prompt:
Chapter: Anne went home to think over all that she had heard.  In one point, her
feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot.  There was no
longer anything of tenderness due to him.  He stood as opposed to
Captain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil
of his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have
done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed.  Pity
for him was all over.  But this was the only point of relief.  In every
other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw
more to distrust and to apprehend.  She was concerned for the
disappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the
mortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and
had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to
avert any one of them.  She was most thankful for her own knowledge of
him.  She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not
slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed
springing from it!  Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one
else could have done.  Could the knowledge have been extended through
her family?  But this was a vain idea.  She must talk to Lady Russell,
tell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event
with as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of
composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be
opened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must
be all to herself.

She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped
seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning
visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when
she heard that he was coming again in the evening.

"I had not the smallest intention of asking him," said Elizabeth, with
affected carelessness, "but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at
least."

"Indeed, I do say it.  I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for
an invitation.  Poor man!  I was really in pain for him; for your
hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty."

"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I have been rather too much used to the game to
be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints.  However, when I found how
excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this
morning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an
opportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together.  They appear to so
much advantage in company with each other.  Each behaving so
pleasantly.  Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect."

"Quite delightful!" cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her
eyes towards Anne.  "Exactly like father and son!  Dear Miss Elliot,
may I not say father and son?"

"Oh! I lay no embargo on any body's words.  If you will have such
ideas!  But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions
being beyond those of other men."

"My dear Miss Elliot!" exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,
and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.

"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him.  I did
invite him, you know.  I sent him away with smiles.  When I found he
was really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day
to-morrow, I had compassion on him."

Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such
pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of
the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her
prime object.  It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight
of Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look,
and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting
herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done
otherwise.

To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the
room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her.  She had
been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but
now she saw insincerity in everything.  His attentive deference to her
father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she
thought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear
the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his
artificial good sentiments.

She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a
remonstrance on his side.  It was a great object to her to escape all
enquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to
him as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as
quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had
been gradually led along.  She was accordingly more guarded, and more
cool, than she had been the night before.

He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could
have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by
more solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and
animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's
vanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of
those attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of
the others.  He little surmised that it was a subject acting now
exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all
those parts of his conduct which were least excusable.

She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of
Bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the
greater part of two days.  He was invited again to Camden Place the
very evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his
absence was certain.  It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be
always before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their
party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort.  It
was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on
her father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of
mortification preparing for them!  Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so
complicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for
the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's
subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.

On Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and
accomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone
directly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some
obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to
wait till she might be safe from such a companion.  She saw Mrs Clay
fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning
in Rivers Street.

"Very well," said Elizabeth, "I have nothing to send but my love.  Oh!
you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and
pretend I have read it through.  I really cannot be plaguing myself for
ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.
Lady Russell quite bores one with her new publications.  You need not
tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night.  I used
to think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the
concert.  Something so formal and arrange in her air!  and she sits so
upright!  My best love, of course."

"And mine," added Sir Walter.  "Kindest regards.  And you may say, that
I mean to call upon her soon.  Make a civil message; but I shall only
leave my card.  Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of
life, who make themselves up so little.  If she would only wear rouge
she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I
observed the blinds were let down immediately."

While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.  Who could it
be?  Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr
Elliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven
miles off.  After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of
approach were heard, and "Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove" were ushered
into the room.

Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne
was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that
they could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became
clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any
views of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were
able to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well.  They
were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the
White Hart.  So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter
and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and
regaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon
Charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an
explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had
been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent
confusion as to whom their party consisted of.

She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and
Captain Harville, beside their two selves.  He gave her a very plain,
intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great
deal of most characteristic proceeding.  The scheme had received its
first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on
business.  He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing
something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him,
and Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an
advantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had
made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything
seemed to be in suspense, or at an end.  But then, it had been taken up
by his father and mother.  His mother had some old friends in Bath whom
she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to
come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short,
it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be
comfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included
in it by way of general convenience.  They had arrived late the night
before.  Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with
Mr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.

Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough
for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of.  She had imagined such
difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage
from being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very
recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had
been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not
possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his
present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent
long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the
young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place
in a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's.  "And a very good living it
was," Charles added:  "only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and
in a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire.  In the centre of
some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great
proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two
of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special
recommendation.  Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed,
"Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him."

"I am extremely glad, indeed," cried Anne, "particularly glad that this
should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well,
and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of
one should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so
equal in their prosperity and comfort.  I hope your father and mother
are quite happy with regard to both."

"Oh! yes.  My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were
richer, but he has no other fault to find.  Money, you know, coming
down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable
operation, and it streightens him as to many things.  However, I do not
mean to say they have not a right to it.  It is very fit they should
have daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind,
liberal father to me.  Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.
She never did, you know.  But she does not do him justice, nor think
enough about Winthrop.  I cannot make her attend to the value of the
property.  It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked
Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now."

"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove," exclaimed Anne,
"should be happy in their children's marriages.  They do everything to
confer happiness, I am sure.  What a blessing to young people to be in
such hands!  Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those
ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery,
both in young and old.  I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered
now?"

He answered rather hesitatingly, "Yes, I believe I do; very much
recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no
laughing or dancing; it is quite different.  If one happens only to
shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young
dab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses,
or whispering to her, all day long."

Anne could not help laughing.  "That cannot be much to your taste, I
know," said she; "but I do believe him to be an excellent young man."

"To be sure he is.  Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am
so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and
pleasures as myself.  I have a great value for Benwick; and when one
can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say.  His reading has done
him no harm, for he has fought as well as read.  He is a brave fellow.
I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before.  We
had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great
barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better
ever since."

Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's
following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard
enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in
its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none
of the ill-will of envy in it.  She would certainly have risen to their
blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.

The visit passed off altogether in high good humour.  Mary was in
excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well
satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four
horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that
she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and
enter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they
were detailed to her.  She had no demands on her father or sister, and
her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome
drawing-rooms.

Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.  She felt that
Mrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but
she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of
servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been
always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch.  It was a struggle
between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then
Elizabeth was happy again.  These were her internal persuasions: "Old
fashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give
dinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even
ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare
say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of
her way.  I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy
with us.  I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better;
that will be a novelty and a treat.  They have not seen two such
drawing rooms before.  They will be delighted to come to-morrow
evening.  It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant."  And
this satisfied Elizabeth:  and when the invitation was given to the two
present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied.
She was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady
Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to
come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention.
Miss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the
course of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go
and see her and Henrietta directly.

Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.
They all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but
Anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication
could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to
see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an
eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.

They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and
Anne had the kindest welcome from each.  Henrietta was exactly in that
state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made
her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before
at all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her
usefulness when they were in distress.  It was a heartiness, and a
warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad
want of such blessings at home.  She was entreated to give them as much
of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or
rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally
fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on
Charles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove's
history of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on
business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help
which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts;
from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to
convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well
amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the
entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.

A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.  A large party in
an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.  One five minutes
brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an
hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half
filled:  a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove,
and Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth.  The
appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the
moment.  It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this
arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together
again.  Their last meeting had been most important in opening his
feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she
feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had
hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.  He did not
seem to want to be near enough for conversation.

She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried
to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--"Surely, if
there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand
each other ere long.  We are not boy and girl, to be captiously
irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing
with our own happiness."  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt
as if their being in company with each other, under their present
circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and
misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.

"Anne," cried Mary, still at her window, "there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,
standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.  I saw them
turn the corner from Bath Street just now.  They seemed deep in talk.
Who is it?  Come, and tell me.  Good heavens! I recollect.  It is Mr
Elliot himself."

"No," cried Anne, quickly, "it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you.  He
was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till
to-morrow."

As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the
consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret
that she had said so much, simple as it was.

Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,
began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting
still more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to
come and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to
be cool and unconcerned.  Her distress returned, however, on perceiving
smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady
visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret.  It was
evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause
succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.

"Do come, Anne," cried Mary, "come and look yourself.  You will be too
late if you do not make haste.  They are parting; they are shaking
hands.  He is turning away.  Not know Mr Elliot, indeed!  You seem to
have forgot all about Lyme."

To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move
quietly to the window.  She was just in time to ascertain that it
really was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he
disappeared on one side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other;
and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an
appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally
opposite interest, she calmly said, "Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly.
He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be
mistaken, I might not attend;" and walked back to her chair,
recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself
well.

The visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them
off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began
with--

"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like.  I
have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night.  A'n't
I a good boy?  I know you love a play; and there is room for us all.
It holds nine.  I have engaged Captain Wentworth.  Anne will not be
sorry to join us, I am sure.  We all like a play.  Have not I done
well, mother?"

Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect
readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when
Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming--

"Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing?  Take a box
for to-morrow night!  Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden
Place to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet
Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal
family connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them?  How can you be
so forgetful?"

"Phoo! phoo!" replied Charles, "what's an evening party?  Never worth
remembering.  Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he
had wanted to see us.  You may do as you like, but I shall go to the
play."

"Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you
promised to go."

"No, I did not promise.  I only smirked and bowed, and said the word
'happy.'  There was no promise."

"But you must go, Charles.  It would be unpardonable to fail.  We were
asked on purpose to be introduced.  There was always such a great
connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves.  Nothing ever happened
on either side that was not announced immediately.  We are quite near
relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly
to be acquainted with!  Every attention is due to Mr Elliot.  Consider,
my father's heir:  the future representative of the family."

"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried Charles.  "I
am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising
sun.  If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it
scandalous to go for the sake of his heir.  What is Mr Elliot to me?"
The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain
Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul;
and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to
herself.

Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious
and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she,
invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make
it known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she
should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play
without her.  Mrs Musgrove interposed.

"We had better put it off.  Charles, you had much better go back and
change the box for Tuesday.  It would be a pity to be divided, and we
should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's;
and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play,
if Miss Anne could not be with us."

Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so
for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying--

"If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home
(excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment.  I
have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to
change it for a play, and with you.  But, it had better not be
attempted, perhaps."  She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was
done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to
try to observe their effect.

It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles
only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting
that he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.

Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably
for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a
station, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.

"You have not been long enough in Bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening
parties of the place."

"Oh! no.  The usual character of them has nothing for me.  I am no
card-player."

"You were not formerly, I know.  You did not use to like cards; but
time makes many changes."

"I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she
hardly knew what misconstruction.  After waiting a few moments he said,
and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "It is a period,
indeed!  Eight years and a half is a period."

Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination
to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he
had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to
make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her
companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.

They were obliged to move.  Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and
tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the
regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing
to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for
her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity
her.

Their preparations, however, were stopped short.  Alarming sounds were
heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir
Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.
Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms
of the same.  The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was
over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk,
to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister.  How
mortifying to feel that it was so!

Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular.  Captain Wentworth was
acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.
She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.
Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure.  The sequel
explained it.  After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper
nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all
the remaining dues of the Musgroves.  "To-morrow evening, to meet a few
friends:  no formal party." It was all said very gracefully, and the
cards with which she had provided herself, the "Miss Elliot at home,"
were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all,
and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth.  The
truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand
the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his.  The past
was nothing.  The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about
well in her drawing-room.  The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter
and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.

The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation
returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not
to Anne.  She could think only of the invitation she had with such
astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been
received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than
gratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance.  She
knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe
that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for
all the insolence of the past.  Her spirits sank.  He held the card in
his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.

"Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!" whispered Mary very
audibly.  "I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted!  You see he
cannot put the card out of his hand."

Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself
into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she
might neither see nor hear more to vex her.

The party separated.  The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies
proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne
belonged to them.  She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and
give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long
exerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for
home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.

Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning,
therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to
Camden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the
busy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the
frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually
improving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the
most completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself
with the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come
or not?  They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a
gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together.  She
generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he
ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive
act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of
very opposite feelings.

She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation,
to let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours
after his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain
for some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she
determined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs
Clay's face as she listened.  It was transient: cleared away in an
instant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of
having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing
authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to
his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter.  She
exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:--

"Oh! dear! very true.  Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I
met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street.  I was never more astonished.  He
turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.  He had been prevented
setting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a
hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being
determined not to be delayed in his return.  He wanted to know how
early he might be admitted to-morrow.  He was full of 'to-morrow,' and
it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I
entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that
had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of
my head."

One day only had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs Smith; but a
keener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr
Elliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became
a matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory
visit in Rivers Street.  She had promised to be with the Musgroves from
breakfast to dinner.  Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's
character, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another
day.

She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was
unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends'
account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to
attempt the walk.  When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to
the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time,
nor the first to arrive.  The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove,
talking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and
she immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait,
had gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,
and that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to
keep her there till they returned.  She had only to submit, sit down,
be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the
agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little
before the morning closed.  There was no delay, no waste of time.  She
was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such
happiness, instantly.  Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain
Wentworth said--

"We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you
will give me materials."

Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly
turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.

Mrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's
engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was
perfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper.  Anne felt that
she did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville
seemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing
many undesirable particulars; such as, "how Mr Musgrove and my brother
Hayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter
had said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what
had occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished,
and what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards
persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same
style of open-hearted communication:  minutiae which, even with every
advantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not
give, could be properly interesting only to the principals.  Mrs Croft
was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it
was very sensibly.  Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much
self-occupied to hear.

"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her
powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet,
altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for
Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near
as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the
best of it, as many others have done before them.  At any rate, said I,
it will be better than a long engagement."

"That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft.  "I
would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and
have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in
a long engagement.  I always think that no mutual--"

"Oh! dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her
speech, "there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long
engagement.  It is what I always protested against for my children.  It
is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if
there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or
even in twelve; but a long engagement--"

"Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs Croft, "or an uncertain engagement, an
engagement which may be long.  To begin without knowing that at such a
time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and
unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can."

Anne found an unexpected interest here.  She felt its application to
herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same
moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,
Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing,
listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one
quick, conscious look at her.

The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths,
and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary
practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing
distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in
confusion.

Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left
his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though
it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he
was inviting her to join him where he stood.  He looked at her with a
smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I
have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner
which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was,
strongly enforced the invitation.  She roused herself and went to him.
The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from
where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain
Wentworth's table, not very near.  As she joined him, Captain
Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression
which seemed its natural character.

"Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a
small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?"

"Certainly:  Captain Benwick."

"Yes, and you may guess who it is for.  But," (in a deep tone,) "it was
not done for her.  Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at
Lyme, and grieving for him?  I little thought then--but no matter.
This was drawn at the Cape.  He met with a clever young German artist
at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to
him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of
getting it properly set for another!  It was a commission to me!  But
who else was there to employ?  I hope I can allow for him.  I am not
sorry, indeed, to make it over to another.  He undertakes it;" (looking
towards Captain Wentworth,) "he is writing about it now."  And with a
quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would
not have forgotten him so soon!"

"No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily
believe."

"It was not in her nature.  She doted on him."

"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved."

Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your
sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes.  We certainly
do not forget you as soon as you forget us.  It is, perhaps, our fate
rather than our merit.  We cannot help ourselves.  We live at home,
quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.  You are forced on
exertion.  You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some
sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and
continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions."

"Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men
(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to
Benwick.  He has not been forced upon any exertion.  The peace turned
him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our
little family circle, ever since."

"True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we
say now, Captain Harville?  If the change be not from outward
circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature,
which has done the business for Captain Benwick."

"No, no, it is not man's nature.  I will not allow it to be more man's
nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or
have loved.  I believe the reverse.  I believe in a true analogy
between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are
the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough
usage, and riding out the heaviest weather."

"Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same
spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most
tender.  Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived;
which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.
Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.  You have
difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with.  You
are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.
Your home, country, friends, all quitted.  Neither time, nor health,
nor life, to be called your own.  It would be hard, indeed" (with a
faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this."

"We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was
beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain
Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room.  It was
nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled
at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to
suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by
them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could
have caught.

"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville.

"Not quite, a few lines more.  I shall have done in five minutes."

"There is no hurry on my side.  I am only ready whenever you are.  I am
in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) "well supplied, and
want for nothing.  No hurry for a signal at all.  Well, Miss Elliot,"
(lowering his voice,) "as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose,
upon this point.  No man and woman, would, probably.  But let me
observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and
verse.  If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty
quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I
ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon
woman's inconstancy.  Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's
fickleness.  But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men."

"Perhaps I shall.  Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in
books.  Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.
Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been
in their hands.  I will not allow books to prove anything."

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall.  We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a
point.  It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof.
We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and
upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has
occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps
those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as
cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some
respect saying what should not be said."

"Ah!" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if I could
but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at
his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off
in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows
whether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the
glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a
twelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,
he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to
deceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but
all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them
arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner
still!  If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear
and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his
existence!  I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!"
pressing his own with emotion.

"Oh!" cried Anne eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by
you, and by those who resemble you.  God forbid that I should
undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my
fellow-creatures!  I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to
suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman.
No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married
lives.  I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every
domestic forbearance, so long as--if I may be allowed the
expression--so long as you have an object.  I mean while the woman you
love lives, and lives for you.  All the privilege I claim for my own
sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of
loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."

She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was
too full, her breath too much oppressed.

"You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her
arm, quite affectionately.  "There is no quarrelling with you.  And
when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied."

Their attention was called towards the others.  Mrs Croft was taking
leave.

"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe," said she.  "I am
going home, and you have an engagement with your friend.  To-night we
may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to
Anne.)  "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood
Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are
disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?"

Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either
could not or would not answer fully.

"Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall
soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a
minute.  I know you will not be sorry to be off.  I shall be at your
service in half a minute."

Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter
with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated
air, which shewed impatience to be gone.  Anne knew not how to
understand it.  She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from
Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!  He had passed
out of the room without a look!

She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had
been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it
was himself.  He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves,
and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a
letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes
of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his
gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware
of his being in it: the work of an instant!

The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond
expression.  The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A.
E.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily.
While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also
addressing her!  On the contents of that letter depended all which this
world could do for her.  Anything was possible, anything might be
defied rather than suspense.  Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of
her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and
sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very
spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following
words:

"I can listen no longer in silence.  I must speak to you by such means
as are within my reach.  You pierce my soul.  I am half agony, half
hope.  Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are
gone for ever.  I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your
own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.  Dare
not say that man forgets sooner than  woman, that his love has an
earlier death.  I have loved none but you.  Unjust I may have been,
weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.  You alone have
brought me to Bath.  For you alone, I think and plan.  Have you not
seen this?  Can you fail to have understood my wishes?  I had not
waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think
you must have penetrated mine.  I can hardly write.  I am every instant
hearing something which overpowers me.  You sink your voice, but I can
distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.
Too good, too excellent creature!  You do us justice, indeed.  You do
believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men.  Believe
it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow
your party, as soon as possible.  A word, a look, will be enough to
decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from.  Half an hour's
solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten
minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the
restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.
Every moment rather brought fresh agitation.  It was overpowering
happiness.  And before she was beyond the first stage of full
sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.

The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an
immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more.  She began
not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead
indisposition and excuse herself.  They could then see that she looked
very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her
for the world.  This was dreadful.  Would they only have gone away, and
left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her
cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was
distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.

"By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and
take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening.  I wish
Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself.  Charles, ring
and order a chair.  She must not walk."

But the chair would never do.  Worse than all!  To lose the possibility
of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,
solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting
him) could not be borne.  The chair was earnestly protested against,
and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having
assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the
case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow
on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall;
could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at
night.

Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said--

"I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood.  Pray be so
good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your
whole party this evening.  I am afraid there had been some mistake; and
I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain
Wentworth, that we hope to see them both."

"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word.  Captain
Harville has no thought but of going."

"Do you think so?  But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry.
Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again?  You will
see them both this morning, I dare say.  Do promise me."

"To be sure I will, if you wish it.  Charles, if you see Captain
Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message.  But indeed,
my dear, you need not be uneasy.  Captain Harville holds himself quite
engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare
say."

Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp
the perfection of her felicity.  It could not be very lasting, however.
Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her
power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.  Another
momentary vexation occurred.  Charles, in his real concern and good
nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him.  This was
almost cruel.  But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing
an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off
with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.

They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of
familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of
Captain Wentworth.  He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to
join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked.  Anne could command
herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively.  The cheeks
which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated
were decided.  He walked by her side.  Presently, struck by a sudden
thought, Charles said--

"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?  Only to Gay Street, or
farther up the town?"

"I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.

"Are you going as high as Belmont?  Are you going near Camden Place?
Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my
place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door.  She is rather done
for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to
be at that fellow's in the Market Place.  He promised me the sight of a
capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it
unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do
not turn back now, I have no chance.  By his description, a good deal
like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day
round Winthrop."

There could not be an objection.  There could be only the most proper
alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined
in and spirits dancing in private rapture.  In half a minute Charles
was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding
together:  and soon words enough had passed between them to decide
their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel
walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a
blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the
happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow.  There
they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once
before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so
many, many years of division and estrangement.  There they returned
again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their
re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more
tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and
attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.  And there, as
they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around
them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers,
flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in
those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those
explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which
were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest.  All the little
variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and
today there could scarcely be an end.

She had not mistaken him.  Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding
weight, the doubt, the torment.  That had begun to operate in the very
hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short
suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in
everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last
four-and-twenty hours.  It had been gradually yielding to the better
hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it
had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which
had reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the
irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and
poured out his feelings.

Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.
He persisted in having loved none but her.  She had never been
supplanted.  He never even believed himself to see her equal.  Thus
much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge:  that he had been constant
unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her,
and believed it to be done.  He had imagined himself indifferent, when
he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because
he had been a sufferer from them.  Her character was now fixed on his
mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of
fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only
at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he
begun to understand himself.  At Lyme, he had received lessons of more
than one sort.  The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused
him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her
superiority.

In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the
attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to
be impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa;
though till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed
it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which
Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold
it possessed over his own.  There, he had learnt to distinguish between
the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the
darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.  There
he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had
lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of
resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in
his way.

From that period his penance had become severe.  He had no sooner been
free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of
Louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he
had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.

"I found," said he, "that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!
That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual
attachment.  I was startled and shocked.  To a degree, I could
contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others
might have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was
no longer at my own disposal.  I was hers in honour if she wished it.
I had been unguarded.  I had not thought seriously on this subject
before.  I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its
danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be
trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the
risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill
effects.  I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences."

He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that
precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at
all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him
were what the Harvilles supposed.  It determined him to leave Lyme, and
await her complete recovery elsewhere.  He would gladly weaken, by any
fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might
exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while
to return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.

"I was six weeks with Edward," said he, "and saw him happy.  I could
have no other pleasure.  I deserved none.  He enquired after you very
particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little
suspecting that to my eye you could never alter."

Anne smiled, and let it pass.  It was too pleasing a blunder for a
reproach.  It is something for a woman to be assured, in her
eight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier
youth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to
Anne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the
result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.

He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own
pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released
from Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her
engagement with Benwick.

"Here," said he, "ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least
put myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do
something.  But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for
evil, had been dreadful.  Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will
be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was.  Was it unpardonable to think it
worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope?  You
were single.  It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the
past, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine.  I could
never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to
a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better
pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this
for me?'"

Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the
concert still more.  That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite
moments.  The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to
speak to him:  the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her
away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or
increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.

"To see you," cried he, "in the midst of those who could not be my
well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling,
and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match!
To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to
influence you!  Even if your own feelings were reluctant or
indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his!  Was it
not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared?  How could I look
on without agony?  Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind
you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her
influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had
once done--was it not all against me?"

"You should have distinguished," replied Anne.  "You should not have
suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different.
If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to
persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.  When I yielded,
I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here.  In
marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,
and all duty violated."

"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied, "but I could not.
I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of
your character.  I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed,
buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under
year after year.  I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who
had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.
I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of
misery.  I had no reason to believe her of less authority now.  The
force of habit was to be added."

"I should have thought," said Anne, "that my manner to yourself might
have spared you much or all of this."

"No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to
another man would give.  I left you in this belief; and yet, I was
determined to see you again.  My spirits rallied with the morning, and
I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here."

At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house
could have conceived.  All the surprise and suspense, and every other
painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she
re-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some
momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.  An interval
of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of
everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her
room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her
enjoyment.

The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company
assembled.  It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who
had never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace
business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne
had never found an evening shorter.  Glowing and lovely in sensibility
and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or
cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature
around her.  Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.
The Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them.  Lady Dalrymple
and Miss Carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her.  She
cared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public
manners of her father and sister.  With the Musgroves, there was the
happy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted
intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at
conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral
and Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,
which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain
Wentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and
always the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there.

It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in
admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said--

"I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of
the right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe
that I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly
right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you
do now.  To me, she was in the place of a parent.  Do not mistake me,
however.  I am not saying that she did not err in her advice.  It was,
perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the
event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any
circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.  But I mean,
that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done
otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement
than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my
conscience.  I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in
human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a
strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion."

He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,
replied, as if in cool deliberation--

"Not yet.  But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time.  I trust
to being in charity with her soon.  But I too have been thinking over
the past, and a  question has suggested itself, whether there may not
have been one person more my enemy even than that lady?  My own self.
Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few
thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written
to you, would you have answered my letter?  Would you, in short, have
renewed the engagement then?"

"Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

"Good God!" he cried, "you would!  It is not that I did not think of
it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I
was proud, too proud to ask again.  I did not understand you.  I shut
my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.  This is a
recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than
myself.  Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.
It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me.  I have been used to the
gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I
enjoyed.  I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.
Like other great men under reverses," he added, with a smile. "I must
endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune.  I must learn to brook being
happier than I deserve."

Who can be in doubt of what followed?  When any two young people take
it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to
carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever
so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.
This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be
truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and
an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness
of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing
down every opposition?  They might in fact, have borne down a great
deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them
beyond the want of graciousness and warmth.  Sir Walter made no
objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and
unconcerned.  Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds,
and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him,
was no longer nobody.  He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the
daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle
or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which
Providence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present
but a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers
hereafter.

Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity
flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from
thinking it a bad match for her.  On the contrary, when he saw more of
Captain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well,
he was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his
superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her
superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name,
enabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace,
for the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.

The only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any
serious anxiety was Lady Russell.  Anne knew that Lady Russell must be
suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and
be making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do
justice to Captain Wentworth.  This however was what Lady Russell had
now to do.  She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with
regard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in
each; that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited her own
ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a
character of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot's
manners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness,
their general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in
receiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and
well-regulated mind.  There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do,
than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up
a new set of opinions and of hopes.

There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment
of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in
others can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of
understanding than her young friend.  But she was a very good woman,
and if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first
was to see Anne happy.  She loved Anne better than she loved her own
abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found
little hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was
securing the happiness of her other child.

Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified
by the circumstance.  It was creditable to have a sister married, and
she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the
connexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own
sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable
that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain
Benwick or Charles Hayter.  She had something to suffer, perhaps, when
they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of
seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a
future to look forward to, of powerful consolation.  Anne had no
Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family;
and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet,
she would not change situations with Anne.

It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied
with her situation, for a change is not very probable there.  She had
soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of
proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the
unfounded hopes which sunk with him.

The news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most
unexpectedly.  It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his
best hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a
son-in-law's rights would have given.  But, though discomfited and
disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his
own enjoyment.  He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay's quitting it
soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his
protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been
playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out
by one artful woman, at least.

Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had
sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming
longer for Sir Walter.  She has abilities, however, as well as
affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or
hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from
being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at
last into making her the wife of Sir William.

It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and
mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their
deception in her.  They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort
to for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow
others, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of
half enjoyment.

Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to
love Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the
happiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of
having no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.
There she felt her own inferiority very keenly.  The disproportion in
their fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but
to have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of
respectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the
worth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and
sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be
sensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity.  She had
but two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs
Smith.  To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.
Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now
value from his heart.  While he was not obliged to say that he believed
her to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say
almost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had
claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.

Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and
their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her
two.  She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain
Wentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's
property in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and
seeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the
activity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully
requited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render,
to his wife.

Mrs Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income,
with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to
be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail
her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have
bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity.  She
might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be
happy.  Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her
friend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart.  Anne was tenderness
itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's
affection.  His profession was all that could ever make her friends
wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim
her sunshine.  She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay
the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if
possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its
national importance.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Anne returns home relieved to know the truth about Mr. Elliot. Her friendship with Mrs. Smith has, in a sense, paid off . Now she must consult Lady Russell about the matter as soon as possible. Upon reaching Camden Place, she is glad to find that Mr. Elliot has already left. Alas, Elizabeth has engaged him to return on the very same evening. As usual, Mrs. Clay pretends that she is pleased to expect "the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object" . When Mr. Elliot returns, Anne finds his presence distressing. His fine manners and gentle smiles now seem fake, hypocritical, even odious. The next morning, Mr. Elliot leaves Bath on a two-day trip. His absence from Camden Place comforts Anne, as the combination of Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay has become truly unbearable. On the same morning, Anne decides to visit Lady Russell and tell her Mrs. Smith's story. Just after Elizabeth and Sir Walter give Anne their regards to Lady Russell, however, knocking is heard at the door. To Anne's pleasant surprise, a servant announces the arrival of Mary and Charles Musgrove. Along with Mrs. Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville, they have taken a room at the White Hart. The Captain has come on business; Mrs. Musgrove has come to see some friends; Charles and Mary have simply tagged along; and Henrietta has come to look at wedding clothes for herself and her sister. For a while, Charles updates Anne on life at Uppercross. It appears that Charles Hayter has increased his income fortuitously, leading to consent of marriage from both families. Although Mr. Musgrove wished that Charles Hayter had more money, he is otherwise happy with the match. While Mary has not changed her low opinion of Charles Hayter, Charles himself finds him a likeable and an altogether fair match for Henrietta. As for Louisa, she has calmed down considerably and now enjoys listening to Captain Benwick read her poetry. All in all, life at Uppercross seems filled with happiness. The Musgroves' visit, too, turns out well. Satisfied with the journey in Mrs. Musgrove's carriage, Mary is in excellent spirits to admire the various fine points of Camden Place. Elizabeth feels that she should invite Mrs. Musgrove's party to dinner but is too ashamed to have the "difference in style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch" . Fortunately, she finds the satisfactory alternative of inviting them to an evening party with the Dalrymples. Since the Musgroves have come to Bath, Anne postpones her plans to visit Lady Russell. She instead goes to find Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta at the White Hart, where she receives a hearty and warm welcome. After a flurry of morning activities at the hotel, Charles returns with the Captains Harville and Wentworth. Suddenly, Mary cries that she sees Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliot outside the window. Anne responds that Mr. Elliot is not in bath -- and feels the Captain's eyes on her immediately. It appears that rumors of her and Mr. Elliot have spread beyond the confines of Bath society. Meanwhile, Mary and Charles begin to argue about the following day's evening activities. Whereas Charles has secured a box at the theater, Mary is appalled at the thought of missing the party at Camden Place -- indeed, the chance to meet Dalrymples and Mr. Elliot. The party defers the judgment to Anne, who suggests that it may be best to postpone the play . Anne then begins a conversation with Captain Wentworth that is cut short by Henrietta's calling and, soon thereafter, the arrival of Sir Walter and Elizabeth. The two stay only long enough to exchange the proper formalities and to extend invitations for the next day's evening party. Afterwards, Anne returns to Camden Place and contributes to the party preparations. Although Anne mentions to Mrs. Clay that she was seen with Mr. Elliot, Mrs. Clay does not give away the nature of their conversation. The next morning, the inclement weather prevents Anne from arriving punctually for breakfast at the White Hart. Mary and Henrietta have gone out briefly but are to return soon. Shortly after Anne arrives, Captain Wentworth speaks to Captain Harville about writing a letter. Meanwhile, Mrs. Musgrove is giving Mrs. Croft the account of Henrietta's engagement in some detail. The two women conclude that there is nothing so abominable as a long engagement for a young couple -- and that Henrietta and Charles Hayter are correct to marry at present, even though their income remains somewhat small. At this point, Captain Harville beckons Anne over to a window. He shows her a portrait of Captain Benwick, which was originally made for Fanny Harville and is now being reset for Louisa. The captain notes sadly that his sister would not have forgotten Captain Benwick so soon. Anne responds that the same could be said for any woman who truly loved. The two continue to discuss the nature of attachment in men and women and how they differ. Whereas Captain Harville believes that men are capable of "riding out the heaviest weather" in their attachments, Anne asserts that women are capable of "loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone" . After Captain Wentworth finishes his letter, he leaves with Captain Harville and Mrs. Croft. Only moments later, however, he reenters the room to retrieve his gloves. Without being noticed by Mrs. Musgrove, the captain "place before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty" . While he was writing Captain Benwick's letter, he had also been writing to Anne: I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. . . Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. . . I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening, or never. Before Anne can recover fully from her overwhelming joy, Mary and Henrietta return to the room. They find that Anne appears quite ill, rousing general concern for her health. Charles Musgrove thus insists on walking back to Camden Place. Before they leave, Anne presses Mrs. Musgrove to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth that they are both invited. On Union Street, the two meet Captain Wentworth. The captain appears uncertain as to whether to join them -- but a glowing look from Anne decides the matter. Charles Musgrove then suggests that the captain walk Anne back to Camden Place. Instead of returning home directly, the two walk towards a quieter road, where they exchange "those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure every thing, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement" . Gradually, a full picture of the events in the past months emerges: how Captain Wentworth found himself in a predicament when he attached himself to Louisa, how he was saved fortuitously by Captain Benwick, how he was jealous of Mr. Elliot. . . . The evening ends most pleasantly for Anne -- never had a commonplace party seemed so short. In brief intervals, she manages to speak with Captain Wentworth. Reflecting over the past, she has decided that she was correct to follow Lady Russell's advice. Not that the advice was wrong--"it was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is god or bad only as the event decides" -- but that she would have suffered in her conscience by continuing the engagement . The captain believes that he will be able to forgive Lady Russell over time. He also realizes, however, that his greatest enemy was not Lady Russell but himself: he was too proud to ask for Anne's hand again. For his pride, they have lost six years. "Who can be in doubt of what followed" ? With every advantage of maturity and an independent fortune, Anne and Captain Wentworth can now marry regardless of any opposition. And in reality they are met with little resistance. Both Sir Walter and Elizabeth accept the match without objection; Lady Russell requires some time to reevaluate her conceptions, but her love for Anne gives her understanding; and Mary is happy to see her sister marry . Of course, the engagement destroys Mr. Elliot's plan of domestic happiness. He soon leaves Bath and establishes Mrs. Clay "under his protection" in London -- a turn of events that shock Sir Walter and Elizabeth deeply . After Anne and Captain Wentworth marry, the captain manages to recover Mrs. Smith's late husband's property in the West Indies. It is a source of great happiness to Anne that the captain attaches himself to both Lady Russell and Mrs. Smith -- her two true friends in the world. "Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of Captain Wentworth's affection. . . She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to a profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance." .