Sophia was taking her leave, saying that we would all meet again at the Elliots’ party, and I added a postscript in haste.
I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or followyour 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.
I folded my letter, made some answer to Sophia, though I had not caught her question, and told Harville I would be with him in half a minute. I sealed the letter, slid it under the scattered paper—for I had time to do no more—and hurried from the room. She would find it there, I was sure.
But a minute later I was not sure, and I decided I must find a way of delivering it into her hand. I returned, saying I had forgotten my gloves, and to my relief I found Anne standing by the table. So she was curious as to what I had been writing, as I had hoped! Standing with my back towards Mrs Musgrove, I pulled out the letter and gave it to Anne, and was out of the room in an instant.
What would she think when she read it? I asked myself. I had written in such haste, I scarcely knew if it was intelligible. I had blotted the ink once to my certain knowledge. Would she be able to make out the words?
I went out into the street. I walked, I turned, I walked again, until at last I found myself in Union Street, and there in front of me was Anne! She was going home, then, and I might have a chance to speak to her. But she was accompanied by Musgrove. I wished him a hundred miles away. I joined them, hoping that, by a word or a look I could read her thoughts, and yet she did not look at me. What did it mean? Was she embarrassed? Yes. But embarrassed because she was pleased with my letter, or embarrassed because she was alarmed by it? I did not know.
I was irresolute. I did not know whether to stay or pass on. I looked again, and this time Anne returned my look. It was not a look to repulse me. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed. I had seen that look before, when we had walked by the river in the first days of our courtship, and it encouraged me to walk by her side.
And then Musgrove said, ‘Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?’
‘I hardly know,’ I said, 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.’
‘It sounds too good to be missed. I should be glad to escort Anne; it will give me the greatest pleasure to be of service to her,’ I said, hoping I did not sound too rapturous, for my spirits had soared at the thought of being alone with Anne.
Musgrove left us, and we bent our steps to the gravel walk, where we could talk to our hearts’ content. As soon as we reached it, the words tumbled out of me, for I could contain them no longer.
‘I cannot be easy . . . I cannot be still . . . Anne, tell me, is there hope for me?’ I said, scarcely daring to breathe.
‘Yes, there is hope, more than hope,’ she said, in accents as breathless as my own. ‘I have been so wrong . . .’ she said.
I wanted to shout for joy, but I said only, ‘Not wrong, never wrong.’
‘If you could only know what my feelings have been since the day you left Somerset eight years ago.’
‘Did you regret me at once?’ I asked.
‘I did, though at the time I still thought I was right to have refused you.’
‘How could you have done it, when you were so much in love with me? The times I spent with you that summer were the happiest of my life. Do you remember them, too?’
‘Every day. I remember the way my heart lifted every time I saw you, looking so much more alive than anyone I knew. Your spirit captivated me, and so did your tales of foreign shores, your zest for life, and your love of me,’ she added with a blush. ‘No one had ever looked at me like that, and if they had, I would not have wanted them to. But with you, everything was different. With you, the world was a bright and wonderful place.’
‘I asked you once before if you would marry me. I ask you again. Will you marry me, Anne?’
‘I will,’ she said.
A slight shadow crossed my face.
‘You need not be afraid that I will change my mind,’ she reassured me. ‘Then I was a young girl, persuaded by friends who knew more of the world than I did, who told me that it would lead to unhappiness; that I would stand in your way; that you would not be free to pursue your goals; that your ambitions would be frustrated because of me; that you would come to regret your decision; and that I, worn down by anxiety, would come to regret mine. Now I am a woman who knows her own mind and heart, and a woman who knows yours. I have no fears, no apprehensions, and I will not be persuaded out of my future happiness by anything anyone can say to me.’
I clasped her hand in mine, oblivious of the passersby as we paced the gradual ascent.
‘When you came back to Bath, was it to see me?’ she asked.
‘It was. I came only for you.’
‘I wanted it to be so, but at the same time I thought it was too much to hope. Your affection for Louisa . . .’
‘Do not say any more. My conscience upbraids me. I should never have sought to attach myself to her, but I was angry with you, and full of wounded pride. After you rejected me, I told myself I would forget you. I gave my attention to my career and put my energies into defending my country. I commanded some fine ships and I made my fortune, but all the time you were there, like a heart’s bruise that would not fade. When I met you again, I was still angry. I was unjust to your merits because I had been a sufferer from them. It was only at Uppercross that I began to do justice to them, for you shone there as you had shone before. And at Lyme, I learnt a painful lesson: that there is a difference between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will; and that you had the former and Louisa the latter.’
‘I will never forget the moment she fell,’ said Anne.
‘Nor I. I was in an agony of despair, for I felt I was to blame, for I had told her how much I valued a resolute character.’
‘You could not have known where it would lead.’
‘No, but I was overcome all the same. Yet whilst Henrietta swooned and Mary was hysterical, you, Anne, kept your head, and arranged for practical matters to be attended to.’
‘I was the least affected,’ she said. ‘It was easier for me than for the rest.’
‘Only you could say that,’ I returned with a smile. ‘But you saw to everything. And when we eventually reached Harville’s house, and Louisa was put to bed, then the full force of my thoughts hit me, for I had nothing else to do in the succeeding days but think. I began to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment which had kept me from trying to regain you at once, as soon as I had discovered that Benjamin had rented Kellynch Hall.’
‘My feelings when I heard that he had done so . . .’
‘Yes?’ I asked, eager to hear.
She shook her head.
‘I was almost overpowered. I listened to every detail, then left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air, for my cheeks were flushed. I walked along my favourite grove, thinking that, in a few months, you might be visiting there.’
‘And did you want me to come?’
‘More than anything. When you left Somersetshire, after I had told you I could not, after all, marry you, I could not forget you. My attachment to you, my regrets, clouded every enjoyment. My spirits suffered, and everything seemed dull and lifeless. I did not blame Lady Russell for her advice, nor did I blame myself for having been guided by her; but I felt that, if any young person in similar circumstances were to apply to me for counsel, they would never receive any advice which would lead to such certain immediate wretchedness for the benefi
t of such uncertain future good.’
‘Then you wished the choice unmade!’ I said, much struck. ‘And so soon.’ My heart was warmed. ‘I never knew. I was angry and I could see only that you had betrayed me. I was a hotheaded young man, though I thought myself so experienced. Did you, then, believe that even with the disadvantages of your family’s disapproval, and the uncertainties of a long engagement, that you would yet have been happier with me than without me?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you hope my professions might be renewed when I came to Kellynch?’
‘I hardly dared hope for anything of the kind, but I longed to see you, to discover how you looked, and if you remembered me. I told myself it could not be, and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. I told myself it was folly, that we would meet as strangers, that we could never be to each other what we once had been, but still, I could not be easy. I thought of you constantly.’
Better and better!
‘I was relieved that the past was known to so few people— only you, myself, Lady Russell, my father and my sister—for I could not have borne conscious looks from others. Your brother I supposed you would have told, but he had long since moved out of the neighbourhood, and I was sure that his discretion could be relied upon, so I was spared the trouble of it being common knowledge, at least.’
‘And so you thought of me, even on that first day,’ I said, pleased and yet angry with myself at the same time. ‘If I had only spoken . . . if I had only put aside my pride and my anger, we could have been spared all that followed.’
‘When did you put it aside?’ she asked.
‘That day at Lyme. I saw myself in a different light, because I saw that you had been right to be cautious, and to listen to the counsel of those older and wiser than yourself. I do not say that their counsel was good, only that you had been right to listen to it. I was about to tell you so, to go to you as soon as Louisa was out of danger, and tell you of my feelings, but no sooner had she been pronounced out of danger than Harville made it clear he thought that Louisa and I were engaged. That was a bitter time,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘for if those about us thought we were engaged, and if Louisa herself felt it to be so, then I knew I could not in honour abandon her. I would have to marry her. Never had I regretted my foolish intimacy with her more. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide by the consequences. I decided to leave Lyme, for I decided I could, in all honour, try to weaken her attachment, if it could be done by fair means.’
‘I knew nothing of this. I thought you were in love with Louisa. I thought her youth and gaiety had captivated you. I knew that, beside her, my looks were faded and my spirits were low. You did not return to Kellynch, and I presumed it was because you were worried about Louisa.’
‘And so I was, but only in the way I would worry about any girl who had had such an accident. I stayed with Edward. He enquired after you very particularly, and it gave me some relief to talk of you. I believe he guessed my feelings, for he even asked if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter.’
She smiled.
‘And then, I was released from my torment by Louisa’s engagement to Benwick. 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?”’ I turned to look at her. ’Was it, Anne? Did you refuse Charles Musgrove for me?’
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, and the thought made me very happy. ‘Lady Russell liked the match, but I was older by then, and wiser, and I did not take her advice. I had been persuaded by her out of marrying the man I loved. I was not going to be persuaded by her into marrying a man I did not love.’
I smiled.
‘I was jealous of him, when I met you in the year six.’ I shook my head as I remembered the feeling. ‘You seemed fond of him, but once I learned he was a family friend, I forgave him! But I had someone else to be jealous of this year. Mr Elliot. I could not help but see that he admired you when we saw him in Lyme, and once I discovered who he was, and how eligible he was, and how desirable the connection, I was afraid. I had come to Bath to speak to you, to tell you I loved you, and yet, when I saw you, you were always with Mr Elliot. You smiled at him—’
‘Through simple courtesy.’
‘I did not know that. I thought you favoured him, and so I was silent. The meeting in Milsom Street was exquisite in its pleasure and its pain, and the concert was worse. You stepped forward to greet me, which gave me hope, but then you sat with Mr Elliot. Your heads were always together, as though you were having a private conversation—’
‘I was translating the words of the songs for him. Mr Elliot does not speak Italian.’
‘Ah,’ I said, much gratified.
‘Is that why you left?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I could bear it no longer. To see you so close to him . . . I had to leave, for to see you in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see Mr Elliot close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match, was terrible for me! 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 Lady Russell, who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immovable impression of what persuasion had once done—was it not all against me?’
‘You should have distinguished, you should not have suspected me now; the case so different, and my age so different,’ said Anne. ‘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, 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 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.’
We had by this time reached Camden Place, and I was forced to relinquish Anne.
‘I do not want to part from you,’ I said.
‘It is only until this evening.’
‘Ah, yes, your sister’s card party. I am surprised she invited me.’
‘You are well spoken of in Bath. She has at last, through the opinions of others, discovered your worth,’ she said.
I let her go, reluctantly, and watched her go inside, then I returned to my rooms, more happy than I had ever been.
As I dressed for the evening, I thought I might have spared myself much misery by speaking to Anne as soon as I came to Kellynch Hall.