Persuasion
making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only
to bow and pass on, but her gentle “How do you do?” brought him out of
the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in
spite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground. Their
being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew nothing of
their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to
be done.
While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth
caught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the
subject; and on Captain Wentworth’s making a distant bow, she
comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that
simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a
side glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This,
though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than
nothing, and her spirits improved.
After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert,
their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that
she was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in
no hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little
smile, a little glow, he said—
“I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must
have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering
you at the time.”
She assured him that she had not.
“It was a frightful hour,” said he, “a frightful day!” and he passed
his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful,
but in a moment, half smiling again, added, “The day has produced some
effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as
the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to
suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon,
you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most
concerned in her recovery.”
“Certainly I could have none. But it appears—I should hope it would be
a very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good
temper.”
“Yes,” said he, looking not exactly forward; “but there, I think, ends
the resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over
every circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to
contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The
Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly,
only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter’s
comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more
than perhaps—”
He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some
taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne’s cheeks and fixing her
eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded
thus—
“I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity,
and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as
a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in
understanding, but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a
reading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to
her with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he
learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it
would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so.
It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous,
untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in
his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny
Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was
indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the
heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not.”
Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered,
or from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite
of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in
spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam
of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had
distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and
beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a
moment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet,
after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the
smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say—
“You were a good while at Lyme, I think?”
“About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa’s doing well was
quite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to
be soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have
been obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very
fine. I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I
found to admire.”
“I should very much like to see Lyme again,” said Anne.
“Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything
in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were
involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have
thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.”
“The last hours were certainly very painful,” replied Anne; “but when
pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does
not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been
all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at
Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours,
and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much
novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place
would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in
short” (with a faint blush at some recollections), “altogether my
impressions of the place are very agreeable.”
As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party
appeared for whom they were waiting. “Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,”
was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with
anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet
her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and
Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant,
advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in
which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided
from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting
conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance
compared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the
last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his
feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the
demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with
exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all.
She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to
all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.
The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back
from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that
he was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert
Room. He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment’s regret. But
“they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out
before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well
to be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection.”
Upon Lady Russell’s appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was
collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed
into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power,
draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people
as they could.
Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.
Elizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back
of the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish
for which did not seem within her reach; and Anne—but it would be an
insult to the nature of Anne’s felicity, to draw any comparison between
it and her sister’s; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other
all generous attachment.
Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her
happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;
but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half
hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range
over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his
manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His
opinion of Louisa Musgrove’s inferiority, an opinion which he had
seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings
as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not
finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance,
all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that
anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were
succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness
of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could
not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her.
These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and
flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she
passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even
trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they
were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen
to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not
reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a
time to be happy in a humbler way.
The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne
was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manœuvred so well,
with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by
her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object
of Colonel Wallis’s gallantry, was quite contented.
Anne’s mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the
evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the
tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience
for the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least
during the first act. Towards the close of it, in the interval
succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr
Elliot. They had a concert bill between them.
“This,” said she, “is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the
words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be
talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not
pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar.”
“Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter. You
have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these
inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear,
comprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your
ignorance. Here is complete proof.”
“I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be
examined by a real proficient.”
“I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,”
replied he, “without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do
regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be
aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for
modesty to be natural in any other woman.”
“For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. I forget what we are
to have next,” turning to the bill.