Persuasion (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (33 page)

“I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you at the time.”

She assured him that she had not.

“It was a frightful hour,” said he, “a frightful day!” and he passed his hand, with fingers that trembled, across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a moment, half smiling again, added, “The day has produced some effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery.”

“Certainly I could have none. But it appears — I should hope it would be a very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good temper.”

“Yes,” said he, looking not exactly forward; “but there, I think, ends the resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter’s comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps — ”

He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne’s cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus —

“I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a reading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not.”

Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say —

“You were a good while at Lyme, I think?”

“About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa’s doing well was quite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have been obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very fine. I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I found to admire.”

“I should very much like to see Lyme again,” said Anne.

“Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.”

“The last hours were certainly very painful,” replied Anne; “but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short” (with a faint blush at some recollections, his question about Benwick and the resulting feel of his body pressed against her the most prevalent), “altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable.”

His green and blue eyes roamed her face for several seconds, and Anne felt the sting of her blush increase under his scrutiny. He cleared his throat. “About that — ” He paused, and Anne knew from instinct that he had gleaned her thoughts and meant to address his conduct that late, dark night. Anne straightened, prepared to stop him, but he continued. “I fear I have much more than Louisa’s accident to apologize for.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Can you ever forgive me for accosting you so?”

Anne felt her eyes widen. “C-Captain Wentworth — ”

“I was quite overcome by the idea of you and my dear friend as a couple.”

The protest Anne had been ready to voice died upon her tongue as her heart twisted at the unexpected declaration. Propriety demanded she accept his apology and move on. Propriety did not win. “Why?” she asked so boldly she surprised them both.

He drew back slightly at her startling volume, and from the corners of her eyes, Anne saw several people within speaking distance pause in their conversations and eye her curiously. Captain Wentworth chuckled self-consciously, offered them all polite smiles, and turned his attention back to Anne. He stepped closer and barely above the sound of a whisper, he said, “I wish I knew.”

Anne felt her brows draw together. “That is not good enough.”

His
brows rose and several awkward beats of silence ensued before his breath left him in a whoosh. “Of course it is not.” A smile tilted one side of his lips, and he looked at a spot over her shoulder as he brought one hand up to rub the back of his neck. Anne’s gaze was snagged by the way his shoulder and arm flexed with the movement, but his next words were enough to draw her attention from even that. “You never did let me get away with anything.” His arm fell back to his side, and his eyes met hers with a sudden intensity. “I could not bear to think of you as Benwick’s, because I cannot bear to think of you as anyone else’s but mine.”

As his cool eyes burned her, Anne felt every part of her body seize and release in rapid succession. She wondered for a moment if her legs would fail her, and she would slump to the floor. His unforgiving gaze demanded she speak, and she forced herself to lick suddenly dry, aching lips. “I f-forgive you.”

The sound of her words was so small, she doubted he heard them, but his eyes drifted shut, and she knew he had interpreted the all-encompassing meaning of the simple statement. She forgave him — for everything: for having to watch him court another woman, for the coldness of his manner since they had been reunited, for his unkind words after their first meeting. His honest, heart-felt declaration went a long way toward healing the hurt he had caused in recent months.

When his eyes opened again, they were flooded with conflicting emotions, and Anne knew in that moment that he wished he could say the same back to her. But he could not.

The hurt she had caused him eight years ago was still present in the tumultuous depths of his sea-coloured gaze. She nearly leapt with surprise when she felt his hand grip hers gently. Though they both wore gloves, the heat of his skin burned through the barriers. He held the hand that was hidden from the rest of the crowd by her body, and his thumb slowly caressed the inside of her wrist. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Anne knew she was staring at his lips like a wanton woman, but she could focus on nothing else. The feel of his glove-covered hand upon the delicate skin of her wrist was slowly driving her to madness. As she ceased all thought, the entrance door was flung open again, and both of them jumped. Captain Wentworth dropped her hand as a guilty flush crossed his face, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. “Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,” was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr. Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of
all
his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.

The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert Room. He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment’s regret. But “they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection.”

Upon Lady Russell’s appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they could.

Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in. Elizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back of the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish for which did not seem within her reach; and Anne — but it would be an insult to the nature of Anne’s felicity, to draw any comparison between it and her sister’s; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous attachment.

Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa Musgrove’s inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, the grip of his hand, the caress of his thumb, all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more overwhelming him; and that they were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her.

These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler way.

The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr. Elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallis’s gallantry, was quite contented.

Anne’s mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least during the first act. Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr. Elliot. They had a concert bill between them.

“This,” said she, “is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar.”

A broad smile lit his face, and he used the fact that she still held one end of the program and he the other to pull her closer. “Yes, yes, I see you are.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head sorrowfully. “I see you know nothing of the matter. You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof.” He held her eyes for several seconds, and soon Anne could not resist returning his smile. At that instant, his own smile morphed from blatantly amenable to something else that was both blatant and embarrassing.

Surely Anne was reading him wrong. She blushed when she realized they were practically nose-to-nose and looked back at the program. “I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient.”

“I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,” replied he in a deep voice that felt far too intimate, “without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman.”