q.—An interesting idea.
+
+      A.—That’s why a “good man going wrong” attracts people. They
+      stand around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of
+      virtue he gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and
+      the faces simper in delight—“How _innocent_ the poor child is!”
+      They’re warming themselves at her virtue. But Sarah sees the
+      simper and never makes that remark again. Only she feels a little
+      colder after that.
+
+      Q.—All your calories gone?
+
+      A.—All of them. I’m beginning to warm myself at other people’s
+      virtue.
+
+      Q.—Are you corrupt?
+
+      A.—I think so. I’m not sure. I’m not sure about good and evil at
+      all any more.
+
+      Q.—Is that a bad sign in itself?
+
+      A.—Not necessarily.
+
+      Q.—What would be the test of corruption?
+
+      A.—Becoming really insincere—calling myself “not such a bad
+      fellow,” thinking I regretted my lost youth when I only envy the
+      delights of losing it. Youth is like having a big plate of candy.
+      Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state
+      they were in before they ate the candy. They don’t. They just
+      want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron doesn’t want
+      to repeat her girlhood—she wants to repeat her honeymoon. I don’t
+      want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it
+      again.
+
+      Q.—Where are you drifting?
+
+      This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind’s most familiar
+      state—a grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior
+      impressions and physical reactions.
+
+      One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street—or One Hundred and
+      Thirty-seventh Street.... Two and three look alike—no, not much.
+      Seat damp... are clothes absorbing wetness from seat, or seat
+      absorbing dryness from clothes?... Sitting on wet substance gave
+      appendicitis, so Froggy Parker’s mother said. Well, he’d had
+      it—I’ll sue the steamboat company, Beatrice said, and my uncle
+      has a quarter interest—did Beatrice go to heaven?... probably
+      not—He represented Beatrice’s immortality, also love-affairs of
+      numerous dead men who surely had never thought of him... if it
+      wasn’t appendicitis, influenza maybe. What? One Hundred and
+      Twentieth Street? That must have been One Hundred and Twelfth
+      back there. One O Two instead of One Two Seven. Rosalind not like
+      Beatrice, Eleanor like Beatrice, only wilder and brainier.
+      Apartments along here expensive—probably hundred and fifty a
+      month—maybe two hundred. Uncle had only paid hundred a month for
+      whole great big house in Minneapolis. Question—were the stairs on
+      the left or right as you came in? Anyway, in 12 Univee they were
+      straight back and to the left. What a dirty river—want to go down
+      there and see if it’s dirty—French rivers all brown or black, so
+      were Southern rivers. Twenty-four dollars meant four hundred and
+      eighty doughnuts. He could live on it three months and sleep in
+      the park. Wonder where Jill was—Jill Bayne, Fayne, Sayne—what the
+      devil—neck hurts, darned uncomfortable seat. No desire to sleep
+      with Jill, what could Alec see in her? Alec had a coarse taste in
+      women. Own taste the best; Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor,
+      were all-American. Eleanor would pitch, probably southpaw.
+      Rosalind was outfield, wonderful hitter, Clara first base, maybe.
+      Wonder what Humbird’s body looked like now. If he himself hadn’t
+      been bayonet instructor he’d have gone up to line three months
+      sooner, probably been killed. Where’s the darned bell—
+
+      The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured by the mist
+      and dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny, but
+      Amory had finally caught sight of one—One Hundred and
+      Twenty-seventh Street. He got off and with no distinct
+      destination followed a winding, descending sidewalk and came out
+      facing the river, in particular a long pier and a partitioned
+      litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches, canoes,
+      rowboats, and catboats. He turned northward and followed the
+      shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great
+      disorderly yard adjoining a dock. The hulls of many boats in
+      various stages of repair were around him; he smelled sawdust and
+      paint and the scarcely distinguishable fiat odor of the Hudson. A
+      man approached through the heavy gloom.
+
+      “Hello,” said Amory.
+
+      “Got a pass?”
+
+      “No. Is this private?”
+
+      “This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club.”
+
+      “Oh! I didn’t know. I’m just resting.”
+
+      “Well—” began the man dubiously.
+
+      “I’ll go if you want me to.”
+
+      The man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on.
+      Amory seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward
+      thoughtfully until his chin rested in his hand.
+
+      “Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,” he said slowly.
+
+
+      IN THE DROOPING HOURS
+
+      While the rain drizzled on Amory looked futilely back at the
+      stream of his life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. To
+      begin with, he was still afraid—not physically afraid any more,
+      but afraid of people and prejudice and misery and monotony. Yet,
+      deep in his bitter heart, he wondered if he was after all worse
+      than this man or the next. He knew that he could sophisticate
+      himself finally into saying that his own weakness was just the
+      result of circumstances and environment; that often when he raged
+      at himself as an egotist something would whisper ingratiatingly:
+      “No. Genius!” That was one manifestation of fear, that voice
+      which whispered that he could not be both great and good, that
+      genius was the exact combination of those inexplicable grooves
+      and twists in his mind, that any discipline would curb it to
+      mediocrity. Probably more than any concrete vice or failing Amory
+      despised his own personality—he loathed knowing that to-morrow
+      and the thousand days after he would swell pompously at a
+      compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate musician or
+      a first-class actor. He was ashamed of the fact that very simple
+      and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had been cruel,
+      often, to those who had sunk their personalities in him—several
+      girls, and a man here and there through college, that he had been
+      an evil influence on; people who had followed him here and there
+      into mental adventures from which he alone rebounded unscathed.
+
+      Usually, on nights like this, for there had been many lately, he
+      could escape from this consuming introspection by thinking of
+      children and the infinite possibilities of children—he leaned and
+      listened and he heard a startled baby awake in a house across the
+      street and lend a tiny whimper to the still night. Quick as a
+      flash he turned away, wondering with a touch of panic whether
+      something in the brooding despair of his mood had made a darkness
+      in its tiny soul. He shivered. What if some day the balance was
+      overturned, and he became a thing that frightened children and
+      crept into rooms in the dark, approached dim communion with those
+      phantoms who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark
+      continent upon the moon....
+
+
+      Amory smiled a bit.
+
+      “You’re too much wrapped up in yourself,” he heard some one say.
+      And again—
+
+      “Get out and do some real work—”
+
+      “Stop worrying—”
+
+      He fancied a possible future comment of his own.
+
+      “Yes—I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made
+      me morbid to think too much about myself.”
+
+
+      Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the
+      devil—not to go violently as a gentleman should, but to sink
+      safely and sensuously out of sight. He pictured himself in an
+      adobe house in Mexico, half-reclining on a rug-covered couch, his
+      slender, artistic fingers closed on a cigarette while he listened
+      to guitars strumming melancholy undertones to an age-old dirge of
+      Castile and an olive-skinned, carmine-lipped girl caressed his
+      hair. Here he might live a strange litany, delivered from right
+      and wrong and from the hound of heaven and from every God (except
+      the exotic Mexican one who was pretty slack himself and rather
+      addicted to Oriental scents)—delivered from success and hope and
+      poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, after all,
+      only to the artificial lake of death.
+
+      There were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly:
+      Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the
+      South Seas—all lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where
+      lust could be a mode and expression of life, where the shades of
+      night skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of
+      passion: the colors of lips and poppies.
+
+
+      STILL WEEDING
+
+      Once he had been miraculously able to scent evil as a horse
+      detects a broken bridge at night, but the man with the queer feet
+      in Phoebe’s room had diminished to the aura over Jill. His
+      instinct perceived the fetidness of poverty, but no longer
+      ferreted out the deeper evils in pride and sensuality.
+
+      There were no more wise men; there were no more heroes; Burne
+      Holiday was sunk from sight as though he had never lived;
+      Monsignor was dead. Amory had grown up to a thousand books, a
+      thousand lies; he had listened eagerly to people who pretended to
+      know, who knew nothing. The mystical reveries of saints that had
+      once filled him with awe in the still hours of night, now vaguely
+      repelled him. The Byrons and Brookes who had defied life from
+      mountain tops were in the end but flaneurs and poseurs, at best
+      mistaking the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom. The
+      pageantry of his disillusion took shape in a world-old procession
+      of Prophets, Athenians, Martyrs, Saints, Scientists, Don Juans,
+      Jesuits, Puritans, Fausts, Poets, Pacifists; like costumed alumni
+      at a college reunion they streamed before him as their dreams,
+      personalities, and creeds had in turn thrown colored lights on
+      his soul; each had tried to express the glory of life and the
+      tremendous significance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing
+      what had gone before into his own rickety generalities; each had
+      depended after all on the set stage and the convention of the
+      theatre, which is that man in his hunger for faith will feed his
+      mind with the nearest and most convenient food.
+
+      Women—of whom he had expected so much; whose beauty he had hoped
+      to transmute into modes of art; whose unfathomable instincts,
+      marvellously incoherent and inarticulate, he had thought to
+      perpetuate in terms of experience—had become merely consecrations
+      to their own posterity. Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were
+      all removed by their very beauty, around which men had swarmed,
+      from the possibility of contributing anything but a sick heart
+      and a page of puzzled words to write.
+
+      Amory based his loss of faith in help from others on several
+      sweeping syllogisms. Granted that his generation, however bruised
+      and decimated from this Victorian war, were the heirs of
+      progress. Waving aside petty differences of conclusions which,
+      although they might occasionally cause the deaths of several
+      millions of young men, might be explained away—supposing that
+      after all Bernard Shaw and Bernhardi, Bonar Law and
+      Bethmann-Hollweg were mutual heirs of progress if only in
+      agreeing against the ducking of witches—waiving the antitheses
+      and approaching individually these men who seemed to be the
+      leaders, he was repelled by the discrepancies and contradictions
+      in the men themselves.
+
+      There was, for example, Thornton Hancock, respected by half the
+      intellectual world as an authority on life, a man who had
+      verified and believed the code he lived by, an educator of
+      educators, an adviser to Presidents—yet Amory knew that this man
+      had, in his heart, leaned on the priest of another religion.
+
+      And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had moments of
+      strange and horrible insecurity—inexplicable in a religion that
+      explained even disbelief in terms of its own faith: if you
+      doubted the devil it was the devil that made you doubt him. Amory
+      had seen Monsignor go to the houses of stolid philistines, read
+      popular novels furiously, saturate himself in routine, to escape
+      from that horror.
+
+      And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory
+      knew, not essentially older than he.
+
+      Amory was alone—he had escaped from a small enclosure into a
+      great labyrinth. He was where Goethe was when he began “Faust”;
+      he was where Conrad was when he wrote “Almayer’s Folly.”
+
+      Amory said to himself that there were essentially two sorts of
+      people who through natural clarity or disillusion left the
+      enclosure and sought the labyrinth. There were men like Wells and
+      Plato, who had, half unconsciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy,
+      who would accept for themselves only what could be accepted for
+      all men—incurable romanticists who never, for all their efforts,
+      could enter the labyrinth as stark souls; there were on the other
+      hand sword-like pioneering personalities, Samuel Butler, Renan,
+      Voltaire, who progressed much slower, yet eventually much
+      further, not in the direct pessimistic line of speculative
+      philosophy but concerned in the eternal attempt to attach a
+      positive value to life....
+
+      Amory stopped. He began for the first time in his life to have a
+      strong distrust of all generalities and epigrams. They were too
+      easy, too dangerous to the public mind. Yet all thought usually
+      reached the public after thirty years in some such form: Benson
+      and Chesterton had popularized Huysmans and Newman; Shaw had
+      sugar-coated Nietzsche and Ibsen and Schopenhauer. The man in the
+      street heard the conclusions of dead genius through some one
+      else’s clever paradoxes and didactic epigrams.
+
+      Life was a damned muddle... a football game with every one
+      off-side and the referee gotten rid of—every one claiming the
+      referee would have been on his side....
+
+      Progress was a labyrinth... people plunging blindly in and then
+      rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the
+      invisible king—the elan vital—the principle of evolution...
+      writing a book, starting a war, founding a school....
+
+      Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all
+      inquiries with himself. He was his own best example—sitting in
+      the rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and
+      his own temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved
+      to help in building up the living consciousness of the race.
+
+      In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the
+      entrance of the labyrinth.
+
+
+      Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi
+      hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like burning
+      eyes in a face white from a night’s carouse. A melancholy siren
+      sounded far down the river.
+
+
+      MONSIGNOR
+
+      Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own
+      funeral. It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical. Bishop
+      O’Neill sang solemn high mass and the cardinal gave the final
+      absolutions. Thornton Hancock, Mrs. Lawrence, the British and
+      Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends
+      and priests were there—yet the inexorable shears had cut through
+      all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his hands. To
+      Amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin,
+      with closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not
+      changed, and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or
+      fear. It was Amory’s dear old friend, his and the others’—for the
+      church was full of people with daft, staring faces, the most
+      exalted seeming the most stricken.
+
+      The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the
+      holy water; the organ broke into sound; the choir began to sing
+      the Requiem Eternam.
+
+      All these people grieved because they had to some extent depended
+      upon Monsignor. Their grief was more than sentiment for the
+      “crack in his voice or a certain break in his walk,” as Wells put
+      it. These people had leaned on Monsignor’s faith, his way of
+      finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows,
+      making all light and shadow merely aspects of God. People felt
+      safe when he was near.
+
+      Of Amory’s attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full
+      realization of his disillusion, but of Monsignor’s funeral was
+      born the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him. He
+      found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always
+      would want—not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved,
+      as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to
+      be indispensable; he remembered the sense of security he had
+      found in Burne.
+
+      Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and Amory
+      suddenly and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been
+      playing listlessly in his mind: “Very few things matter and
+      nothing matters very much.”
+
+      On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a
+      sense of security.
+
+
+      THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES
+
+      On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky
+      was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of
+      rain. It was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a
+      day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day
+      easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that
+      dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the
+      light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical
+      severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a
+      monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.
+
+      The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused
+      much annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up
+      considerably or else run him down. So engrossed in his thoughts
+      was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange
+      phenomenon—cordiality manifested within fifty miles of
+      Manhattan—when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice
+      hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent Locomobile in
+      which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious
+      looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was
+      large and begoggled and imposing.
+
+      “Do you want a lift?” asked the apparently artificial growth,
+      glancing from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for
+      some habitual, silent corroboration.
+
+      “You bet I do. Thanks.”
+
+      The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory
+      settled himself in the middle of the back seat. He took in his
+      companions curiously. The chief characteristic of the big man
+      seemed to be a great confidence in himself set off against a
+      tremendous boredom with everything around him. That part of his
+      face which protruded under the goggles was what is generally
+      termed “strong”; rolls of not undignified fat had collected near
+      his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough
+      model for a Roman nose, and, below, his shoulders collapsed
+      without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and belly.
+      He was excellently and quietly dressed. Amory noticed that he was
+      inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur’s head as
+      if speculating steadily but hopelessly some baffling hirsute
+      problem.
+
+      The smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion
+      in the personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial
+      type who at forty have engraved upon their business cards:
+      “Assistant to the President,” and without a sigh consecrate the
+      rest of their lives to second-hand mannerisms.
+
+      “Going far?” asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested
+      way.
+
+      “Quite a stretch.”
+
+      “Hiking for exercise?”
+
+      “No,” responded Amory succinctly, “I’m walking because I can’t
+      afford to ride.”
+
+      “Oh.”
+
+      Then again:
+
+      “Are you looking for work? Because there’s lots of work,” he
+      continued rather testily. “All this talk of lack of work. The
+      West is especially short of labor.” He expressed the West with a
+      sweeping, lateral gesture. Amory nodded politely.
+
+      “Have you a trade?”
+
+      No—Amory had no trade.
+
+      “Clerk, eh?”
+
+      No—Amory was not a clerk.
+
+      “Whatever your line is,” said the little man, seeming to agree
+      wisely with something Amory had said, “now is the time of
+      opportunity and business openings.” He glanced again toward the
+      big man, as a lawyer grilling a witness glances involuntarily at
+      the jury.
+
+      Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him
+      could think of only one thing to say.
+
+      “Of course I want a great lot of money—”
+
+      The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously.
+
+      “That’s what every one wants nowadays, but they don’t want to
+      work for it.”
+
+      “A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to
+      be rich without great effort—except the financiers in problem
+      plays, who want to ‘crash their way through.’ Don’t you want easy
+      money?”
+
+      “Of course not,” said the secretary indignantly.
+
+      “But,” continued Amory disregarding him, “being very poor at
+      present I am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte.”
+
+      Both men glanced at him curiously.
+
+      “These bomb throwers—” The little man ceased as words lurched
+      ponderously from the big man’s chest.
+
+      “If I thought you were a bomb thrower I’d run you over to the
+      Newark jail. That’s what I think of Socialists.”
+
+      Amory laughed.
+
+      “What are you,” asked the big man, “one of these parlor
+      Bolsheviks, one of these idealists? I must say I fail to see the
+      difference. The idealists loaf around and write the stuff that
+      stirs up the poor immigrants.”
+
+      “Well,” said Amory, “if being an idealist is both safe and
+      lucrative, I might try it.”
+
+      “What’s your difficulty? Lost your job?”
+
+      “Not exactly, but—well, call it that.”
+
+      “What was it?”
+
+      “Writing copy for an advertising agency.”
+
+      “Lots of money in advertising.”
+
+      Amory smiled discreetly.
+
+      “Oh, I’ll admit there’s money in it eventually. Talent doesn’t
+      starve any more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists
+      draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out
+      rag-time for your theatres. By the great commercializing of
+      printing you’ve found a harmless, polite occupation for every
+      genius who might have carved his own niche. But beware the artist
+      who’s an intellectual also. The artist who doesn’t fit—the
+      Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory Blaine—”
+
+      “Who’s he?” demanded the little man suspiciously.
+
+      “Well,” said Amory, “he’s a—he’s an intellectual personage not
+      very well known at present.”
+
+      The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped
+      rather suddenly as Amory’s burning eyes turned on him.
+
+      “What are you laughing at?”
+
+      “These _intellectual_ people—”
+
+      “Do you know what it means?”
+
+      The little man’s eyes twitched nervously.
+
+      “Why, it _usually_ means—”
+
+      “It _always_ means brainy and well-educated,” interrupted Amory.
+      “It means having an active knowledge of the race’s experience.”
+      Amory decided to be very rude. He turned to the big man. “The
+      young man,” he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said
+      young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of youth,
+      “has the usual muddled connotation of all popular words.”
+
+      “You object to the fact that capital controls printing?” said the
+      big man, fixing him with his goggles.
+
+      “Yes—and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed
+      to me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted
+      in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to
+      it.”
+
+      “Here now,” said the big man, “you’ll have to admit that the
+      laboring man is certainly highly paid—five and six hour days—it’s
+      ridiculous. You can’t buy an honest day’s work from a man in the
+      trades-unions.”
+
+      “You’ve brought it on yourselves,” insisted Amory. “You people
+      never make concessions until they’re wrung out of you.”
+
+      “What people?”
+
+      “Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by
+      inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the
+      moneyed class.”
+
+      “Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money
+      he’d be any more willing to give it up?”
+
+      “No, but what’s that got to do with it?”
+
+      The older man considered.
+
+      “No, I’ll admit it hasn’t. It rather sounds as if it had though.”
+
+      “In fact,” continued Amory, “he’d be worse. The lower classes are
+      narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish—certainly
+      more stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question.”
+
+      “Just exactly what is the question?”
+
+      Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question
+      was.
+
+
+      AMORY COINS A PHRASE
+
+      “When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education,” began
+      Amory slowly, “that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times
+      out of ten, a conservative as far as existing social conditions
+      are concerned. He may be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in
+      his own way, but his first job is to provide and to hold fast.
+      His wife shoos him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty
+      thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill that hasn’t
+      any windows. He’s done! Life’s got him! He’s no help! He’s a
+      spiritually married man.”
+
+      Amory paused and decided that it wasn’t such a bad phrase.
+
+      “Some men,” he continued, “escape the grip. Maybe their wives
+      have no social ambitions; maybe they’ve hit a sentence or two in
+      a ‘dangerous book’ that pleased them; maybe they started on the
+      treadmill as I did and were knocked off. Anyway, they’re the
+      congressmen you can’t bribe, the Presidents who aren’t
+      politicians, the writers, speakers, scientists, statesmen who
+      aren’t just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and
+      children.”
+
+      “He’s the natural radical?”
+
+      “Yes,” said Amory. “He may vary from the disillusioned critic
+      like old Thornton Hancock, all the way to Trotsky. Now this
+      spiritually unmarried man hasn’t direct power, for unfortunately
+      the spiritually married man, as a by-product of his money chase,
+      has garnered in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the
+      influential weekly—so that Mrs. Newspaper, Mrs. Magazine, Mrs.
+      Weekly can have a better limousine than those oil people across
+      the street or those cement people ’round the corner.”
+
+      “Why not?”
+
+      “It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world’s intellectual
+      conscience and, of course, a man who has money under one set of
+      social institutions quite naturally can’t risk his family’s
+      happiness by letting the clamor for another appear in his
+      newspaper.”
+
+      “But it appears,” said the big man.
+
+      “Where?—in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered
+      weeklies.”
+
+      “All right—go on.”
+
+      “Well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of
+      which the family is the first, there are these two sorts of
+      brains. One sort takes human nature as it finds it, uses its
+      timidity, its weakness, and its strength for its own ends.
+      Opposed is the man who, being spiritually unmarried, continually
+      seeks for new systems that will control or counteract human
+      nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that’s complicated,
+      it’s the struggle to guide and control life. That is his
+      struggle. He is a part of progress—the spiritually married man is
+      not.”
+
+      The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered them on his
+      huge palm. The little man took one, Amory shook his head and
+      reached for a cigarette.
+
+      “Go on talking,” said the big man. “I’ve been wanting to hear one
+      of you fellows.”
+
+
+      GOING FASTER
+
+      “Modern life,” began Amory again, “changes no longer century by
+      century, but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has
+      before—populations doubling, civilizations unified more closely
+      with other civilizations, economic interdependence, racial
+      questions, and—we’re _dawdling_ along. My idea is that we’ve got
+      to go very much faster.” He slightly emphasized the last words
+      and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed of the car.
+      Amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed, too, after
+      a pause.
+
+      “Every child,” said Amory, “should have an equal start. If his
+      father can endow him with a good physique and his mother with
+      some common sense in his early education, that should be his
+      heritage. If the father can’t give him a good physique, if the
+      mother has spent in chasing men the years in which she should
+      have been preparing herself to educate her children, so much the
+      worse for the child. He shouldn’t be artificially bolstered up
+      with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged
+      through college... Every boy ought to have an equal start.”
+
+      “All right,” said the big man, his goggles indicating neither
+      approval nor objection.
+
+      “Next I’d have a fair trial of government ownership of all
+      industries.”
+
+      “That’s been proven a failure.”
+
+      “No—it merely failed. If we had government ownership we’d have
+      the best analytical business minds in the government working for
+      something besides themselves. We’d have Mackays instead of
+      Burlesons; we’d have Morgans in the Treasury Department; we’d
+      have Hills running interstate commerce. We’d have the best
+      lawyers in the Senate.”
+
+      “They wouldn’t give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo—”
+
+      “No,” said Amory, shaking his head. “Money isn’t the only
+      stimulus that brings out the best that’s in a man, even in
+      America.”
+
+      “You said a while ago that it was.”
+
+      “It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have more than
+      a certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other
+      reward which attracts humanity—honor.”
+
+      The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_.
+
+      “That’s the silliest thing you’ve said yet.”
+
+      “No, it isn’t silly. It’s quite plausible. If you’d gone to
+      college you’d have been struck by the fact that the men there
+      would work twice as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as
+      those other men did who were earning their way through.”
+
+      “Kids—child’s play!” scoffed his antagonist.
+
+      “Not by a darned sight—unless we’re all children. Did you ever
+      see a grown man when he’s trying for a secret society—or a rising
+      family whose name is up at some club? They’ll jump when they hear
+      the sound of the word. The idea that to make a man work you’ve
+      got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom.
+      We’ve done that for so long that we’ve forgotten there’s any
+      other way. We’ve made a world where that’s necessary. Let me tell
+      you”—Amory became emphatic—“if there were ten men insured against
+      either wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five
+      hours’ work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours’ work a day,
+      nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon. That
+      competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of their
+      house is the badge they’ll sweat their heads off for that. If
+      it’s only a blue ribbon, I damn near believe they’ll work just as
+      hard. They have in other ages.”
+
+      “I don’t agree with you.”
+
+      “I know it,” said Amory nodding sadly. “It doesn’t matter any
+      more though. I think these people are going to come and take what
+      they want pretty soon.”
+
+      A fierce hiss came from the little man.
+
+      “_Machine-guns!_”
+
+      “Ah, but you’ve taught them their use.”
+
+      The big man shook his head.
+
+      “In this country there are enough property owners not to permit
+      that sort of thing.”
+
+      Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and
+      non-property owners; he decided to change the subject.
+
+      But the big man was aroused.
+
+      “When you talk of ‘taking things away,’ you’re on dangerous
+      ground.”
+
+      “How can they get it without taking it? For years people have
+      been stalled off with promises. Socialism may not be progress,
+      but the threat of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force
+      of all reform. You’ve got to be sensational to get attention.”
+
+      “Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?”
+
+      “Quite possibly,” admitted Amory. “Of course, it’s overflowing
+      just as the French Revolution did, but I’ve no doubt that it’s
+      really a great experiment and well worth while.”
+
+      “Don’t you believe in moderation?”
+
+      “You won’t listen to the moderates, and it’s almost too late. The
+      truth is that the public has done one of those startling and
+      amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years.
+      They’ve seized an idea.”
+
+      “What is it?”
+
+      “That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their
+      stomachs are essentially the same.”
+
+
+      THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS
+
+      “If you took all the money in the world,” said the little man
+      with much profundity, “and divided it up in equ—”
+
+      “Oh, shut up!” said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the
+      little man’s enraged stare, he went on with his argument.
+
+      “The human stomach—” he began; but the big man interrupted rather
+      impatiently.
+
+      “I’m letting you talk, you know,” he said, “but please avoid
+      stomachs. I’ve been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don’t agree
+      with one-half you’ve said. Government ownership is the basis of
+      your whole argument, and it’s invariably a beehive of corruption.
+      Men won’t work for blue ribbons, that’s all rot.”
+
+      When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as
+      if resolved this time to have his say out.
+
+      “There are certain things which are human nature,” he asserted
+      with an owl-like look, “which always have been and always will
+      be, which can’t be changed.”
+
+      Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly.
+
+      “Listen to that! _That’s_ what makes me discouraged with
+      progress. _Listen_ to that! I can name offhand over one hundred
+      natural phenomena that have been changed by the will of man—a
+      hundred instincts in man that have been wiped out or are now held
+      in check by civilization. What this man here just said has been
+      for thousands of years the last refuge of the associated
+      mutton-heads of the world. It negates the efforts of every
+      scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher
+      that ever gave his life to humanity’s service. It’s a flat
+      impeachment of all that’s worth while in human nature. Every
+      person over twenty-five years old who makes that statement in
+      cold blood ought to be deprived of the franchise.”
+
+      The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with
+      rage. Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man.
+
+      “These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend
+      here, who _think_ they think, every question that comes up,
+      you’ll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute it’s
+      ‘the brutality and inhumanity of these Prussians’—the next it’s
+      ‘we ought to exterminate the whole German people.’ They always
+      believe that ‘things are in a bad way now,’ but they ‘haven’t any
+      faith in these idealists.’ One minute they call Wilson ‘just a
+      dreamer, not practical’—a year later they rail at him for making
+      his dreams realities. They haven’t clear logical ideas on one
+      single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change.
+      They don’t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but
+      they won’t see that if they don’t pay the uneducated people their
+      children are going to be uneducated too, and we’re going round
+      and round in a circle. That—is the great middle class!”
+
+      The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled
+      at the little man.
+
+      “You’re catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?”
+
+      The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole
+      matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. But Amory was
+      not through.
+
+      “The theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on
+      this man. If he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and
+      logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes and
+      prejudices and sentimentalisms, then I’m a militant Socialist. If
+      he can’t, then I don’t think it matters much what happens to man
+      or his systems, now or hereafter.”
+
+      “I am both interested and amused,” said the big man. “You are
+      very young.”
+
+      “Which may only mean that I have neither been corrupted nor made
+      timid by contemporary experience. I possess the most valuable
+      experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to
+      college I’ve managed to pick up a good education.”
+
+      “You talk glibly.”
+
+      “It’s not all rubbish,” cried Amory passionately. “This is the
+      first time in my life I’ve argued Socialism. It’s the only
+      panacea I know. I’m restless. My whole generation is restless.
+      I’m sick of a system where the richest man gets the most
+      beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an
+      income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. Even if
+      I had no talents I’d not be content to work ten years, condemned
+      either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man’s
+      son an automobile.”
+
+      “But, if you’re not sure—”
+
+      “That doesn’t matter,” exclaimed Amory. “My position couldn’t be
+      worse. A social revolution might land me on top. Of course I’m
+      selfish. It seems to me I’ve been a fish out of water in too many
+      outworn systems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my
+      class at college who got a decent education; still they’d let any
+      well-tutored flathead play football and _I_ was ineligible,
+      because some silly old men thought we should _all_ profit by
+      conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I’m in
+      love with change and I’ve killed my conscience—”
+
+      “So you’ll go along crying that we must go faster.”
+
+      “That, at least, is true,” Amory insisted. “Reform won’t catch up
+      to the needs of civilization unless it’s made to. A laissez-faire
+      policy is like spoiling a child by saying he’ll turn out all
+      right in the end. He will—if he’s made to.”
+
+      “But you don’t believe all this Socialist patter you talk.”
+
+      “I don’t know. Until I talked to you I hadn’t thought seriously
+      about it. I wasn’t sure of half of what I said.”
+
+      “You puzzle me,” said the big man, “but you’re all alike. They
+      say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting
+      of all dramatists about his royalties. To the last farthing.”
+
+      “Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I’m a product of a
+      versatile mind in a restless generation—with every reason to
+      throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my
+      heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as
+      a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against
+      tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones.
+      I’ve thought I was right about life at various times, but faith
+      is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn’t a seeking for the
+      grail it may be a damned amusing game.”
+
+      For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked:
+
+      “What was your university?”
+
+      “Princeton.”
+
+      The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his
+      goggles altered slightly.
+
+      “I sent my son to Princeton.”
+
+      “Did you?”
+
+      “Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed
+      last year in France.”
+
+      “I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular
+      friends.”
+
+      “He was—a—quite a fine boy. We were very close.”
+
+      Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the
+      dead son and he told himself that there had been all along a
+      sense of familiarity. Jesse Ferrenby, the man who in college had
+      borne off the crown that he had aspired to. It was all so far
+      away. What little boys they had been, working for blue ribbons—
+
+      The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed
+      around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence.
+
+      “Won’t you come in for lunch?”
+
+      Amory shook his head.
+
+      “Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I’ve got to get on.”
+
+      The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the fact that he
+      had known Jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created
+      by his opinions. What ghosts were people with which to work! Even
+      the little man insisted on shaking hands.
+
+      “Good-by!” shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and
+      started up the drive. “Good luck to you and bad luck to your
+      theories.”
+
+      “Same to you, sir,” cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand.
+
+
+      “OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM”
+
+      Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey roadside
+      and looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature as a rather coarse
+      phenomenon composed largely of flowers that, when closely
+      inspected, appeared moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly
+      traversed blades of grass, was always disillusioning; nature
+      represented by skies and waters and far horizons was more
+      likable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made
+      him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton, ages
+      ago, seven years ago—and of an autumn day in France twelve months
+      before when he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened down
+      close around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner.
+      He saw the two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive
+      exaltation—two games he had played, differing in quality of
+      acerbity, linked in a way that differed them from Rosalind or the
+      subject of labyrinths which were, after all, the business of
+      life.
+
+      “I am selfish,” he thought.
+
+      “This is not a quality that will change when I ‘see human
+      suffering’ or ‘lose my parents’ or ‘help others.’
+
+      “This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living
+      part.
+
+      “It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that
+      selfishness that I can bring poise and balance into my life.
+
+      “There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can
+      make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a
+      friend, lay down my life for a friend—all because these things
+      may be the best possible expression of myself; yet I have not one
+      drop of the milk of human kindness.”
+
+      The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the problem of
+      sex. He was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic
+      worship in Brooke and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with
+      evil was beauty—beauty, still a constant rising tumult; soft in
+      Eleanor’s voice, in an old song at night, rioting deliriously
+      through life like superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half
+      darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it
+      longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of
+      evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the
+      beauty of women.
+
+      After all, it had too many associations with license and
+      indulgence. Weak things were often beautiful, weak things were
+      never good. And in this new loneness of his that had been
+      selected for what greatness he might achieve, beauty must be
+      relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only a discord.
+
+      In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second
+      step after his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that
+      he was leaving behind him his chance of being a certain type of
+      artist. It seemed so much more important to be a certain sort of
+      man.
+
+      His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking
+      of the Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was
+      a certain intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was
+      necessary, and religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite
+      conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly the only
+      assimilative, traditionary bulwark against the decay of morals.
+      Until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense some
+      one must cry: “Thou shalt not!” Yet any acceptance was, for the
+      present, impossible. He wanted time and the absence of ulterior
+      pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without ornaments, realize
+      fully the direction and momentum of this new start.
+
+
+      The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o’clock to the
+      golden beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache
+      of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at
+      twilight he came to a graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell
+      of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and shadows
+      everywhere. On an impulse he considered trying to open the door
+      of a rusty iron vault built into the side of a hill; a vault
+      washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy watery-blue
+      flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch
+      with a sickening odor.
+
+      Amory wanted to feel “William Dayfield, 1864.”
+
+      He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain.
+      Somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the
+      broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels meant
+      romances. He fancied that in a hundred years he would like having
+      young people speculate as to whether his eyes were brown or blue,
+      and he hoped quite passionately that his grave would have about
+      it an air of many, many years ago. It seemed strange that out of
+      a row of Union soldiers two or three made him think of dead loves
+      and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the rest, even to
+      the yellowish moss.
+
+
+      Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were
+      visible, with here and there a late-burning light—and suddenly
+      out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream
+      it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new
+      generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world,
+      still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams
+      of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation, shouting
+      the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long
+      days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray
+      turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more
+      than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success;
+      grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in
+      man shaken....
+
+      Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself—art,
+      politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was
+      safe now, free from all hysteria—he could accept what was
+      acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights....
+
+      There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in
+      riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost
+      youth—yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his
+      soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of
+      old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But—oh, Rosalind!
+      Rosalind!...
+
+      “It’s all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly.
+
+      And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he
+      had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from
+      the personalities he had passed....
+
+      He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
+
+      “I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.”
diff --git a/Session_3.ipynb b/Session_3.ipynb
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8c54884
--- /dev/null
+++ b/Session_3.ipynb
@@ -0,0 +1,830 @@
+{
+ "cells": [
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "3e89c5b3",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "<img align=\"left\" src=\"https://ithaka-labs.s3.amazonaws.com/static-files/images/tdm/tdmdocs/tapi-logo-small.png\" />\n",
+    "\n",
+    "This notebook free for educational reuse under [Creative Commons CC BY License](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/).\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Created by [J.D. Porter](https://) for the 2023 Text Analysis Pedagogy Institute, with support from [Constellate](https://constellate.org).\n",
+    "\n",
+    "For questions/comments/improvements, email porterjd@upenn.sas.edu<br />\n",
+    "____"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "68f932d1",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# `Finding Word Meaning Through Context` `3`\n",
+    "\n",
+    "This is lesson `3` of 3 in the educational series on `finding word meaning in context`. This notebook is intended `to show how to find the collocates of any given target term—that is, the words that tend to occur near a word that interest you—and then how to find the distinctive collocates in particular`. \n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Audience:** `Teachers` / `Learners` / `Researchers`\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Use case:** `Tutorial` \n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Difficulty:** `Beginner`\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Completion time:** `90 minutes`\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Knowledge Required:** \n",
+    "```\n",
+    "* Python basics (variables, functions, lists, dictionaries)\n",
+    "* A basic familiarty with the material from the first two sessions:\n",
+    "    * How to extract the words from a .txt file and count them\n",
+    "    * How to find the Most Distinctive Words in one text, measured againt a broader corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Knowledge Recommended:**\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "* n/a\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Learning Objectives:**\n",
+    "After this lesson, learners will be able to:\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "1. Find the key words in context (or KWIC) for any given text and target term\n",
+    "2. Identify the most common collocates of a target term\n",
+    "3. Find the distinctive collocates of a target term\n",
+    "4. Apply these procedures to multiple target terms across multiple texts\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "**Research Pipeline:**\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "1. Gather a file in the .txt format and save it somewhere on your machine\n",
+    "2. Use whatever steps you're interested in from this notebook\n",
+    "3. If you have written out some of your data, explore it in a program like Excel or Google Sheets\n",
+    "4. Interpret!\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "___"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "157c0555",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Required Python Libraries\n",
+    "\n",
+    "* To keep things simple, we will try to work with very few libraries in this notebook. We'll use os, as well as one function from scipy.stats\n",
+    "\n",
+    "## Install Required Libraries"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "5480e2a8",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "### Import Libraries ###\n",
+    "import os\n",
+    "\n",
+    "from scipy.stats import fisher_exact"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "8dedd148",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Required Data\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Data Format:** \n",
+    "* plain text (.txt)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Data Source:**\n",
+    "* included files (though you may supplement these whenever you feel comfortable doing so!)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Data Quality/Bias:**\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Included texts are from freely available sources like Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia. They have not been vetted for textual accuracy relative to, say, a scholarly edition. They are subject to the usual biases of those sites, and (especially in the case of Wikipedia) may not reflect the current state of the material online. The F. Scott Fitzgerald novels also do not reflect his entire corpus, since two novels are subject to copyright law (1934's _Tender is the Night_, as well as the posthumously published _The Last Tycoon_).\n",
+    "\n",
+    "**Data Description:**\n",
+    "\n",
+    "This lesson uses textual data in .txt format (utf-8 encoding) from various sources."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "f53edaa2",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "source": [
+    "# Introduction..."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "8ffabbb4-123f-49ff-b8c4-ff23acf1533f",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "So far, we've been working primarily with individual words and their counts and frequencies, without much attention to word _order_. Text miners sometimes call this a \"bag-of-words\" approach: Each text is treated as a collection of words, many of which occur more than once, but features like syntax, dependency, deixis, narratology, and context are ignored. There's nothing wrong with analyzing a text this way—for instance, we learned a lot about the words that distinguished our Beatles articles—but clearly there is plenty more to learn if we treat it less like a bag of words and more like, well, a text! \n",
+    "\n",
+    "In today's lesson, we take a few relatively simple steps to put word order back into the mix. We have already begun thinking about words in their contexts—for instance, in an article about Paul McCartney vs one about John Lennon—but now we will narrow our focus considerably, often to the level of a sentence or a phrase. As a result, we will likewise narrow our object of comparison. By finding collocates, the words that appear near any given target term, we will be able to identify the words that distinguish _words_. We know \"bass\" is distinctive of Paul and \"peace\" of John—but what distinguishes \"bass\" from \"peace\", or from everything else? We probably won't arrive at a final theory of word meaning 90 minutes from now, but hopefully we'll have some tools to help us think about it in new ways!"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "ceb84723-deb5-488f-8504-71721c8d78ab",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Getting a list of words from a file"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "03930633-a32f-4b31-8fe2-c0ea6650d55e",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Since we've already covered this material, we can use a few familiar functions"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "8966f233-ad26-4ff1-a9c3-034ed740d4ad",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "\n",
+    "# Takes a word and returns a \"cleaned up\" version of the word\n",
+    "def alphaclean(someword):\n",
+    "    chars = [i for i in someword if i.isalpha()]\n",
+    "    cleanword = ''.join(chars)\n",
+    "    cleanword = cleanword.lower()\n",
+    "    return cleanword\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Takes a filename and returns a list of words (optionally cleaned)\n",
+    "def file2words(somefile,clean=True):\n",
+    "    with open(somefile) as source:\n",
+    "        text = source.read()\n",
+    "    words = text.split()\n",
+    "    if clean:\n",
+    "        words = [alphaclean(i) for i in words]\n",
+    "    return words\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Takes an items and adds it to a specified count dictionary\n",
+    "def addtocountdict(something,somedict,weight=1):\n",
+    "    if something not in somedict:\n",
+    "        somedict[something] = 0\n",
+    "    somedict[something] += weight\n",
+    "    return"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "95bfe8b6-f6a5-4300-b6d1-f791bfca198a",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Create a variable for your filename, using a full path if need be\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Turn the file into words\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "2a0b395e-77d4-4729-89a5-530d8b3033ef",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Getting KWIC"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "542f4bd8-37c8-4af2-8bb2-647b6fd66b90",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Because lists in Python preserve order, we can use them to extract the context that surrounds any given target word. Let's say we want to find the contexts in which Austen writes the word \"estate\" in _Pride and Prejudice_. The basic method is simple: \n",
+    " * Decide how big our \"window\" should be. Different sizes capture different kinds of relationships among words. A window of about 10 words before and after the target term is fairly standard, since it's a nice round number near the scale of a sentence.[$^{1}$](#1) \n",
+    " * Find all occurrences of \"estate\" in the text.\n",
+    " * Grab the whole window, from 10 words before \"estate\" to 10 words after.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "If we simply use these results in this form, we'll basically have Key Words in Context, or KWIC. People use the term/acronym KWIC in different ways, sometimes referring to a way of making a concordance, but for our purposes it just means grabbing the context that surrounds target terms!\n",
+    "\n",
+    "<hr></hr>\n",
+    "\n",
+    "__Footnote__\n",
+    "\n",
+    "1. <a id=\"1\"></a> Baroni, Bernardi and Zamparelli say that if the context is very large—e.g., entire documents—then analyses tend to capture \"topical\" relationships (like that between \"war\" and \"Afghanistan\"), whereas small contexts capture \"taxonomical\" relationships (like that between \"dog\" and \"hyena\") (251). They're discussing more complex methods of distance analysis than we're getting into here, but I still think that's an interesting example of the ways context size can affect our results, or even our sense of what \"meaning\" means. Baroni, Marco, Raffaella Bernardi, and Roberto Zamparelli. \"Frege in space: A program for compositional distributional semantics.\" _Linguistic Issues in Language Technology_ 9 (2014): 241-346."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "868759dd-cfc3-4779-883a-463ccd1423b6",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Pick a target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Pick a window\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Create an object that can store your results\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Go through a list of words and find the target term\n",
+    "# Grab the context surrounding the target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Let's turn these steps into a function!\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "7b2054f3-2646-4cc5-8381-a5921ccbdc27",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# From KWIC to collocates"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "aea2eea1-522b-4a54-af5c-1b12e2ab26e8",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "For our purposes, a \"collocate\" just means any word that appears within some context window for a target term. The term collocates is sometimes used in more specialized ways. For instance, some researchers will only consider a word to be a collocate if it occurs _significantly_ more often near the target term. But for now, we'll keep it simple!"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "ff2bf183-b5c8-48e9-b077-2d244bbdea24",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Pick a target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Create a count dictionary for your collocates\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Count the collocates\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "46033dc2-7624-403c-98d2-d56e240890fd",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# This isn't important to learn today, but for convenience we can use it to sort a count dictionary\n",
+    "\n",
+    "for i in sorted(counts,key = lambda i:counts[i],reverse=True):\n",
+    "    print(i,counts[i])"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "d6f3fa4a-cc05-422f-a357-068ac3cf678b",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "source": [
+    "# Getting interesting frequencies for target terms"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "ba0ba9ed-2735-4832-a1f6-e67105674460",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Filter stopwords\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Consider converting to frequency\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "fb3e161f-d480-4b85-a410-68e3b77605c9",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Here's the sorting function again\n",
+    "\n",
+    "for i in sorted(int_counts,key = lambda i:int_counts[i],reverse=True):\n",
+    "    print(i,\"\\t\",int_counts[i])"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "1f88cfd6-1a4f-4fec-bc21-dba042ee0e86",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Testing a collocate for distinctiveness"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "1870058f-82bf-4ba2-ad20-f818aa6104f8",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Here we cash in on the methods we learned in session 2. The trick is to adapt our Fisher's Exact Test so that it can handle a comparison between collocates and the larger text, rather than between one text and some others. Let's work through what we need to build the table that we'll use in the test. We can start with the general principles we covered last time:\n",
+    "\n",
+    "* a = the number of times the word appeared in the corpus we're interested in\n",
+    "* b = the number of times any other word appeared in that corpus\n",
+    "* c = the number of times we would have expected the word to appear if it was evenly distributed across all our corpora\n",
+    "* d = the number of times any other word would have appeared if the word we're examining had been appearing at its expected rate\n",
+    "\n",
+    "For collocates, this will translate to:\n",
+    "\n",
+    "* a = the number of times the word appeared _within the window surrounding our target term_\n",
+    "* b = the total number of collocates minus a\n",
+    "* c = the number of times we would have expected the word to appear if it appeared _within the window surrounding our target term_ at the same rate as _within the text as a whole_\n",
+    "* d = the total number of collocates minus c\n",
+    "\n",
+    "As with our Beatles example in session 2, the tricky part is figuring out __c__. We need to know the expected rate of occurrence for the word we're testing (let's call it __r__ again). If we want to know the significant collocates of \"estate\" within _Pride and Prejudice_, we can set that rate using the full novel. The important thing to remember is that we need the rate not for \"estate\", but for whatever collocate we want to test. \n",
+    "\n",
+    "For example, let's say we want to see if \"derbyshire\" is a significant collocate for \"estate\" in _Pride and Prejudice_, even though it only appears 3 times in our KWIC. The word \"derbyshire\" appears 24 times in the novel, which is 121,567 words long. So our __r__ will be:\n",
+    "\n",
+    "```Python\n",
+    "r = 24 / 121567\n",
+    "```\n",
+    "\n",
+    "That comes to about 0.0002. Meanwhile the total number of collocates for \"estate\" is 400 (one easy way to get this is to sum the values of our collocate count dictionary). So that gives us:\n",
+    "\n",
+    "* a = 3\n",
+    "* b = 400 - 3\n",
+    "* c = __r__ * 400\n",
+    "* d = 400 - c\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Which comes to:\n",
+    "\n",
+    "* a = 3\n",
+    "* b = 397\n",
+    "* c = 1\n",
+    "* d = 399\n",
+    "\n",
+    "If we run our Fisher's Exact Test on this, we get a p-value of .62. So, even though Darcy's estate is in Derbyshire, the word \"derbyshire\" doesn't seem to be a significant collocate of \"estate\"!\n",
+    "\n",
+    "That's kind of a boring result, so let's pick a different target term, and build a method for finding all of the distinctive collocates!"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "b0a1cb75-850f-4658-974c-922b2b2cfcaa",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Testing _all_ of the collocates for distinctiveness"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "a4c5b944-8537-4dca-9b11-75ed6f67ce85",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Here's the function we used last time for getting the p value via a Fisher's Exact Test\n",
+    "\n",
+    "def get_fishers(someword,somecountdict,someratedict,alternative='greater'):\n",
+    "    r = someratedict[someword]\n",
+    "    wc = sum(somecountdict.values())\n",
+    "    a = somecountdict[someword]\n",
+    "    b = wc - a\n",
+    "    c = round(r*wc)\n",
+    "    d = wc-c\n",
+    "    p = fisher_exact([[a,b],[c,d]],alternative=alternative)[1]\n",
+    "    return p"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "ed3bbae0-92a6-419b-b08f-4389c757db3b",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# In this cell we'll set up everything we need to find the p value\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Find the counts of all words for the text\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Make a rate dictionary for the corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Pick the target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Get the KWIC of the target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Count the collocates\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "7d68b75d-514a-4d78-b926-ffdd49d4a8c0",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "6545c5d1-7567-4556-9364-a764983e503f",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "76670a61-420d-42ae-b8a2-103758137611",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Checking collocates in a larger corpus"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "8d29d4ba-b6d1-47f8-9baf-a86ebddfcf84",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "You may have noticed that we're not getting a _ton_ of results for any given target term. That's because we're dealing with a fairly small amount of text—we only collect text when we find our target term, and even then we might not collect _much_ text. This means that collocate analysis often gets more interesting as we scale up the amount of text we examine. In the context of this session, we don't want to go _too_ far with that, since large corpora require more labor (and processing time) to store, share, analyze, and interpret. But we can get a little bit of a sense by zooming out to Austen's entire corpus."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "f205ea40-6c71-4eb7-ad34-9f4e14f199f0",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Name the directory containing the novels\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Get the texts out of it\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "ff6e0565-9e91-4ee3-b546-abbe1555a33f",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# In this cell we'll set up everything we need to run our Fisher's Exact Test in a bit\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Find the counts of all words for the text across all the novels\n",
+    "   \n",
+    "# Make a rate dictionary for the corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Pick the target term\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Get the KWIC of the target term across the whole corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Count the collocates\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "fe9c723a-fa6b-4932-8d64-a6c519eb3a53",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "5ff5de3e-a11a-45a2-a612-223570bc3c72",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "cf0a37ab-835e-4e51-b9b8-c115835e4e9f",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Checking several target terms"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "8c91da73-a89f-47fa-9f71-e9034b0b1a5e",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "target_terms = ['father','mother','sister','brother','cousin','uncle','aunt','nephew','niece','grandfather','grandmother',\n",
+    "               'son','daughter','husband','wife']"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "6404db2b-64bf-4b54-b88f-e9e362faba89",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Some things won't change!\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Find the counts of all words for the text across all the novels\n",
+    "   \n",
+    "# Make a rate dictionary for the corpus\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "408db37e-0ba7-4312-8cb5-02062aa997e9",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# For the KWIC, we'll now need to associate the results with specific target terms\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "fe6fd34d-e6b1-4ab4-acb6-76cdf7566e49",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Same goes for our collocate counts!\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "daca011e-b745-4a5a-a7fe-a1c865f2402c",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "6da32753-5c77-49f8-bd06-76de79641a9d",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "a8f7096e-8c35-4910-a784-d993c2d81f37",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "source": [
+    "# Comparing terms across corpora"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "36e531b5-a2c4-40b9-b38b-78d4f74b0a34",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Comparing terms across different corpora raises some complicated, even profound questions. If, for instance, we try to compare Austen’s language to that of F. Scott Fitzgerald, we quickly run into some insurmountable difficulties. When it comes time to analyze “distinctiveness” for any given target term, on what should we base our expectations?  Let’s consider two possibilities. First, we can set the base rate by considering all of the novels in both corpora. (For simplicity's sake, we'll go back to thinking about one target term at a time.)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "1d571548-e7af-4051-aa09-8f42e0076ab3",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "target_term = 'love'"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "55814ed1-2d4f-4762-b434-8d9f9bb1bdad",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# First, let's grab all of the file names from both directories\n",
+    "# Let's also keep track of which corpus contains which files\n",
+    "\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Then we can proceed as before\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Find the counts of all words for the text across all the novels\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "# Make a rate dictionary for the corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# For the KWIC, we'll now need to associate the results with specific corpora\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "# For the collocate counts, we'll likewise separate by corpus\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "a93236f4-c238-43b8-afc8-60fa48cca0f8",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "alpha = .05\n",
+    "cutoff = 5\n",
+    "\n",
+    "output_table_1 = [['target_corpus','collocate','count','p-value','obs/exp']]"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "c6deefb7-3db1-4f74-b131-0adcd73330d4",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "028a9411-3eb0-4914-95b4-97fc4711aaf5",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "These results are interesting, but it’s difficult to say what they’re showing us about the target term, vs what they’re telling us about the difference between Austen and Fitzgerald. After all, one is a British novelist from the turn of the nineteenth century, and the other is an American writing in the Jazz Age (even the name of the era involves a word Austen didn’t have). Do the differences we find reflect different understandings of the target term, or differences between the two authors and their language contexts? Just consider the difference between \"cannot\" and \"can't\"!\n",
+    "\n",
+    "To resolve this, we could try to base our expectations on each author’s corpus. "
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "664018de-b6bd-46b1-9ca0-62f3d684406d",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# First, we get counts and rates for each corpus\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# Since all we needed to change was our expectations, or rates, we can then proceed exactly as before\n",
+    "# For the KWIC, we'll now need to associate the results with specific corpora\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "# For the collocate counts, we'll likewise separate by corpus\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "992eb593-e3ad-4d0a-86de-c1ee71297d0e",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "alpha = .05\n",
+    "cutoff = 5\n",
+    "\n",
+    "output_table_2 = [['target_corpus','collocate','count','p-value','obs/exp']]\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "7de7009d-0e16-4fdc-9b91-faf82555e892",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "515a32cf-d9a2-4a91-84b8-da24efd58f5a",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# You don't need to learn this stuff, but here we make sets showing the unique (corpus,collocate) pairs from each output table\n",
+    "# This enables us to see the difference between the two methods more easily\n",
+    "\n",
+    "table_1_pairs = set()\n",
+    "table_2_pairs = set()\n",
+    "\n",
+    "for row in output_table_1:\n",
+    "    table_1_pairs.add((row[0],row[1]))\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "for row in output_table_2:\n",
+    "    table_2_pairs.add((row[0],row[1]))"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "c4846f40-e5c4-4495-81ab-07f7a7c91557",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Here we see (corpus,collocate) pairs that appear in the first output_table, but not the second\n",
+    "table_1_pairs - table_2_pairs"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "0c70d0e9-405e-4ffe-9105-7420b09de392",
+   "metadata": {
+    "tags": []
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "# Here we see (corpus,collocate) pairs that appear in the second output_table, but not the first\n",
+    "table_2_pairs - table_1_pairs"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "id": "eb151b01-b129-4402-803b-1e8581751930",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Now we can see how each author uses the target term relative to the rest of that author’s corpus. Fitzgerald isn’t saying \"beauty\" bc it’s a new word, but because he uses \"beauty\" near the target term more than he uses it in the rest of his corpus. But what does that tell us? Does \"love\" mean something different for Austen and Fitzgerald? Does \"beauty\"? If the language has changed, does any shared collocate mean the same thing? Does any word?\n",
+    "\n",
+    "With MDW, we could skip a lot of these questions by comparing the novels in their entirety, rather than zooming in on target terms. But that wouldn’t solve the problem; it would only ignore it. \n",
+    "\n",
+    "Now we've arrived, more or less, back at the beginning. We can find the words that go with any target term that interests us. We can even understand that target term with respect to these surrounding words. Have we then arrived at the meaning of our target terms? I think we're at least in range of it. But when you consider the decisions we have to make about expectations, comparisons, corpora, word cleaning, counting... and much more — when you consider all of this, you see how many different ways there are to _find_ meaning. In other words (no pun intended), it's tough to say what meaning means. When we look for it, we will always have to consider context."
+   ]
+  }
+ ],
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+  "kernelspec": {
+   "display_name": "Python 3 (ipykernel)",
+   "language": "python",
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+   "nav_menu": {},
+   "number_sections": true,
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