# Sanditon And Other Miscellanea/Cancelled Chapter of Persuasion

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CANCELLED CHAPTER OF ‘PERSUASION’
CANCELLED CHAPTER OF 'PERSUASION'
With all this knowledge of Mr. Elliot, and this authority to impart it, Anne left Westgate Buildings, her mind deeply busy in revolving what she had heard, feeling, thinking, recalling and foreseeing everything; shocked at Mr. Elliot, sighing over future Kellynch, and pained for Lady Russell, whose confidence in him had been entire. The Embarrassment which must be felt from this hour in his presence! How to behave to him? how to get rid of him? what to do by any of the Party at home? where to be blind? where to be active? It was altogether a confusion of Images and Doubts, a perplexity, an agitation which she could not see the end of, and she was in Gay Street and still so much engrossed, that she started on being addressed by Admiral Croft, as if he were a person unlikely to be met there. It was within a few steps of his own door. 'You are going to call upon my wife,' said he; 'she will be very glad to see you.' Anne denied it. 'No, she really had not time, she was in her way home.' But while she spoke, the Admiral had stepped back and knocked at the door, calling out, 'Yes, yes, do go in; she is all alone; go in and rest yourself.' Anne felt so little disposed at this time to be in company of any sort, that it vexed her to be thus constrained; but she was obliged to stop. 'Since you are so ​very kind,’ said she, ‘I will just ask Mrs. Croft how she does, but I really cannot stay five minutes. You are sure she is quite alone?’ The possibility of Captain Wentworth had occurred, and most fearfully anxious was she to be assured either that he was within or that he was not; but which, might have been a question. ‘Oh! yes, quite alone. Nobody but her Mantua maker with her, and they have been shut up together this half hour, so it must be over soon.’ 'Her Mantua maker!—then I am sure my calling now would be most inconvenient. Indeed you must allow me merely to leave my Card and be so good as to explain it afterwards to Mrs. Croft.’ ‘No, no, not at all, not at all. She will be very happy to see you. Mind, I will not swear that she has not something particular to say to you; but that will all come out in the right place. I give no hints. Why, Miss Elliot, we begin to hear strange things of you’ (smiling in her face). ‘But you have not much the Look of it—as Grave as a little Judge.’ Anne blushed. ‘Aye, aye, that will do. Now, it is all right. I thought we were not mistaken.’ She was left to guess at the direction of his Suspicious; the first wild idea had been of some disclosure from his Brother-in-law, but she was ashamed the next moment, and felt how far more probable that he should be meaning Mr. Elliot. The door was opened, and the Man evidently beginning to deny his Mistress, when the sight of his Master stopped him. The Admiral enjoyed the joke exceedingly. Anne thought his triumph over Stephen rather too long. At last, however, he was able to invite her upstairs, and stepping before her said: ‘I will just go up with you myself and shew you in. I cannot stay, because I must go to the Post Office, but if you will only sit down for five minutes I am sure Sophy will come, and you will find nobody to disturb you; there is nobody but Frederick here’ (opening the door as he spoke). Such a person to be passed over as ​a Nobody to her! After being allowed to feel quite secure—indifferent—at her ease, to have it burst on her that she was to be the next moment in the same room with him! No time for recollection! for planning behaviour, or regulating manners! There was time only to turn pale, before she had passed through the door, and met the astonished eyes of Capt. Wentworth, who was sitting by the fire pretending to read and prepared for no greater surprise than the Admiral’s hasty return. Equally unexpected was the meeting, on each side. There was nothing to be done, however, but to stifle feelings and be quietly polite; and the Admiral was too much on the alert, to leave any troublesome pause. He repeated again what he had said before about his wife and everybody, insisted on Anne’s sitting down and being perfectly comfortable, was sorry he must leave her himself, but was sure Mrs. Croft would be down very soon, and would go upstairs and give her notice directly. Anne was sitting down, but now she arose again, to entreat him not to interrupt Mrs. Croft, and re-urge the wish of going away and calling another time. But the Admiral would not hear of it; and if she did not return to the charge with unconquerable Perseverance, or did not with a more passive Determination walk quietly out of the room (as certainly she might have done) may she not be pardoned! If she had no horror of a few minutes’ téte-à-téte with Captain Wentworth, may she not be pardoned for not wishing to give him the idea that she had? She reseated herself, and the Admiral took leave; but on reaching the door, said: ‘Frederick, a word with you, if you please.’ Captain Wentworth went to him; and instantly, before they were well out of the room, the Admiral continued: ‘As I am going to leave you together, it is but fair I should give you something to talk of, and so, if you please——’ Here the door was very firmly closed; she could guess by which of the two; and she ​lost entirely what immediately followed; but it was impossible for her not to distinguish parts of the rest, for the Admiral, on the strength of the Door’s being shut, was speaking without any management of voice, though she could hear his companion trying to check him. She could not doubt their being speaking of her. She heard her own name and Kellynch repeatedly. She was very much distressed. She knew not what to do, or what to expect, and among other agonies felt the possibility of Captain Wentworth’s not returning into the room at all, which after her consenting to stay would have been—too bad for Language. They seemed to be talking of the Admiral's Lease of Kellynch. She heard him say something of ‘the Lease being signed or not signed’—that was not likely to be a very agitating subject; but then followed: ‘I hate to be at an uncertainty. I must know at once. Sophy thinks the same.’ Then, in a lower tone, Captain Wentworth seemed remonstrating—wanting to be excused—wanting to put something off. ‘Phoo, Phoo!’ answered the Admiral, ‘now is the Time. If you will not speak, I will stop and speak myself’ 'Very well, Sir, very well, Sir,’ followed with some impatience from his companion, opening the door as he spoke. ‘You will, then—you promise you will?’ replied the Admiral, in all the power of his natural voice, unbroken even by one thin door. ‘Yes, Sir, yes.’ And the Admiral was hastily left, the door was closed, and the moment arrived in which Anne was alone with Captain Wentworth. She could not attempt to see how he looked; but he walked immediately to a window, as if irresolute and embarrassed; and for about the space of five seconds, she repented what she had done, censured it as unwise, blushed over it as indelicate. She longed to be able to speak of the weather or the Concert, but could only compass the relief of taking a Newspaper in her hand. The distressing pause was soon over, however; ​he turned round in half a minute, and coming towards the Table where she sat, said, in a voice of effort and constraint: ‘You must have heard too much already, Madam, to be in any doubt of my having promised Admiral Croft to speak to you on some particular subject, and this conviction determines me to do so, however repugnant to my—to all my sense of propriety, to be taking so great a liberty. You will acquit me of Impertinence, I trust, by considering me as speaking only for another, and speaking by Necessity; and the Admiral is a Man who can never be thought Impertinent by one who knows him as you do. His Intentions are always the kindest and the Best; and you will perceive that he is actuated by none other, in the application which I am now with—with very peculiar feelings—obliged to make.’ He stopped, but merely to recover breath; not seeming to expect any answer. Anne listened, as if her Life depended on the issue of his Speech. He proceeded, with a forced alacrity. ‘The Admiral, Madam, was this morning confidently informed that you were—upon my word I am quite at a loss, ashamed’ (breathing and speaking quick)—‘the awkwardness of giving Information of this sort to one of the Parties. You can be at no loss to understand me. It was very confidently said that Mr. Elliot—that everything was settled in the family for an Union between Mr. Elliot—and yourself. It was added that you were to live at Kellynch—that Kellynch was to be given up. This, the Admiral knew, could not be correct. But it occurred to him that it might be the wish of the Parties. And my commission from him, Madam, is to say, that if the Family wish is such, his Lease of Kellynch shall be cancel’d, and he and my sister will provide themselves with another home, without imagining themselves to be doing anything which under similar circumstances would not be done for them. This is all, Madam. A very few words in ​reply from you will be sufficient. That I should be the person commissioned on this subject is extraordinary! and believe me, Madam, it is no less painful. A very few words, however, will put an end to the awkwardness and distress we may both be feeling.’ Anne spoke a word or two, but they were unintelligible. And before she could command herself; he added, ‘If you only tell me that the Admiral may address a Line to Sir Walter, it will be enough. Pronounce only the words, he may. I shall immediately follow him with your message.’ This was spoken, as with a fortitude which seemed to meet the message. ‘No, Sir,’ said Anne. ‘There is no message. You are misin—the Admiral is misinformed. I do justice to the kindness of his Intentions, but he is quite mistaken. There is no Truth in any such report.’ He was a moment silent. She turned her eyes towards him for the first time since his re-entering the room. His colour was varying, and he was looking at her with all the Power and Keenness, which she believed no other eyes than his possessed. ‘No Truth in any such report!’ he repeated. ‘No Truth in any part of it?’ ‘None.’ He had been standing by a chair, enjoying the relief of leaning on it, or of playing with it; he now sat down, drew it a little nearer to her, and looked, with an expression which had something more than penetration in it, something softer. Her Countenance did not discourage. It was a silent, but a very powerful Dialogue; on his side Supplication, on hers acceptance. Still, a little nearer, and a hand taken and pressed, and ‘Anne, my own dear Anne!’ bursting forth in all the fullness of exquisite feeling, and all Suspense and Indecision were over. They were re-united. They were restored to all that had been lost. They were carried back to the past, with only an increase of attachment and confidence, and only such a flutter of present Delight as made them little fit for the interruption of Mrs. Croft, when ​she joined them not long afterwards. She probably, in the observations of the next ten minutes, saw something to suspect, and though it was hardly possible for a woman of her description to wish the Mantua maker had imprisoned her longer, she might be very likely wishing for some excuse to run about the house, some storm to break the windows above, or a summons to the Admiral’s Shoemaker below. Fortune favoured them all, however, in another way—in a gentle, steady rain, just happily set in as the Admiral returned and Anne rose to go. She was earnestly invited to stay dinner; a note was dispatched to Camden Place, and she staid—staid till ten at night. And during that time, the Husband and wife, either by the wife’s contrivance, or by simply going on in their usual way, were frequently out of the room together—gone up stairs to hear a noise, or down stairs to settle their accounts, or upon the Landing place to trim the Lamp. And these precious moments were turned to so good an account that all the most anxious feelings of the past were gone through. Before they parted at night, Anne had the felicity of being assured in the first place that (so far from being altered for the worse!) she had gained inexpressibly in personal Loveliness; and that, as to Character, hers was now fixed on his Mind as Perfection itself; maintaining the just Medium of Fortitude and Gentleness; that he had never ceased to love and prefer her, though it had been only at Uppercross that he had learnt to do her Justice, and only at Lyme that he had begun to understand his own sensations; that at Lyme he had received Lessons of more than one kind; 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 Anger and Pique) he protested that he had continually felt the impossibility of really caring 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, the 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 Daring of Heed-lessness 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 to the present had his penance been the most 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. He found that he was considered by his friend Harville as an engaged Man. The Harvilles entertained not a doubt of a mutual attachment between him and Louisa, and though this, to a degree, was contradicted instantly, it yet made him feel that perhaps by her family, by everybody, by herself even, the same idea might be held, and that he was not free in honour, though, if such were to be the conclusion, too free, alas! in Heart. He had never thought justly on this subject before; he had not sufficiently considered that his excessive Intimacy at Uppercross must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways, and that while trying whether he could attach himself to either of the Girls, he might be exciting unpleasant reports, if not raising unrequited regard! He found, too late, that he had entangled himself and that precisely as he became thoroughly satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her feelings for him were what the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and await her perfect recovery ​elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever sentiments or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went therefore into Shropshire, meaning after a while to return to the Cross at Kellynch, and act as he found requisite. 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 felicity of her engagement with Benwick. Bath, Bath—had instantly followed, in Thought; and not long after, in fact. At Bath, to arrive with Hope, to be torn by Jealousy at the first sight of Mr. Elliot, to experience all the changes of each at the Concert, to be miserable by this morning’s circumstantial report, to be now more happy than Language could express, or any heart but his own be capable of.
He was very eager and very delightful in the description of what he had felt at the Concert. The Evening seemed to have been 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 Despondence, were all 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 support would be his! Was not it enough to make the fool of me, which my behaviour expressed? 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 not it all against me?’
‘You should have distinguished,’ replied Anne. ‘You should not have suspected me now. The case so different, and my age 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 later knowledge of your Character which I had acquired, 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 think 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 with 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. The Admiral’s news indeed was a revulsion. Since that moment, I have been divided what to do, and had it been confirmed, this would have been my last day in Bath.’
THE ADMIRAL TOOK LEAVE; CAPTAIN WENTWORTH WENT TO HIM (See p. 137)
​rationally and so rapturously happy as during that evening occupied the Sopha of Mrs. Croft’s Drawing-room in Gay Street.
Captain Wentworth had taken care to meet the Admiral as he returned into the house, to satisfy him as to Mr. Elliot and Kellynch; and the delicacy of the Admiral’s good nature kept him from saying another word on the subject to Anne. He was quite concerned lest he might have been giving her pain by touching a tender part. Who could say? She might be liking her Cousin better than he liked her. And indeed, upon recollection, if they had been to marry at all why should they have waited so long?
When the Evening closed, it is probable that the Admiral received some new Ideas from his Wife, whose particularly friendly manner in parting with her gave Anne the gratifying persuasion of her seeing and approving.
It had been such a day to Anne! The hours which had passed since her leaving Camden Place had done so much! She was almost bewildered, almost too happy in looking back. It was necessary to sit up half the Night and lie awake the remainder to comprehend with composure her present state, and pay for the overplus of Bliss, by Headache and Fatigue.