Chapter: He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however
suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his
brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St
Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in
the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half
a year at Monkford.  He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,
with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an
extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.
Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for
he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the
encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.  They were
gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.
It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the
other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his
declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.

A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.
Troubles soon arose.  Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually
withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the
negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a
professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.  He thought it
a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered
and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.

Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw
herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement
with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no
hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain
profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the
profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to
think of!  Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off
by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a
state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!  It must not
be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from
one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be
prevented.

Captain Wentworth had no fortune.  He had been lucky in his profession;
but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing.  But
he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour,
he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that
would lead to everything he wanted.  He had always been lucky; he knew
he should be so still.  Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth,
and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been
enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently.  His
sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on
her.  She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil.  It only added a
dangerous character to himself.  He was brilliant, he was headstrong.
Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to
imprudence a horror.  She deprecated the connexion in every light.

Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could
combat.  Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible
to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word
or look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had
always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion,
and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain.
She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing:  indiscreet,
improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it.  But it was
not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end
to it.  Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more
than her own, she could hardly have given him up.  The belief of being
prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief
consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every
consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional
pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and
of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.  He had
left the country in consequence.

A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;
but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it.  Her
attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of
youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting
effect.

More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful
interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much,
perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too
dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place
(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty
or enlargement of society.  No one had ever come within the Kellynch
circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he
stood in her memory.  No second attachment, the only thoroughly
natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been
possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste,
in the small limits of the society around them.  She had been
solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young
man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger
sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove
was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general
importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of
good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have
asked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have
rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the
partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so
permanently near herself.  But in this case, Anne had left nothing for
advice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her
own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the
anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some
man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held
her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.

They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change,
on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never
alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently
from what she had been made to think at nineteen.  She did not blame
Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her;
but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to
apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain
immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.  She was persuaded
that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every
anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and
disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in
maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it;
and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than
the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,
without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it
happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be
reasonably calculated on.  All his sanguine expectations, all his
confidence had been justified.  His genius and ardour had seemed to
foresee and to command his prosperous path.  He had, very soon after
their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would
follow, had taken place.  He had distinguished himself, and early
gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures,
have made a handsome fortune.  She had only navy lists and newspapers
for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in
favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.

How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were
her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful
confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems
to insult exertion and distrust Providence!  She had been forced into
prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the
natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.

With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not
hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch
without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh,
were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea.  She often told
herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently
to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no
evil.  She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and
apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in
the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of
it.  She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives
in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all
the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion
among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the
event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew
over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the
past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no
syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that
among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had
received any information of their short-lived engagement.  That brother
had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and,
moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no
human creature's having heard of it from him.

The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her
husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at
school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some,
and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.

With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself
and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch,
and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not
involve any particular awkwardness.




On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch
Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady
Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it
most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing
them.

This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided
the whole business at once.  Each lady was previously well disposed for
an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the
other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good
humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as
could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into
his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances
of his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good
breeding.

The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were
approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr
Shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single
preliminary difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth."

Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the
best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say,
that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should
not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with
sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through
the park, "I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite
of what they told us at Taunton.  The Baronet will never set the Thames
on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him."--reciprocal
compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.

The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter
proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there
was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.

Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any
use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were
going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon,
and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might
convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of
her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was
unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading
the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and
grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the
autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything
considered, she wished to remain.  It would be most right, and most
wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.

Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty.  Mary, often
a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own
complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was
the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a
day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it
was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her
company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.

"I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's reasoning; and
Elizabeth's reply was, "Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody
will want her in Bath."

To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least
better than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be
thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and
certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own
dear country, readily agreed to stay.

This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and
it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till
Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be
divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.

So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by
the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her,
which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and
Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in
all the business before her.  Lady Russell was extremely sorry that
such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved,
and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being
of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore
aggravation.

Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the
imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell.  With a
great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often
wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results
the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than
possible.  She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea
of the kind.  Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a
clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in
her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking,
and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners,
infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might
have been.  Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that
she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her
sister.  She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the
event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than
herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for
giving no warning.

She spoke, and seemed only to offend.  Elizabeth could not conceive how
such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered
for each party's perfectly knowing their situation.

"Mrs Clay," said she, warmly, "never forgets who she is; and as I am
rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can
assure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly
nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more
strongly than most people.  And as to my father, I really should not
have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our
sakes, need be suspected now.  If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman,
I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that
anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a
degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy.  But poor Mrs Clay
who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably
pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect
safety.  One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her
personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times.  That tooth
of her's and those freckles.  Freckles do not disgust me so very much
as they do him.  I have known a face not materially disfigured by a
few, but he abominates them.  You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's
freckles."

"There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne, "which an
agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to."

"I think very differently," answered Elizabeth, shortly; "an agreeable
manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.
However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this
point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you
to be advising me."

Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of
doing good.  Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be
made observant by it.

The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter,
Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good
spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the
afflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show
themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate
tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.

Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt
this break-up of the family exceedingly.  Their respectability was as
dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by
habit.  It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still
worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape
the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out
of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined
to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.
Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at
Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey.

Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had
been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses
superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the
mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,
substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage,
enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained
round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had
received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for
his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French
windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the
traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and
premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.

Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as
well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually
meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's
house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary
alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost
a matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary
had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and
properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits;
but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for
solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot
self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of
fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to
both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of
being "a fine girl." She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty
little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been
gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two
children; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with--

"So, you are come at last!  I began to think I should never see you.  I
am so ill I can hardly speak.  I have not seen a creature the whole
morning!"

"I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne.  "You sent me such a
good account of yourself on Thursday!"

"Yes, I made the best of it; I always do:  but I was very far from well
at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have
been all this morning:  very unfit to be left alone, I am sure.
Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not
able to ring the bell!  So, Lady Russell would not get out.  I do not
think she has been in this house three times this summer."

Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.  "Oh!
Charles is out shooting.  I have not seen him since seven o'clock.  He
would go, though I told him how ill I was.  He said he should not stay
out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.  I
assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning."

"You have had your little boys with you?"

"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable
that they do me more harm than good.  Little Charles does not mind a
word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad."

"Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne, cheerfully.  "You
know I always cure you when I come.  How are your neighbours at the
Great House?"

"I can give you no account of them.  I have not seen one of them
to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the
window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how
ill I was, not one of them have been near me.  It did not happen to
suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out
of their way."

"You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone.  It is
early."

"I never want them, I assure you.  They talk and laugh a great deal too
much for me.  Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell!  It was quite unkind of
you not to come on Thursday."

"My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of
yourself!  You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were
perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you
must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the
last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so
busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have
left Kellynch sooner."

"Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?"

"A great many things, I assure you.  More than I can recollect in a
moment; but I can tell you some.  I have been making a duplicate of the
catalogue of my father's books and pictures.  I have been several times
in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him
understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.  I have
had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide,
and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what
was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary,
of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as
a sort of take-leave.  I was told that they wished it.  But all these
things took up a great deal of time."

"Oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me
one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday."

"Did you go then?  I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you
must have been obliged to give up the party."

"Oh yes! I went.  I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter
with me till this morning.  It would have been strange if I had not
gone."

"I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant
party."

"Nothing remarkable.  One always knows beforehand what the dinner will
be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a
carriage of one's own.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so
crowded!  They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr
Musgrove always sits forward.  So, there was I, crowded into the back
seat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my
illness to-day may be owing to it."

A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on
Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's.  She could soon sit
upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by
dinner-time.  Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end
of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and
then she was well enough to propose a little walk.

"Where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready.  "I suppose you
will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see
you?"

"I have not the smallest objection on that account," replied Anne.  "I
should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so
well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves."

"Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.  They ought
to feel what is due to you as my sister.  However, we may as well go
and sit with them a little  while, and when we have that over, we can
enjoy our walk."

Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;
but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that,
though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither
family could now do without it.  To the Great House accordingly they
went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour,
with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters
of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a
grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in
every direction.  Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the
wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue
satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an
overthrow of all order and neatness!  The portraits themselves seemed
to be staring in astonishment.

The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration,
perhaps of improvement.  The father and mother were in the old English
style, and the young people in the new.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a
very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated,
and not at all elegant.  Their children had more modern minds and
manners.  There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up,
excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen
and twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock
of accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies,
living to be fashionable, happy, and merry.  Their dress had every
advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely
good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence
at home, and favourites abroad.  Anne always contemplated them as some
of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we
all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for
the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more
elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them
nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement
together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known
so little herself with either of her sisters.

They were received with great cordiality.  Nothing seemed amiss on the
side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well
knew, the least to blame.  The half hour was chatted away pleasantly
enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have
their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's
particular invitation.




Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal
from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three
miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and
idea.  She had never been staying there before, without being struck by
it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in
seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at
Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading
interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now
submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own
nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for
certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which
had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,
she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in
the separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: "So, Miss
Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you
think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an
answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope we shall be in
Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a
good situation:  none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in the anxious
supplement from Mary, of--"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,
when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!"

She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think
with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one
such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.

The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own
horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully
occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,
dress, dancing, and music.  She acknowledged it to be very fitting,
that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of
discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the
one she was now transplanted into.  With the prospect of spending at
least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to
clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of
Uppercross as possible.

She had no dread of these two months.  Mary was not so repulsive and
unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;
neither was there anything among the other component parts of the
cottage inimical to comfort.  She was always on friendly terms with her
brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and
respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of
interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.

Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was
undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,
or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a
dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,
with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved
him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more
consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and
elegance to his habits and pursuits.  As it was, he did nothing with
much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without
benefit from books or anything else.  He had very good spirits, which
never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with
her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the
whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she
had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both
parties), they might pass for a happy couple.  They were always
perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination
for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he
had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such
a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having
many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.

As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than
his wife's, and his practice not so bad.  "I could manage them very
well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often
heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in
turn to Mary's reproach of "Charles spoils the children so that I
cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation
to say, "Very true."

One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her
being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too
much in the secret of the complaints of each house.  Known to have some
influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least
receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.  "I wish you
could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was
Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: "I do
believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was
anything the matter with me.  I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might
persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever
own."

Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great
House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she
humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much
trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross
for the rest of the day."  And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity
of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing
Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children.  They are
quite different creatures with you!  But to be sure, in general they
are so spoilt!  It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of
managing them.  They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,
poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more
how they should be treated--!  Bless me! how troublesome they are
sometimes.  I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them
at our house so often as I otherwise should.  I believe Mrs Charles is
not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is
very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking
every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can
only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them."

She had this communication, moreover, from Mary.  "Mrs Musgrove thinks
all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in
question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper
house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are
gadding about the village, all day long.  I meet them wherever I go;
and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing
something of them.  If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest
creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells
me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs
Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of
my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall
tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,
that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear
strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own
knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is
enough to ruin any servants she comes near.  Mrs Charles quite swears
by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the
watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of
mentioning it."

Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to
give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great
House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was
to be considered so much at home as to lose her place.  And one day
when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after
talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no
scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about
their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you
are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would
be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if
she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma.
Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be
more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it.  It is not that
mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken
notice of by many persons."

How was Anne to set all these matters to rights?  She could do little
more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to
the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between
such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant
for her sister's benefit.

In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well.  Her
own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed
three miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a
constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family,
since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment
in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage.  It
was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every
morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed
they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs
Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the
talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.

She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but
having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit
by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought
of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well
aware.  She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to
herself; but this was no new sensation.  Excepting one short period of
her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the
loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or
encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.  In music she had
been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's
fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total
indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for
their sakes, than mortification for her own.

The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.
The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by
everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors
by invitation and by chance, than any other family.  They were more
completely popular.

The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,
in an unpremeditated little ball.  There was a family of cousins within
a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on
the Musgroves for all their pleasures:  they would come at any time,
and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much
preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country
dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always
recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove
more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done,
Miss Anne! very well done indeed!  Lord bless me!  how those little
fingers of yours fly about!"

So passed the first three weeks.  Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart
must be in Kellynch again.  A beloved home made over to others; all the
precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own
other eyes and other limbs!  She could not think of much else on the
29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening
from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,
exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to
Kellynch?  I am glad I did not think of it before.  How low it makes
me!"

The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be
visited.  Mary deplored the necessity for herself.  "Nobody knew how
much she should suffer.  She should put it off as long as she could;"
but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on
an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of
imaginary agitation, when she came back.  Anne had very sincerely
rejoiced in there being no means of her going.  She wished, however to
see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.
They came:  the master of the house was not at home, but the two
sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the
share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very
agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well
able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to
catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.

Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,
and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person.  She had
bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though
her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her
having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have
lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty.
Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust
of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to
coarseness, however, or any want of good humour.  Anne gave her credit,
indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all
that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had
satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of
introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge
or suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort.  She was
quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,
till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,--

"It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the
pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country."

Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion
she certainly had not.

"Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added Mrs Croft.

She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs
Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,
that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She
immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be
thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame
at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their
former neighbour's present state with proper interest.

The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she
heard the Admiral say to Mary--

"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you
know him by name."

He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to
him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too
much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,
&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had
begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that
the same brother must still be in question.  She could not, however,
reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether
anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the
Crofts had previously been calling.

The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at
the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to
be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the
youngest Miss Musgrove walked in.  That she was coming to apologize,
and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the
first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa
made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more
room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.

"And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it.  I am
come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this
evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!
And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse
her more than the piano-forte.  I will tell you why she is out of
spirits.  When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here
afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,
Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or
something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most
unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that
Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's
captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while
before he died, poor fellow!  And upon looking over his letters and
things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be
the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!
So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon
such gloomy things."

The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,
that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,
hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his
twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and
unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any
time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard
of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death
abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.

He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for
him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a
thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done
anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,
living or dead.

He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those
removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such
midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on
board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the
Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only
two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him
during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two
disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for
money.

In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little
were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and
incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made
scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have
been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of
Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary
bursts of mind which do sometimes occur.

She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the
re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son
gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had
affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for
him than she had known on first hearing of his death.  Mr Musgrove was,
in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the
cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew
on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful
companions could give them.

To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name
so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it
might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain
Wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their
coming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say
whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to
Anne's nerves.  She found, however, that it was one to which she must
inure herself.  Since he actually was expected in the country, she must
teach herself to be insensible on such points.  And not only did it
appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their
warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high
respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been
six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not
perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two
perticular about the schoolmaster," were bent on introducing
themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of
his arrival.

The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.

 As it turns out, Admiral Croft's wife is the sister of one Mr. Wentworth, who formerly lived near the Elliots at Monkford. The name of Captain Frederick Wentworth has particular importance to Anne -- one that makes her cheeks flushed and that inspires in her a "gentle sigh" . Just over seven years ago, Captain Wentworth and Anne fell deeply in love with each other. The captain was "a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit and brilliancy." On her side, Anne was "an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling" . After only a few months of happiness, however, their relationship came to an abrupt end -- for Captain Wentworth had neither family nor fortune to his name. Sir Walter, deeming the relationship a "degrading alliance," expressed his disapproval silently but severely, while Lady Russell spoke strongly against a "unfortunate" and "youth-killing alliance" . And Anne, being still young, was persuaded that the relationship must be broken off. Captain Wentworth was overwhelmed by the "feeling himself ill - used by so forced a relinquishment" and left the country . True to his own convictions, Captain Wentworth subsequently found a prosperous path in the navy. To this day, Anne has met no man comparable to him. She is persuaded that keeping the engagement would have made her a happier woman -- even if the captain had not made exceptional fortunes. As the Crofts prepare to move into Kellynch Hall, it is decided that Anne will not go to Bath and will instead stay with her sister Mary at Uppercross. This arrangement suits all parties: Sir Walter and Elizabeth will not miss her, Lady Russell will have her closer by, and Mary will welcome the company to keep her indisposed spirits high. To the disapproval of Lady Russell and Anne, however, it is also decided that Mrs. Clay will join the Elliots at Bath. Mrs. Clay, a daughter of Mr. Shepherd who has returned with two children after an unsuccessful marriage, exceeds at the art of pleasing at Kellynch Hall. Although no one describes her as beautiful -- she has a projecting tooth and freckles -- both Lady Russell and Anne fear that she will ingratiate herself with the Elliots to the extent that an intimacy develops with Sir Walter. After all "there is hardly any personal defect," says Anne to Elizabeth, "which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one too" . Dismissing Anne's suspicions with a touch of resentment, Elizabeth departs to Bath with Sir Walter and Mrs. Clay. Anne, in turn, travels to the Cottage at Uppercross, about a quarter of a mile from the Great House where Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove live. She finds Mary in rather sullen spirits upon arrival but manages to cheer her up through conversation. Mary consequently proposes a walk and the two decide to visit the Great House. After spending a half hour in pleasant conversation at the Great House, Mary and Anne once again set off on a walk, this time joined by the Miss Musgroves, Henrietta and Louisa. The transition from Kellynch Hall to Uppercross reminds Anne that Elliot affairs -- in all the Elliots' self-importance -- are of little concern to those outside her immediate circle. At the Great House, the Musgroves inquire about the Elliots' move to Bath as they would about any other common event. The Musgroves, meanwhile, have their own set of preoccupations. The men are engaged with their horses and hunting, while the women enjoy fashion, dancing, and music. As Anne acknowledges, "every little social commonwealth. . . dictate its own discourse" . For Anne, the change of "social commonwealth" is far from unpleasant. Although she is removed from her only "truly sympathizing friend," Lady Russell, both the younger and older generation of Musgroves are entirely agreeable and treat her with respect . Indeed, Anne resolves to integrate herself into her new environment as much as possible. In general, the days at Uppercross are passed pleasantly: there is much merriment, with music, parties, and dancing. Whereas Kellynch Hall neglects Anne entirely, however, the "least agreeable circumstance" at Uppercross is that all parties treat her with "too much confidence" . All too often, Anne finds herself at the center of disagreements between Mary and Charles, or between Mary and Mrs. Musgrove. Each party brings to her different grievances; to each party she must "give. . . all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours" . At Michaelmas, the Crofts move into Kellynch Hall. When the Crofts pay a visit to Uppercross, Anne engages in pleasant conversation with Mrs. Croft -- but is surprised by the sudden mention of Mrs. Croft's brother. As it turns out, the reference is not to Frederick but to his brother Edward. Later, however, Admiral Croft once again mentions "a brother of Mrs. Croft's," noting that his visit is expected soon. Anne thus remains uncertain as to which Wentworth brother is in question. Finally, Louisa arrives and mentions that Captain Frederick Wentworth has returned to England and will be coming to visit. Incidentally, the news has aroused melancholic feelings in the older Musgroves. According to the narrator, "the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reach his twentieth year" . The son, Richard, had been sent to sea and had at one point served under Captain Wentworth. Under the captain's influence, Richard wrote the only two letters he ever wrote his parents while away. Wotj news of Captain Wentworth having triggered memories, Mrs. Musgrove has just reread the two letters. And with "all the strength of his faults forgotten," the rereading has "thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death" . As a result, the Musgroves resolve to introduce themselves to Captain Wentworth when he arrives. Little do they realize the emotional turmoil that such talk of Captain Wentworth arouses in Anne.

