This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of

it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit,

the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time

heard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig. He

and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home.

Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they

kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it

would save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross.

The invitation was general, and generally declined. The Miss Musgroves

were not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked

before any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could

not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.

The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an

opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again,

when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something

to his sister. The something might be guessed by its effects.

"Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs Croft. "Do let us

have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for

three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit

four. You must, indeed, you must."

Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to

decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral's kind urgency

came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they

compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a

corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,

and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.

Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had

placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she

owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give

her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition

towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little

circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She

understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be

unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with

high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and

though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer,

without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former

sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship;

it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not

contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that

she knew not which prevailed.




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