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Chapter 9

Mrs. Bennet was not a sensible woman. From infancy to motherhood, nothing of substantial usefulness had ever entered her head. Her days were spent living out her frivolous fancies and her nights were spent conjuring up new dreams. Thus she lived, from year to year, with little change to be wrought on her disposition except for those little modifications that came with age - and I do not mean wisdom. However, much to her credit, she learned to appreciate Franny's presence in spite of herself. The days of the Mistress of Longbourn were long and tedious if there was no constant companion; thus, the Collinses' daughter made for good company. Moreover, it was because of Franny that Mrs. Bennet had become acquainted with Arthur Somerset. Mrs. Bennet now hoped that the Bingleys and Somersets would meet. If Mrs. Bennet did not seize the moment, she knew that her neighbour Mrs. Long would snap up Arthur for one of her odious nieces.

The chance for Mrs. Bennet to put her plan into action came sooner than even the woman herself could have hoped for. One idle afternoon, as Franny showed Mrs. Bennet how to remake an old bonnet, Mrs. Hill entered the sitting room and handed a card to Mrs. Bennet. The mistress of Longbourn took one look at the card and gave a little cry. The Netherfield party had come! Make haste, for the Bingleys, in company of the Darcys, had arrived at Hertfordshire, at not a moment was to be lost! Mrs. Bennet had barely time to make herself presentable before the clamour of footsteps and familiar laughter drifted through the open door. The little sitting room of Longbourn was soon crowded with Darcys and Bingleys. As could be expected, Mrs. Bennet embraced each of her children, and kissed each of the grandchildren presented to her.

"Oh yes, if only your father were at home at this moment, he would have been so proud to see you all," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed distractedly to Mrs. Bingley. "He has gone for a walk to the library in Meryton and will not be back within the hour. It is such a shame that you have just missed your cousin the rector, and his wife. They went out for their customary walk to visit the village curate. You did see them in passing? Oh yes, my dear Jane, and did you not think she looked drawn? Mrs. Collins' looks, I'm afraid, have been failing her. Though there never was much of it in the first place...What is that, Lizzy? Oh, I am being charitable. As if I were not generous enough already... Jane, you must tell me all about the latest London fashion. You were always the prettiest of my girls. How your daughter takes after you!" Then, she spared no loving comments, and held back no criticisms on their "loss of weight" and look of fatigue... "But all of these things, a week at Longbourn will more than cure!" she declared jubilantly, while her daughters tried to decline the invitation.

Franny held herself aloof, not because of pride or want of manners, but because she suddenly felt shy. She had not seen them for ever so long. As faithful readers of this tale already know, Franny liked Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, but she did not get on well with their children William, Bennet and Bella. It had also been quite some time since she last conversed with the young Miss Cynthia Bingley, but no one attempted to reintroduce the two young ladies to each other. In actual fact, it seemed that everyone in the room had overlooked her, so bombarded were they by Mrs. Bennet's interrogation and gossips.

In her chair by the corner, Franny was free to observe each of the guests in turn. William Darcy just turned seventeen; but it seemed that a few months at a new school had already transformed him. William had once been haughty and proud, but in the company of the Bingleys, what a change was to be wrought! Never had Franny seen his face light up as it did, nor observe how relaxed his features became. Could it be...? Yes, she thought she saw something in his looks that coincided with the stories that she read. He was very attentive to his cousin, and something in his manners suggested that he was Miss Bingley's protector.

Franny now turned to gaze at William's object of veneration. Miss Cynthia Jane Bingley had evidently been blessed from birth, for within her one frame was combined all the greatest fortunes in the world. Where was the little girl with whom Franny once played? Miss Bingley's graceful figure was uncommonly well formed for sixteen. The turn of her head, the refinement of her complexion, the Athenian nose were of marked beauty. Her luminous blue eyes, and cheerful, pleasing smile-so like that of her mother-suggested a rare sweetness of temper and an unaffected amiability. When coupled with the promise of a large income, which she was to come into within five years' time, the effect that Miss Bingley created on the young bachelors around her was not surprising to behold. Though she was not by any standards an intellectual scholar, the young lady was very accomplished in painting and dancing, and her earnest, charming character made up for whatever deficiencies she might have had. It was already known throughout the county that Miss Bingley had a flock of suitors that steadily increased as each day passed. What happy alignment of stars was it that resulted in such delicate perfection? Joyful indeed must the night have been, the night that Cynthia Jane Bingley was born!

The blessed Miss Bingley was the first to notice Franny Collins sitting quietly by herself. She was the first to approach Franny. With a soft rosiness dusting her face, and a gentle smile settling upon her lips, she embarked on kindling the friendship that they had begun as little girls. It was not long before they had taken up each other's proper names again, and even before anyone else could notice Franny's presence, Cynthia had dragged Franny to the little clavichord that stood idle in the hall.

"What a lovely thing it must be, to be able to play this instrument," said Cynthia, running her fingertips across the ivory keys. "I should like to be able to make music out of this. It is not a regular pianoforte, though, is it? It does not look quite like the one that either Aunt Caroline or Aunt Elizabeth plays on. How very odd looking this is for a piano."

"It is a clavier."

"Is it? Oh, I've never touched one before. I should like to hear it. How came you to know its name?"

"It is what Mother has at home."

"Oh, but I thought you play the pianoforte. I see, it cannot be much different, can it? It has those very same black and white keys. Aunt Elizabeth tells me that you play music, and delightfully too."

"Mrs. Darcy has been too kind," answered Franny with a modest blush, "-But I can assure you that I have not-"

Cynthia smiled and placed a hand over Franny's arm. "Surely you cannot accuse my beloved aunt of so gross an art as flattery. No, Aunt Elizabeth was frank when she spoke. She never heard you perform, but she has heard you practise, and that, in itself, is the highest commendation that can be given. You see, my aunt admits that she could never bear the patience of practising. She respects you because you share not her 'idleness' (as she calls it)... We have tried some little French song together, but nothing of substance. I could not sing for the life of me. I can manage the French bit, but not the tuneful bit. I was once flattered by a friend of my cousin-He called me a nightingale. Only imagine that! I would believe that a crow suits me more. You seem rather astonished. Oh, I know that I've shocked you already-Everyone tells me I speak entirely too much-but I only do it when I'm excited or happy, and I think I like you quite as much as before-perhaps, even more than before. And now, after such a speech, you must give me a performance. Nay, you must not refuse-I absolutely insist."

After much persuasion, Franny demurely played a song for Cynthia. The younger girl was very pleased and entreated Franny to perform another; but a second encore could not be wrought out of Franny. It did not matter, however.

"I did not know that you performed," interrupted a young man. William Darcy came out suddenly from the shadows. He had, undoubtedly, been listening to the songs. "I thought Miss Collins never enjoyed performing."

"I do not, but for an old friend, I play," returned Franny.

William Darcy did not answer.

"You must admit, William, that Franny is talented," said Cynthia.

"She has had much practice since the last time she played, I suppose. Practice, as Mother would say, may not make perfection, but will certainly help one to achieve perfection," replied William dogmatically.

"I envy all who can play music," said Cynthia generously. "I cannot play a single tune by ear, nor sing back the simplest of ditties. You seem surprised, Franny, but it wasn't idleness. Indeed, I have tried. Father sent me ten different masters before he decided that such instruction would not suffice. I think it is the one thing that puts my father ill at ease. As I have said, my singing is like that of a crow. If you do not believe me, only ask William. You see, he is too ashamed to nod. But I value your gift greatly, Franny. You must play for me again some time. Perhaps, you ought to teach my while I am here."

Franny shook her head. "But you would need to trek down to Longbourn everyday. Would it not be inconvenient for you?"

"Grandmama wishes to have me stay a week at Longbourn," replied Cynthia, her cheeks burning bright with excitement, "I could do anything but decline. Papa has already given his consent, and Mama will do nothing to go against the wishes of her mother, so I am to stay. What do you say to that, Franny? We shall be quite like sisters, shall we not? Mama will have some of my things sent over as soon as she returns to Netherfield. But do tell me what you think of this funny little scheme? You shall have all the time to teach me."

"I've never had a sister before," admitted Franny. She could already envision the excitement of the coming days.

"Nor have I," said Cynthia. She looked over at William and gave him a little smile. "You are silent, Cousin. I thought you might wish us joy. William is the strangest creature. He never laughs in company, unless we were all friends to him. It is as though he were shy of strangers. Imagine that, Franny! What do you say to our punishing him? He has been lurking about in dark corners, and now that he's revealed himself, he has forgotten all his good manners. It isn't as though he does not know you. What do you suggest?"

Franny looked sidelong at Cynthia and William in wonder.

Cynthia laughed. "Alas, you say nothing. You are all politeness. But still, that leaves the question of Cousin William rather unattended. William does hold himself apart; he never says much in strange company except when prompted to do so. I've sometimes wondered how it is that he gets on with anyone." Her tone was not critical-only youthfully facetious-so neither Franny nor William could take offence in her words. "You will not believe it, Franny, but William has censured me often enough for my failure to remain silent. I must run through the course of my thoughts aloud though-It is a habit that I wish to overcome, and yet, it is really quite hard to stop my words from flowing."

"But that, I think, is because you make so little effort to," answered William with a small smile on his face. "You take pleasure in your own verbosity because it delights...your father. That is why you refrain from curbing your habit. However, indulgence of any habit that one finds endearing is, in my opinion, akin to encouragement of one's vanity."

"William, you have made your point," said Cynthia playfully. "I know I speak nothing but nonsense, but for your sake, I shall try to be serious."

After a silence in which the cousins seemed to be lost in thought, William cleared his throat. "My father may be wanting me this minute," he said awkwardly and excused himself.

Ignoring her cousin's coolness, Cynthia seized Franny's arm and gave it a good squeeze. "You see how it is, Franny? What do you make of him?"

"You are certainly very knowledgeable of each other's habits," Franny volunteered.

"Oh, but that is because we have grown up together. We are in perfect ease in each other's company. I cannot imagine why, but so it is. He may not speak much, but he never minds me, though he may say otherwise, and so I do not mind being a little, well-verbose as he might say-in his presence. Have you a friend to whom you could speak, in that way?"

Franny thought for a moment and shook her head. There was Arthur, but he was not always the best listener; she often feared that he might be laughing at her fancies. "You are lucky that you find William to be a good friend then," said Franny.

Cynthia beamed. "Yes, he is dear, is he not?" she said. "Do you know, Franny, the thought of being here in Hertfordshire for Christmas quite takes my breath away. This shall be a very precious visit."

Franny found that her friend had a habit of finding everyone around her precious, and it was not because Cynthia Bingley was shallow or wanting in her mind, but rather, it was in Cynthia's nature to love as much as she was loved. Cynthia was delighted with the Lucases and enraptured by the Somersets. Franny even saw that Cynthia had taken a great liking to Arthur's little jests and gallantries. Of course, Franny could not see why Cynthia should not enjoy the little attentions paid to her. It was perfectly reasonable. After all, did not a girl of such beauty and endearing, sincere temper deserve all the kindness and affection in the world? Franny found no reason to counter Arthur's interest in her friend. It was irrational to assume that Arthur could not like Cynthia.

Cynthia's verdict on Arthur was that the young man was exceptionally witty and lively.

"So it seems," answered Franny.

"I am surprised that nothing of your cousin was mentioned before. He is a pleasant, amusing story teller, and I do not believe that I have learned as much upon one afternoon in his company as I have in a year with my former governess."

"Yes, but he wants a sort of seriousness," said Franny, with seeming unconcern.

"There are times when seriousness will do very well," agreed Cynthia, "but there are also times when I am certain a harmless jest can be greatly appreciated. For instance, you would not want to be grave at all times. It is a very hard charge to fulfill."

"No. That would be William Darcy's office. He might even be too sombre to satisfy the role."

Cynthia appeared surprised by Franny's statement. "Why do you say that, Franny? To be sure, I have marked his reserve, but he can be as pleasing a companion as any I have had."

"To you, perhaps, he may be such," replied Franny. "We have never gotten along, though we have known each other since childhood."

Cynthia smiled. "Oh yes, I always forget how long you have known the Darcys. In any case, I am sorry to hear that you do not find William so agreeable. I wish you could see him differently. Perhaps Grandmama ought to have invited him to Longbourn."

At least, Miss Bingley's good Grandmama lost no time inviting the Somersets to dine at Longbourn frequently that week. In the mean time, Cynthia and Franny had become intimate friends. Perhaps it had a little to do with the attraction of opposites. Within the several days that Cynthia remained at Longbourn, the two girls nurtured each other's interests by their natural curiosity and thirst for knowledge. However lacking in musical talents Cynthia was, she made up for it in her painting; Franny was never more fascinated than when she watched her friend work on a tableau. Franny, in turn, taught Cynthia to play some tunes on the clavichord. The only thing that Franny lamented was Cynthia's lack of enthusiasm for the history of England's military and naval heroes, and worse, Cynthia's decided dislike of adventure. "But is not a great deal of history made up?" Cynthia asked once in puzzlement. "It is all too old for anyone to remember surely. I cannot imagine that anyone of importance would remember the details of a battle clearly-not if he had to mind winning." History and adventure were, unfortunately, interests that Franny could only share with Arthur. But Franny learned to overlook this, for all who knew the amiable and agreeable Miss Bingley could not help loving her.

If Franny were to put Cynthia's character into words, she would describe her as an angel cloaked in shimmering diamonds. Franny saw how dazzled the unattached gentlemen around the neighbourhood were in the presence of her delightful friend. No young bachelor was able to escape Miss Bingley's powers-for, in Franny's opinion, even William Darcy was not immune. It was often said that it was satisfying enough just to look at Miss Cynthia, and this, together with her personable charms, made her a great favourite amongst neighbours. No day was complete without a glimpse of Miss Bingley's beauty, and no party was whole without being graced by Miss Bingley's presence.

On the last evening of Cynthia's week at Longbourn, the little clavichord was carried into the sitting room, and the bright student made to perform what little she had learned from Franny. Her ear and tone had so improved that her song, though far from being perfectly executed, was sweet and pleasing in its own particular way. Mr. Collins praised Cynthia for her talents, Mrs. Collins nodded her head in approval, and Mr. and Mrs. Somerset exchanged compliments with Mr. Bennet on their granddaughter's accomplishments. In the mean time, Arthur had evidently lost no time applauding Cynthia for her musical improvement. He spoke, she smiled, he spoke again, and she nodded in agreement.

"Do you know," Mrs. Bennet observed to Franny, "I believe that Arthur Somerset is in every danger of falling in love."

"With whom?" asked Franny smiling at the strange remark. She followed Mrs. Bennet's gaze. "With dear Cynthia?"

"Well, you see what attention he pays to her? That is not an uncommon sort of attention."

"I believe it is politeness. Is it unusual that one might admire a lady of good talents?"

"No, not unusual, but I think there is a marked preference in his admiration. I have five daughters, and all five of them married. I should think I know how to spy out the symptoms of love."

"Who is speaking of love?" asked Mr. Bennet, who had just sat down beside Franny. "If it is not that odious subject again. I know I am sick of the mere mention of it. Do not tell me, Franny, that you are ready for love, or I shall be heartily disappointed in your seeming good sense. You must at least wait another four years before you consider any gentleman of the slightest consequence."

"Mrs. Bennet did not mean me," Franny assured him with a slightly strained smile.

"Oh dear, then it is the unhappy fate of our granddaughter that she is now devising, is it not? Pray, Mrs. Bennet, what sad scheme have you now concocted? Is there any gentleman in the neighbourhood of ten thousand a year, who can satisfy your requirements?"

"There is nothing unhappy or sad in my plans, and who talks of scheming? That is surely not my office. I am merely settling what I hope will result in the greatest contentment to all concerned," said Mrs. Bennet, smoothing out her dress complacently. "As for any gentleman with ten thousand pounds a year, I am sure his character cannot be so ill, if he has managed to keep a steady income."

"No, a man of ten thousand a year cannot be very rude in your books-not after the experience we have had with our son-in-law Darcy." Mr. Bennet feigned a sigh. "What a pity it is that there are not more Mr. Darcys."

"You forget you have two grandsons by that name," said Mrs. Bennet. "Poor William and Bennet, to be so neglected by their grandfather. How your negligence of them must vex their mother."

"But then, thankfully, my own Lizzy never suffers from poor nerves."

Mrs. Bennet's face turned pink as she declared indignantly that Mr. Bennet was insensitive and would take every opportunity to disagree with her. No, her husband corrected, he was never given the opportunity-it was always thrust upon him. "I will only add one more thing," said Mr. Bennet as he stood up. "My deepest condolences go to the unfortunate young man against whom the greatest, most inescapable curse has already been placed. I dare say, it was through no fault of his own that he was resigned to such a fate." Thereupon, he retired from his wife's company.

"How he delights in vexing me!" Mrs. Bennet sulked to Franny. "Let this be my advice to you, Franny. Never, never expect a husband to understand the burden of womanhood. Indeed, they are quite insensible to our hardships."

Chapter 10

At the conclusion of the week, Cynthia returned to Netherfield. Mrs. Bennet was acutely disappointed that no changes seemed to have occurred between her granddaughter and Mr. Collins' nephew. Her plans had been foiled somehow, and she knew not why, but the Meryton Assembly was approaching, and she would place her hopes on that evening. The visitors to the villages of Longbourn and Netherfield had been invited to attend it. Tacitly, Miss Cynthia Bingley was anticipated to be the belle of the evening. Because it was Franny's first time attending an event such as this one, her parents took care to lay down many words of advice; on Mr. Collins' part, they were rules of conduct:

"You will remember to curtsy to your neighbours, and thank your partner at the end of each dance. You know how shocked Lady Catherine de Bourgh would be if you did otherwise. You will remember to display your best manners-for you must show that you have at least been bred some time in the enriching, influential environment of Rosings Park. You will not run in the hall, nor roam about as you wish like a heathen, for it would be unquestionably unsuitable in a young lady to do so, and it is quite flatly denounced in my books. And most of all, Frances Maria, you must not dance the waltz."

Franny grimaced, but Mr. Bennet, who had overheard this conversation, laughed aloud. At the conclusion of his cousin's speech, and interjected his own comments concerning the matter. "If I may trouble you for a moment, Mr. Collins," said Mr. Bennet in amusement, "I may perhaps add a few more words. Franny, you must dance more dances than you sit out; you must enjoy yourself with every dance, be it a waltz or not; and when you come back, you must not allow Mrs. Bennet to monopolize the discussion on silks and laces." The looks of aggravation that Mr. Bennet received for this did not trouble him. Instead, it put him in greater humour than ever before. Winking at Franny, he left to find sanctuary in his library.

Once at the Assembly Hall, the Collinses spied out the Bingleys and the Darcys, and Franny lost no time seeking out Cynthia's company.

"You have nothing to worry about," Cynthia assured her. "You and I will stand up together if we are ever in want of partners. And I have convinced William to be enthusiastic, for my sake."

"For your sake, I know he will do anything," Franny could not help saying, glad that Cynthia's first comments of the evening were not reserved for the subject of Arthur.

With brightened eyes, Cynthia gave her a look that was not fully comprehensible. "I thought you said you did not like him. You are being particularly kind on William."

Franny decided to put in a good word for William, even if she had once disliked him terribly. There was no denying that William could be tender when he chose to be; towards Cynthia, he was such a person. That surely merited some good opinion. "We may not agree with each other on anything," said Franny, "But I know that William cares very much for his family and those dearest to him-and that is a great virtue... You did say to me how he paid particular attention to your comfort when you all arrived at Netherfield."

Cynthia giggled. "And so I did. How I have forgotten! He is very attentive. I wonder what it is like for my cousin Bella. Does she find William as protective and generous?"

"William Darcy is Bella's brother, but not yours. There is no comparison there."

Cynthia shrugged. "Perhaps not, but William is a puzzle at times. Very sweet, but-Dear me, I hardly know what I am saying. Do look at that dress there. Is it not pretty? I should like to have a fancy dress made just like that one. What do you think of it, Franny? What sort of material does it look like to you?"

"It looks to me like William is seeking you out," answered Franny, unwilling to let her friend change the subject. "Perhaps he wishes to engage you for the first dance."

Her friend laughed, almost shyly this time. "I'm afraid that it is not because he wishes to dance. He fears that I will be brushed aside, and he does not wish for me to bear such a humiliation. But I have already been promised to another. William will not mind, I am sure."

Franny nodded. Cynthia would never be in want of a partner, though Franny knew (rather resignedly) that she herself would be. Franny wondered whether anyone at the Meryton Assembly thought of her at all. She even had a faint hope that perhaps some naval officers might be by, but that could not be expected. And even if they were present, none of them would take notice of her.

As she stood up together with Cynthia, smiling, and being introduced by Mrs. Bennet, she could not help but think self-consciously that she might as well be a pattern on the wall. Cynthia, tall and graceful in height and breadth, stately as a queen, deserved all the attention that she received. As for herself, Franny knew that she ought not to stand there, strange and awkward, appearing as though she were trying to claim attention for herself. No one tried to engage her in conversation, and she had no choice but to smile and nod dumbly as elegant, glamorous women came and spoke with Cynthia. Franny decided that it would be pointless to continue in this manner. As soon as she could do so, she disappeared into a corner, behind a sea of onlookers and Miss Bingley-admirers. The heaviness about her lifted. From her safe haven, she could watch the entire process of the Assembly without harassment.

The orchestra struck the opening chords of the first minuet as couples walked into the middle of the hall and arranged themselves in the proper formation. Behind the plumed hats and fancy turbans, Franny watched as Cynthia lithely entered the set-with her hand resting on no other gentleman's arm but that of Arthur! Well, Franny did not know that her cousin would dance with her friend, but she had to admit, in spite of her disquiet, that they formed a beautiful pair. Something in Cynthia must have radiated outwards to make Arthur appear so well... But, Franny's thoughts were supposed to occupy themselves by pitying the misfortunes of William Darcy, who himself was looking very unhappy.

Somehow, Mrs. Bennet found her. "What a fine looking pair they make," said the woman with a broad smile on her face. "I would not say that I have seen a more becoming pair than my dear Cynthia with young Arthur Somerset."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Franny.

"And do you think Arthur is very happy?"

"He must admire Cynthia. Everyone does."

Mrs. Bennet nodded her head vigorously. "If I were Cynthia's friend, I would hope that something came of it. She is such a deserving young girl, after all. It does make me think of my Jane and Mr. Bingley so many years ago. They first danced together in this very assembly hall, you know. I wonder if Cynthia knows of it. She ought to know it."

"If she does not, I will be sure to tell her of the coincidence," said Franny, trying to extricate herself from Mrs. Bennet's confidence. Mrs. Bennet, satisfied with this, smiled again, graciously, and moved on.

The dance ended, and another, a much livelier one began. For want of something to do other than to stare, Franny milled about the crowd, being sure to hide herself well amidst the tall, elegant people around her. This was how she came to hear a conversation between the young village curate Mr. King and an older, scarlet-haired, freckled woman. The woman was either an aunt or a mother to him. She was not a lady that Franny had seen before in the neighbourhood and deduced that she was a fashionable lady from town, but the exchange that took place between Mr. King and his companion told Franny that such could not be the case.

"That is she right there-the young woman in the yellow dress-Miss Bingley, of whom I was telling you earlier," Mr. King said in a low voice.

"I thought indeed that it was Miss Bingley," said his companion. "...There is something of her mother's beauty in her, except more refined, if you understand what I mean. Tell me, why are you not dancing with her?"

"Only look at who is by her side. Mr. Arthur Somerset, the stepson of Sir William's younger daughter. He is courted wherever he goes," came the bitter reply.

"...And well suited is such a compliment. Mr. Arthur Somerset is a fine young gentleman, and you ought to be more like him."

"What do you know of him?"

"I know quite a lot. He is the eldest son of Augustus Somerset of ______shire. He is to be his father's heir. He is scholarly, intellectual, amiable, and gallant. There is nothing known against him as of yet -- which says a lot, when so many young men dissipate the luxurious lives that are given to them. And he has had his heart broken once. Alas, I am sure he is ready to love again."

Franny made note of this, as Mr. King was also clearly doing.

"How do you know all this?" he asked his aunt.

"I do not go about in society for nothing. I have my ears about me, and I have heard a great deal of things concerning the illustrious Somersets."

Mr. King frowned.

Franny saw the freckled woman smile mischievously. "Oh come, Elias. I have known you since your infancy. I am not so ignorant of your petty jealousies."

"Do not tease me, Aunt. It is intolerable."

"What is she (Miss Bingley) to you that you should feel anything for her?"

"She is an angel, is she not? I would endure a dozen labours to be with her."

The woman raised her fan to her mouth and laughed softly under her breath. "Well, I never thought I would hear such poetry coming from your lips... I heard from Rose, my maid, who heard from Mr. Bingley's valet, that Miss Bingley is not quite well-and you understand, Rose and Mr. Bingley's valet are fairly well acquainted with one another."

Mr. King started-just as Franny did. "What do you mean?" he demanded in a hushed tone. "Miss Bingley is unwell?"

His aunt nodded, and also lowered her voice. Franny strained to hear her words.

"That is correct, Elias," said the aunt. "Miss Bingley-Miss Cynthia Bingley-has only just come into the country after recovering from a bout of putrid fever in the summer, when she was in town."

The woman's next line was to surprise her listeners even more,

"She is cured now, or so the doctors say, but her constitution has been left quite weak, and they have come to Netherfield for the winter in the hopes of strengthening her, and allowing for a complete recovery... The Bingleys themselves breathe nothing of the matter-and I should be very surprised if anyone else were aware of the sickness either... It is all very sad, considering the Bingleys have but one child. But you will take care, or her father may whisk her away from the country as my own grandfather did..."

The significance of the aunt's words impressed itself upon Franny's senses, and left the girl without a doubt as to what Mr. King's aunt meant. It sickened Franny, as not even her father's admiration for Lady Catherine had yet sickened her, and she wished that she had never overheard the conversation. In disgust, Franny turned and walked away.

Sir William Lucas tapped his right hand fingers against his left hand, humming the maggot to himself as he watched the young dancing couples twirl and encircle one another. The Assembly, to his greatest pleasure, was a success, and he prided himself on his Capital idea of hosting the evening.

Everything about Sir William Lucas was Capital. His home, Lucas Lodge, was capitally situated. His roost of children had all grown up into capital adults, made capital matches, raised capital grandchildren, and in some cases, gained capital fortunes. If Sir William had never raised that initial capital to open his shop in Meryton, he would never have become the mayor of the town, nor would he have met the Prince Regent and been knighted. His present comfort, therefore, was all due to that capital. Some might even say that, despite being a little bent with age, Sir William Lucas was still a capital figure of Meryton society. He himself had the modesty to mention little of his self-worth, devoting instead his time to being civil to society, and assigning to all worthy subjects the same adjective that was deserving of so magnanimous a man.

He wove his way in and out of circles, putting in his genteel words here and there, prattling with preening ladies and smiling at sleepy husbands. He saw Mr. Collins, in the corner, beginning to nod. "Capital, capital," he said, his own face beaming as he watched the young, unattached ladies of Meryton dance with the young, unattached gentlemen of Meryton. "Capital, capital," he had said, standing proudly next to Mr. Phillips, the attorney from Meryton. Since settling into the gentry, Sir William had used his influence to bring about some of the happiest matches in England; Mr. Phillip's nieces partaken in that joy. Had he never put in a word or introduced the youths to such fine dancing partners, the happy matches would not have come about. Therefore, the man placed a lot of confidence in himself, and in his good stars, that such a fortune never escaped him. Yes, that was a pleasing thought to the old gentleman. He could think of nothing so perfect and harmonious.

Sir William observed all this to his granddaughter Franny, who, with flushed cheeks, had just slipped into a space beside him. He added that the present maggot was one that he once enjoyed dancing to. Franny nodded, agreed that it was indeed an elegant one.

"It seems to me," declared Sir William self-importantly, "That Arthur Somerset is quite enjoying himself. Do you not agree? I have never, for myself, seen such a sporting young man pleasing so many, and being so well pleased."

"Arthur is always very obliging," said Franny.

"If he does not take care, he shall win the affections of many young ladies in this hall tonight," said Sir William with a happy chuckle. "To Mrs. Long's nieces, the Miss Wilsons, he already surpasses young William Darcy in fascination. I will endeavour to introduce Arthur to them upon the next occasion. They shall be flattered with one another."

"But how will you divide the attentions of a young man between the two?" asked Franny. "It does not seem to me to be at all just to any party to neglect one for the other."

Sir William looked befuddled for a moment by this. "Well, you may be right, my dear. And it seems to me that even if the Miss Wilsons were out of the question, it's a pity that there are not two of Arthur."

Franny tried to stop herself from flushing. "And what might that do, Grandpapa?" she asked in a fainter voice.

"I would leave one of him with a great lady like Miss Bingley, and the other to be fought over by the rest of the ladies," said Sir William in good humour. He chuckled as Franny looked at him in shock. Although Sir William was a generous man, tact was not amongst his highest virtues, and age seemed to have worsened this defect. "Do not look so grave, Franny! I only spoke in jest," he exclaimed. He shook his head and chuckled at his own joke. "Capital! Capital!"

At the end of the maggot, he spied Arthur leaving the set and walking past them just as a waltz was about to begin. Sir William cleared his throat and tapped the boy over his shoulder.

"Good God, Arthur, why are you not dancing this one?" asked Sir William. "I would have you dance. There are so many young ladies here who would appreciate an introduction, I am sure. Let me introduce you to a few."

Casting a subtle smile in Franny's direction, Arthur shook his head politely. "Thank you, Sir William, but I had been thinking of standing out of the next one. I am not, as others are, so fond of dancing as to have an unsatiable appetite for it."

"No?" asked Sir William, greatly befuddled. "But you are so young, and handsome enough I am sure. Were you not dancing earlier with Miss Bingley? Why, only let me introduce you to one of Mrs. Long's nieces. I dare say that either Miss Wilson or Miss Mary Wilson will be more than willing. You cannot object when so much beauty and energy is before you."

"I thank you, Sir, but I should not like to trouble you."

"No trouble at all. The two Miss Wilsons would like to dance. Do see how they are sitting out? It is unfortunate that such young, pretty girls should be slighted by their partners."

"Perhaps they are not slighted at all. They enjoy each other's company well enough. Their partners are probably much too taken aback than to approach them now. There is something menacing in two young ladies left to their own mirthful devices."

"Too young?" repeated Sir William, not hearing Arthur well. "Do you mean to say that a lady of eighteen or twenty is too young to dance with?"

"No, no, Sir William," said Arthur with a laugh. "I meant with the two of them in comfortable company with one another, I can only presume that they enjoy their conversation much more than to dance. But, as you will have me dance, and as you should accuse me of slighting young ladies, then you must let me make amends by not slighting Franny. I had been searching for her all evening." With a gallant little bow, he offered his hand to Franny. "I do love a good waltz by Mr. Franz Schubert. I hope you will not deny an old friend over your preference for hiding in the crowds," he jested lightly as he led her away from her prying grandfather.

"What about Cynthia?" she whispered, embarrassed that he had found her out.

"I cannot be charming and diverting all evening," Arthur said softly into her ear. "What's more, you ought to know that I have left her in better hands than mine." He instructed her to look at the centre of the room, and sure enough, there was her beautiful, angelic friend-with William Darcy. Satisfied, Franny accepted Arthur's offer. So, the evening ended with Franny dancing after all. Nothing further should be added to this chapter, except to say that Mr. Collins stepped out to the next room, unable to resist a round of "gambling-free" whist with Mrs. Philips, Mrs. Long and Lady Lucas, and Franny dared to waltz.

Chapter 11

The waltz continued to play for many days in the minds of two particular young people, but Franny was the first to find a distraction for herself. She could not hear any mention of the assembly without a weight gathering in her; she had to bear the threat of her father hearing about the waltz, the constant melancholy look of disappointment in her mother's eyes, and the sudden change wrought on Arthur. Nor could she confine herself indoors to listen to Mrs. Bennet speak profusely about her granddaughter Cynthia's first two dances. Franny admired and liked Cynthia Bingley greatly, but not under the gossiping tongue of Longbourn's mistress. Evidently, Franny could not remain indoors; she had to find a release. She suggested an excursion-a scenic walk. Neither the Bennets nor her parents expressed much interest in the scheme, and Franny set off alone with her friends for Oakham Mount.

Even in the middle of winter, Oakham Mount provided an attractive view of the land that surrounded Meryton and Longbourn. The snow that dusted the slopes and fields resembled fine sparks of sugar, and the stone cottages and brick manors that dotted the land took on, more and more, the appearance of gingerbread houses. Only the soft grey smoke billowing out of their chimneys showed that they were inhabited by real folks; yet even then, if one ignored the rules of perspective, one might have fancied that they were elfins that occupied those sweet dwellings. Far below, cheerful, brightly clad village children yelled and laughed as they built their empires of snow. There stood the towers of a frosty Camelot! Past its barren moat stood forts and citadels, and an icehouse preserved Coliseum. Who dared to say now that Rome was not built in one day? These were sights that never failed to touch those who had half a heart for the rustic home life, and they did not fail to touch Franny now.

Cynthia, William and Arthur made up her walking party. At first, she had been reluctant to invite Arthur to take the promenade-his earnest, warm attention at the end of the Meryton Assembly, so different from his usual facetiousness, had since made her sensible of her own vulnerability-but Aunt Maria had volunteered Arthur's presence, and Franny could not decline. Meanwhile, Cynthia convinced her to include William in the party as well. The beauty of the landscape was not something that Franny felt should be barred from anyone, and so, she extended the invitation to Cynthia's cousin. (She was not blind to the fact that Cynthia and William were fond of one another. Knowing this, she could not help smirking a bit at poor Mrs. Bennet's thwarted designs.) For Cynthia's sake, she learned to tolerate William Darcy. He was somewhat distant and reserved, as Franny had expected, but when she drew him into a sensible, lively debate on anything that came to her mind, she found that he was not so difficult to talk to.

"Come on, Franny," interrupted Arthur before long. He had been listening to them. "No more Julius Caesar for now." He guided her by the elbow as they walked the last stretch of the way. Lowering his voice, he added, "I am sure William Darcy has more pressing things to think of at the moment than Caesar." He was merely referring to William and Cynthia; but there was something in his tone that reminded Franny very much of the night of the assembly, and despite her determination not to be affected by Arthur's charm, her heart skipped the proverbial beat.

"You are right, Franny. This place is beautiful," exclaimed Cynthia as she stood some feet away from them. She laughed as she looked out upon the vastness that stretched before her. "How did you discover it?"

"On one of my rambles," Franny replied, lightened by her friend's rapture. "My mother suggested it once to me. She used to take this walk with Mrs. Darcy."

"I remember it," said William. "Mother was fond of the walk and spoke of it in one of the stories that she used to spin to us. Do you remember any of them, Cynthia?"

His cousin shook her head.

"When you were ill, and we came to visit you-"

"Oh, do not expect me to remember anything when I am sick in bed," said Cynthia with a dismissive laugh. "I would not have been very ill if I could recall everything about Aunt Elizabeth's favourite walk..."

"Mother and Father's favourite," corrected William. The exertion from their outing had freed him from his usual restraint and he now spoke with openness. He told Arthur and Franny about the special walk that his father and his mother had. On a particular day around the end of harvest of a particular year, a certain Mr. Darcy offered his hand a second time to a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with none of the arrogance, but all the ardency, of the first proposal, and was most happily accepted. "Thus, autumn is the best time to come this way," concluded William, for something of his father's warmth flowed in his blood. "...Sometime after the changing colour of the trees, but before the leaves fall to the ground - That is when the view of the countryside is clad in royal scarlet and crowned with gold."

"That is very poetic..." said Cynthia rather breathlessly. The rest of what she said to William could not be heard by the others, as she and her cousin had now found a dry stump to sit on, conversing in hushed tones, some distance away from Franny.

Franny inhaled deeply and sighed. She could already picture the tree-lined path that they had taken earlier, cloaked in the same blazing colours that Cynthia's cousin described. However, a new image rose in her mind that gave her even greater pleasure. If she could quicken the pace of time, to bring Oakham Mount to its burgeoning state on an early spring morning... The grass would be soft and lush, and beaded in colourful dew. The trees would have the same beauty; decked in buds of zealous young leaves and dainty milk-white blooms, the sight of them would make one recall the nymphs of childhood myths. What sweet, delectable nectar those blossoms must yield! The scent of them would lure the birds out of their winter hiding. Invigorated, rejuvenated-sparrows, swallows, starlings, larks-all would return, singing their ode to the new season, answering each other's ditties with their own winsome arias. Perhaps there would be lovebirds too. Who knew? Even as one listened to their songs, the perfume of the newly sprung wildflowers would dance about the breeze with a lightness matched only by pixies, while the pollen of the same flowers would float through the currents of the air, capriciously notating the music of spring. All of these sights and sounds and smells would prance around one, teasing, enchanting, tingling one's senses. The elaborate red and gold of autumn may well coincide with the colours of ripe and fulfilled love, but Franny cherished spring more than any other season. Every March, she felt as though the world - her part of the world at least - was waking up to exalt nature with a renewed chorus of hallelujahs. Franny smiled. Her father would have been shocked to learn this from his daughter. Mr. Collins was the kind of man who believed a holy oratorio should only be sung in a church at Christmas.

"Oakham Mount in the full flush of spring would be more desirable a sight to see than at any other time of year," Arthur said softly, as though he had read her thoughts through the expression on her face; but this was impossible, as he had not been looking at her. His eyes were closed. He was reading from some delicious dream of his own. What did he see in his imagination? Struck by a sudden, ridiculous fancy, she too closed her eyes and wondered whether she could steal his reverie.

It was the same image of spring that she had before, but this time, instead of looking in, she became a part of the living tableau. There was the laughter of friends, the buzz of bees and dragonflies; there was her mother, with Aunt Maria and Mrs. Darcy, setting down a feast of sandwiches, scones and strawberries over the grassy field; there was Cynthia weaving a chain of daisies, and William sitting nearby, watching her nimble fingers do their work. More delighted laughter. She turned around, trying to trace its source. Her little cousins were playing, basking under the warm sun. In the vision, little Morris was tossing a ball at her, and as Franny took a step back to relieve the impact of the catch, she lost her footing. She brushed against Arthur who was already behind her, ready to break her fall.

"Franny-don't lean over too far."

The jolt brought her back. Franny trembled slightly as she opened her eyes to see nothing but the front of a wool coat and to feel nothing but Arthur's arm around her, pulling her back from the steep pinnacle of the hill. He did not immediately release her, nor did she find the sensation far from unpleasant. Franny was embarrassed though. In fact, she felt the same nervous thrill that had raced through every fibre of her body during the night of the Meryton Assembly, when Arthur had guided her through the waltz, preventing her from tripping. She had read once, in her father's book of etiquette, that a gentleman must never touch hands with a lady unless it was to help her in or out of a carriage-they must have broken the rule, too many times. That night, she had felt his soft breath brush and tickle her ear; the warmth of being drawn so close to him had been remarkably comfortable, as though some divine hand had molded them to fit. The pulsation of her heart had grown so quick that, between staying on her feet and ignoring her partner's penetrating gaze, she could scarcely catch her breath. This was why her father had labelled the waltz unacceptable, but it was rather too late, she had thought in dismay. A shock it was to Franny. The first suspicion that she esteemed Arthur above the call of their existing kinship dawned on her.

Arthur's arm was still around her. The rhythm of her own breathing coincided and converged with his, practically betraying her feelings. No, she reasoned, it must have been the beauty of the landscape, or the serenity of their surroundings-perhaps the cool, brisk air, merely playing on her feelings. Arthur had warned her before of the effects of an overwrought imagination. She turned to face her companion, hoping such an action might produce some ecclesiastic senses. A look of indifference from Arthur would bring her back to her proper, levelheaded state. But, no sooner had she lifted her eyes to meet his, Cynthia and William were forgotten. The scenery was forgotten. Was the crisp wintry air still at its tricks? Franny and Arthur were all alone. Surely as the blood flowed through their veins, the consciousness of something beyond the threshold of their summery fellowship lived on. Somewhere in the depths of their soul, gravity halted the fraction of time that held them together, pulling the space around them into a curvaceous embrace.

A lock of her hair loosened and tickled her face-Franny brushed it away, distracted, flustered. The spell broke.

Though she did not know it, her eagerness had not been unmatched. For some time, Arthur had wondered about a moment such as this, though he had never actively encouraged it to happen. The constant looks of warning from Mrs. Collins had been enough to guard him from rashness. But the untainted flush in Franny's cheeks and the artless glow in her eyes - he could not help acknowledging - flattered him as no one had ever done before. He might have been bold enough to advance their situation, had his "little French cousin" not suddenly looked away. He hesitated. He withdrew his arm and took a step back. Arthur remembered that he was unfairly taking advantage of an accidental position. He was still the son of Franny's uncle, and Mrs. Collins was still Franny's mother.

"You must be cold with only that thin cloak over your dress," Arthur said affectedly, recoiling at the thought of what he had been so close to doing. "We had better return before you catch a chill." He did not offer his arm to Franny, but instead, went to rouse Cynthia and William from their silent places. Franny stood for a moment, watching as the flash faded. The brightness in her eyes was gone, though a tinge of pink still lingered upon her cheeks.

She walked back to Longbourn with Cynthia. Franny could not trust herself alone in Arthur's company again, and though she endeavoured to adopt the levity of speech that she so often used with her half-cousin, she could not carry on long. Franny could scarcely dare to believe in what had passed. She esteemed him beyond the mere cordial affection called for by the connection of their families. She was disconcerted. A moment ago, anyone who read the look in her face must have understood her heart. Oh, where was the veil of maiden modesty that her father so often told her to maintain? Why was she not more sensible, more practical, more detached like her mother? Arthur was suddenly so withdrawn and distant - He was as embarrassed as she was, perhaps. He had meant nothing by his gesture but brotherly concern for her safety - She had been rather close to losing her footing - That she should imagine anything beyond that brief moment that they shared - Well, she must not! She must have frightened him with the unwitting revelation of her clumsy, girlish affections - She must not think in this strain again if she valued his friendship - Yet if there was a chance... She must let his words and actions dictate her feelings.

Several days later, an informal recital at Netherfield, given by Mr. Darcy's acquaintance, renowned London pianist Sir Edgar Macmillan, threw the youths into each other's company once more. Though the opus ninety sonata was her favourite amongst the solo works of Beethoven, and though Franny tried to concentrate on Sir Edgar's fine performance of it, she could not help being conscious of Arthur's presence beside her.

"E minor," he said during a break between the performance. "What does the E stand for?"

"The key," she answered shortly. "The sonata is written in the key of E minor."

"Oh, I do know that. But why 'E', do you think?"

"Because it just is."

"No, because 'E' is for earnestness. Can you not see Master Beethoven in all the culmination of fiery tempers, frustrated wills, and fervent love, scribbling away at the harmonies, in front of a pianoforte that only begins to convey the depths of his passion?"

Before Franny had a chance to reply, her mother had leant forward to tell them that Sir Edgar was about to begin the Tempest, and given Arthur such a look to accompany that warning, that they were prevented them from pursuing his theme.

As soon as they had returned to Longbourn that evening, Mrs. Collins lost no time speaking privately with Franny. The good woman meant to express no ill will-only to put her daughter on her guard by reminding Franny of her promise. "Arthur is a changeable young man," said Mrs. Collins, by way of pressing her daughter's renewed assurance. "You may not think it possible that a man of his fortunes should meet with my objections, but so it is. His spirit is too lively to settle down. One cannot expect such a young man to take anyone or anything seriously."

"Then I only wonder that you did not prevent our acquaintance in the first place," Franny could not help saying, as she tried to hold her temper. She did not like her mother reminding her so pointedly of her weakness. "If Arthur is such a-a rogue, by your estimation, why have you not put a stop to our friendship?"

"He is your uncle's son. Family relations entitle one to be acquainted with one's cousin. It would have been a scandalous insult to Mr. Somerset, to cut his own son from our family, would it not?"

Franny remembered the conversation that she had overheard between the curate Mr. King and Mr. King's aunt. "Why do you think that Arthur is not a serious man? You have named no names, given no particulars-"

"I did not intend to, but as you are so eager to know all, I will enlighten you. When he was still at Oxford, he became engaged to a young lady, who, without a doubt, had a taste for his fortune. The lady, though, had another engagement to keep as well, and when Arthur found out, he promptly sundered all ties he had with her. Since then, as Maria often laments to me, he has felt little or nothing for his lady acquaintances-despite what he may show in public. He has never formed a serious attachment since his broken engagement."

"I am not surprised that he has not," said Franny solemnly. "Only think of Shakespeare's heroes. Many suffer long before they find their true beloved. The Duke of Illyria-"

"That is fiction," said Mrs. Collins, equally gravely. "You must not replace reality with fiction, Franny. You are entirely too absorbed in dreams. I have told you, out of good faith, all that gives me cause for concern. I will not have you throw them back at me as though they were worth less than your plays and novels. Take heed of what I have said. I shall be very sorry to see you ignore my best intentions, and lose yourself upon a man who means only to trifle with your feelings, notwithstanding his ties with our family. Yes-he means only to trifle with you. You are a good little cousin to him, for you flatter him every time you show your eagerness to be in his company. Each time you exchange pleasantries, you flatter him again. But a young man without steadiness and occupation-how long must that go on before he tires of it? He will be busy seeking new diversions before you have time to pass a rational thought through your mind. And let us suppose, hypothetically, that at present his intentions are honourable: That does not erase his faults. You may be as willful as you like, but do not be blind to his defects. If you choose to know as little as possible about your future partner, you will be in for much regret, as marriage is for life."

Mrs. Collins ended her speech with such gravity that the force of her words hit Franny fully. Her mother was not one to tell falsehoods. Her seriousness could only reinforce the earnestness of her communication. Franny wondered if her mother spoke strongly because she had her own regrets.

The weather for the next several days was as dismal as Franny's feelings. There was no question of walking out of doors, for the constant threat of a winter storm loomed over them with each passing grey cloud. When the sky was sufficiently clear again one day, Mrs. Collins proposed a visit to her mother and sister at the lodge. Franny could find no excuse to refuse, though she dreaded seeing Arthur.

He was not present.

"Is it not dreadful, the news that we are hearing from Lancashire?" Mrs. Somerset asked in the middle of tea. "I think it is miserable, and I have been worried about telling Augustus all the details that we have received thus far. He is confined to his bed today with the most dreadful head cold, and I had not the heart to tell him everything."

"What is the news?" asked Mrs. Collins, taking a sip of the tea. "It is not concerning the mill, is it? What has happened?"

Mrs. Somerset's eyes grew round. "Charlotte, did you not hear? Did not Arthur come round to tell you all?"

At the mention of Arthur's name, Franny looked up from the murky liquid in her cup and stared at her aunt.

"Oh dear, I thought he left at such an early hour this morning so that he could make his round of farewells," said Mrs. Somerset, half to herself. "There was a fire up in Blackburn last night, and Augustus was obliged to go there today to observe the damages. Arthur went instead, in his place. He left at seven this morning without eating anything-early even for a journey to Lancashire-and I naturally assumed that he must have gone first to Longbourn, to say goodbye."

"Longbourn received no callers, as far as we knew," answered Mrs. Collins, glancing over at her daughter. "I am sure that Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Bennet would have informed us of that. And Mr. Collins himself mentioned nothing of the matter."

"Dear me," exclaimed Mrs. Somerset, "Then Arthur has left in a great hurry. It sounds to me like the fire was a serious thing, for what else would have merited this haste? I should be very sorry if anyone were hurt. I would hardly know how to break the news to Augustus. He had given me permission to answer the express in his place, so I gave him a general impression of the missive. Should the fire be of greater seriousness-"

"I am certain that it could not be so," Mrs. Collins assured her sister immediately. "I trust that it could not have done an immense damage, and even if it should have, surely the chance of workers being injured cannot be very great, since all the workers should be home at night."

"Oh, I do hope so," said Mrs. Somerset.

The two women spoke some more on the mill before Mrs. Collins reverted to other subjects. Mrs. Somerset seemed eager to talk, and when their mother, Lady Lucas, came to join them, the attention of the three women were steadily engaged in their conversation. Franny said very little throughout the lengthy visit, and listened still less.

"You were quiet during most of the visit," Mrs. Collins could not help remarking as they returned to Longbourn. Franny's muteness at Lucas Lodge worried her. Mrs. Collins placed a hand over her child's forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, you do not have a fever-that is what I know. Is something troubling you? Did you not sleep well last night?"

The obvious omission of Arthur's name in their conversation struck Franny. In her mind, it only confirmed that her mother's thoughts on the matter had not changed. She shook her head and forced herself to smile. "I am quite well. You worry too much."

"It is only for your sake that I think so much of your health," said Mrs. Collins. "I hope you have not caught a cold. The weather the last several days have been dreary. You know your uncle has a cold, and he is usually so careful to dress warmly and to eat well."

"I was thinking of the Blackburn mill," said Franny, though that was half the truth. However, Mrs. Collins seemed to accept it as an explanation.

Franny was now quite determined to forget Arthur's attentiveness at the recital, and to forget the day on Oakham Mount. It was clear to her that Arthur had only been trifling with her. Just as she had suspected, her cousin had meant nothing by his looks and gallantry. She was young, plain and foolish, without a penny to her name. He, on the other hand, was such a lively, vivacious man-she could not expect any commitment of thought or mind from him, and she could not blame Arthur for that. What else would serve to explain his hasty exit from Hertfordshire? Had he acted like her hero, had he even the merest consideration for her, beyond what he felt for her as a friend-a cousin-a brother-then he would have come and bid them a proper farewell. But he had not. He chose to leave abruptly, without a word or sign. Therefore, he must feel nothing. The Blackburn fire seemed almost too convenient. Had Aunt Maria said nothing of the express, Franny would have thought that the fire itself was a fiction. Franny was decided. She would try to forget Aunt Maria's stepson.

Chapter 12

Winter closed, and the Collinses left Hertfordshire. Franny's farewells to Longbourn, the only home that she had ever loved so intensely, were heavy. Mr. Bennet tried to make her laugh, and indeed, Franny knew how silly it was to cry over a place that she might one day come back to, but such a knowledge did not relieve her spirit. She loved Mr. Bennet as though he had been her grandfather, and she had even learned to tolerate Mrs. Bennet's babbling. The Somersets, naturally, had long left. The worst element of the Collinses' departure was that even Mrs. Bennet cried and could not put away her damp handkerchief.

"You won't let Mrs. Bennet dampen your mood, will you?" Mr. Bennet asked Franny in jest. "You are not going to be Miss Ninny now, are you?" With a wry smile, he thrust a parcel into her hands and nodded at her as though he was passing a secret onto her. Franny looked in puzzlement at him. Mr. Bennet nodded again. "Go on," he instructed her, "Open it."

Franny untied the string and tore the paper. A simple, leather bound book was in her hands; within its white pages were lines and lines of neat writing-the Tales of Longbourn transcribed by Mr. Bennet's own hand. She looked up, just in time to see Mr. Bennet brush away a suspicious dampness from the corners of his eyes. Not knowing what to say, Franny threw her arms around him and thanked him heartily.

"Now, now," said Mr. Bennet with awkwardness, "No more of this. You had better save your energy for the journey home. I only give you this so that you have something to do on your way back to Kent."

"But how can I take something so precious?" Franny asked softly. "I am overwhelmed-I am-You have spent so many hours, so many years writing this, Sir. How can you give this all away to a girl who does not live at Longbourn?"

Mr. Bennet smiled. "I am tired, Franny. I have done my part. I want you to finish writing it. Longbourn is as much your home as it is mine. One day, perhaps, you, too, will live here. Until then, make this volume yours. The history of the Bennets and the Collins has long been intertwined. One day, when you come back, you will bring this volume with you, and show me what additions you have made-and then the Tales of Longbourn shall be complete. Swear on it." And so, before the Collinses set off, Mr. Bennet held her to her promise.

To be back at Hunsford after hours of travel was something of an experience for Franny. She kept on thinking about the Bingleys and the Darcys, about Mr. Bennet and his gift, and about Arthur. Franny wondered whether he was still in Blackburn, and whether she would ever see him again. Certainly, there would be her correspondence with Cynthia; but was that good enough? It was like stepping out of a beautiful dream, and into the reality of a reluctant existence. The events that had taken place at Longbourn had seemed too fantastic-

As she meditated over this again, she sank down into her own familiar bed. Ah, at least there was a comfort in being home. Here she would forget her past foolishness. She would not allow herself to be carried away as she had been before. If there was nothing to recommend her, then she would at least learn to acquire some level-headedness. A sweetness in the air pervaded her thoughts, and she looked around. There were sprays of dried lavender strewn across her pillows and the rest of her furniture. A vase of the same sat on her little table. Under the vase, there lay a note. Franny took it, read it, and smiled. The vase and flowers were part of a small gift from Mrs. Bertram, the wife of the clergyman who had been so kind as to take her father's place at church while the Collinses had been away. Franny wondered how Mrs. Bertram knew that she liked lavenders.

Downstairs, she found her mother chatting with Mrs. Bertram in the sitting room. Mrs. Bertram, with a shawl wrapped lightly around her, and a simple white cap placed over her pale brown curls, smiled as she saw Franny enter. Franny felt warm all over. It was a shame that she had not acquainted herself with Mrs. Bertram-her mother told her that she and Mrs. Bertram shared the same Christian name-and looking at Mrs. Bertram, Franny felt certain of the sympathetic, kindly temper of the woman. Mrs. Bertram seemed to be one of the rare sorts who had a natural warmth and understanding, though she perhaps spoke little.

"Here you are, Franny," said Mrs. Collins. "Come in and join us. This is Mrs. Bertram. She has been very considerate in tending to the business around the parsonage while we were away. She has been taking care of everything over the winter."

Franny greeted Mrs. Bertram shyly before taking a seat beside her mother.

"I have invited the Bertrams to remain with us for the night, and to set off on their way in the morning," said Mrs. Collins hospitably. "It is the only way I can think of showing my gratitude to all that you have done to this place, for the Bertrams would not stay another week."

Mrs. Bertram smiled. "You are all politeness, Mrs. Collins, but as I have said earlier, I assure you, it was my pleasure indeed to be of some service. My husband and I have always had an inclination to see Kent, and the proximity to Tunbridge Wells has been most agreeable to my husband's plans, but now, we must return to Northampton. We have all enjoyed our little adventure. It may be the last holiday in which I have all my children with me."

"The last holiday?" inquired Mrs. Collins. "Your children are still young, are they not? Are you planning to send them off to school?"

"Yes, but my eldest had the greatest desire to join the navy," replied Mrs. Bertram. "For two years, he has been begging his father to let him enter the naval academy. His father tells him to wait until he is thirteen, and that is how old my little Edmund will be next summer. I am afraid my son will not wish for his father to retract his words; nor is my husband of the sort to break promises."

"I think I can understand something of that," agreed Mrs. Collins. "But do you never worry about the dangers at sea?"

Mrs. Bertram looked grave for a moment. "Endlessly," she said emphatically. "I will never cease to worry for our men at sea. It is because I have a brother, a most beloved brother, in the Royal Navy, that I reluctantly consent to the same career for my eldest. You see, my son adores his uncle, and wishes to partake in his adventures. His uncle and his uncle's friends passed through in the autumn, on their way to Deal, and Edmund could not have enough of his tales."

"Your brother must be of the higher ranks," said Mrs. Collins.

"He was lately made an admiral." Mrs. Bertram paused before continuing. "You must not think that I am willing to serve my children up to one of the harshest careers in the country because my brother revels in it. I believe that if every mother had their way, they would none of them need to part with their children. My sons are fortunate, in that they are not sent off by necessity as their uncle was, but by their own ambition. As a mother, how can I dare to contradict the fact that our children need to try their own sails?"

"I was not disapproving your decision at all," said Mrs. Collins a little awkwardly. "I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Bertram. I am sure that had my daughter been a boy, she would have been anxious to be a part of the Royal Navy as well. Then, I would have shared your sentiments point for point."

Mrs. Bertram smiled at this. Turning to Franny, she asked after Franny's interests and what Franny liked to read. This rather surprised Franny, because very often, the first question asked of her was her age, followed by whether she played the pianoforte or not. Franny named some titles to Mrs. Bertram, and the latter nodded.

"So, you indeed have a bit of the sea spirit in you, Miss Collins," said Mrs. Bertram laughingly. "Your mother was right in naming what your fortune might have been had you been a boy."

"I do not know whether I should truly like joining the navy," admitted Franny. "It was all my own fancies. I understand the hardships may not be to my tastes, but...I think I would enjoy an adventure."

"But not one like Trafalgar," said Mrs. Collins. "That would have put me into a dozen worries."

Mrs. Bertram smiled at both of them. "None of us would wish for it." She turned once more to Mrs. Collins' daughter. "But Franny, do not give much more thought to being born into a situation that meets not your greatest dreams; you have many fortunes now of which to be proud." Unlike Lady Catherine de Bourgh, there was nothing impudent in Mrs. Bertram's words; when she meant kindness, Mrs. Bertram meant kindness. She gave her advice in such a friendly, considerate way that Franny could not at all mind her counsel. The gentle woman proved to be delightful company. She shared so many of the same tastes that when her husband and children, and Mr. Collins, stepped in to join them, Franny was a little disappointed that the intimacy of their conversation had to end.

All through supper, and through the rest of the night, Mrs. Bertram drew Franny into discussions on all sorts of things that Franny loved. Nothing could have inspired her more than to be in Mrs. Bertram's company. Mrs. Bertram's honourable, gracious, and perceptive disposition was exactly as Franny wished her own character to be. She won admiration without seeking attention to herself. She never spoke to bring eyes and ears upon her, but rather, to bring attention away from herself so that others might have a chance to bring forth the best of themselves. Hear and there, when she allowed herself to voice an opinion, she did it not boisterously, but amicably, and not rigidly, but fairly. How many years, how many events had passed before Mrs. Bertram's character became thus formed? Or was it inborn, like an instinct of nature, never to be attained by others through striving? How did a woman win such respect without exerting to win the fawning attention of others? Franny believed that had she half of Mrs. Bertram's goodness, she would be quite happy with herself. When the night ended, Franny was reluctant to retire, knowing that the Bertrams would be gone the next day.

The Bertrams gave their farewells and were gone.

Franny's father collapsed into the sofa and sighed loudly. "An Englishman's home is his castle," he declared. "Ah! I think I can eat an entire roast leg of mutton. Are there any of that left in the pantry, my dear Charlotte?"

"I would imagine not," answered Mrs. Collins calmly. "We could not afford to be lean while we had visitors, and we have just had breakfast."

"Yes, yes, I had quite forgotten." Mr. Collins sighed. "How quickly a month passes by. Oh dear, I suppose we will all be invited to dine at Rosings this evening, or the next. Have we anything suitable to present to her ladyship?"

"Presentable?" repeated Mrs. Collins.

"Yes, something that I might present to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She is very precise in dealing with all matters, you know, and I do not think we can afford to slight her in any way by not presenting her with something from our little holiday. She likes little presents, you know, and all these last two hours, I have been composing little compliments that I can pay to her when next we visit Rosings. Flattery is always so precisely well received that I can say nothing against the art. Her ladyship takes compliments so well, and she has been exceedingly patient with our absence after all."

"I heard from Cook that Lady Catherine was very well pleased with the Bertrams' service. Cook mentioned how well done Mr. Bertram's sermons were."

Mr. Collins was surprised. "Yes, of course, that may be, but that is all the more reason why we must impress her ladyship with our return. She has such exacting notions of how things ought to be. Franny, why do you not go and send a piece of the fruitcake that Mrs. Bennet had us bring home. It would not be something that Lady Catherine is accustomed to taking, but it will please her to know that we are thinking of her. Better yet, Franny, take the entire thing and not a portion of it. I would not want her to think that we were mincing our gratitude."

Franny silently obeyed and went to the pantry to retrieve the object in question. She grimaced a bit. She never liked fruitcakes-entirely too sweet and rich-and aged!- and she sincerely hoped that Lady Catherine would take the entire thing. Wrapping herself in a shawl and throwing a bonnet over her head, she clutched the repulsive thing in her hands and trudged across the park that separated the parsonage from Rosings. Once there, Lady Catherine made her stay for above an hour, forcing a generous piece of the same cake upon her, and commanding her to describe her entire sojourn at Longbourn. Her ladyship nodded and shook her head at certain parts, interjecting the communication with a few observations of her own.

"Yes, that room," she said in customary disdain, when Franny described the sitting room to her. "I remember the hideous wallpaper. I had never seen such appalling wallpaper in a gentleman's house. And it was a most inconvenient sitting room in my opinion - Was it not facing due west? If one should sit there at sunset, how very comfortless it should be. I was relieved that at least one never to sat there after dinner."

"Oh, but we did sit there after meals, all the time," Franny corrected her. "It was not inconvenient at all. It was very neat and cozy, and offered quite as much comfort as our sitting room at the parsonage. Would you not have liked to watch the sun set?"

"I should think not," said Lady Catherine after a deep hrrumph. "I prefer to not be disturbed by the sun."

"Well, I suppose one's sunset may well be another person's night."

"I have seen the condition of the furniture," said Lady Catherine, paying no heed to Franny's insolence, "I have to say it did not please me at all to sit on one of those chairs. They were much too common."

Having heard enough of these criticisms against the comfortable sitting room, Franny went on to describe the beauty of the garden. There she expressed how well she had liked the place, even though it had been autumn when she first went there, and winter when she had left.

"That little brush of wilderness?" grunted Lady Catherine. "It must have been much improved then, since I last saw it. At that time, it had not struck me at all as anything charming."

"But it is a pretty refuge, Lady Catherine," Franny objected. "Even in the winter, it is a beautiful garden. There is nothing false or contrived or unpleasant about it."

"So you will say. I have always felt that you had little taste for good landscaping. It is a shame that Mr. Repton had not an heir to carry on his projects properly. But I suppose an appropriate vision of the ideal English garden is something of a rarity. It is a taste so refined that few can boast of having it, save for perhaps one or two individuals whom I know intimately. Longbourn does not seem to have such a cultured mistress."

Franny would have liked to ask impertinently when was the last time that Lady Catherine had ever set foot on Longbourn. She could not help doubting that her ladyship had never really seen Longbourn. It all seemed too fantastic that Lady Catherine should leave Rosings for any purpose. Unless it had been a grave, serious, pressing matter, Lady Catherine would have no wish to enter Hertfordshire.

"And were my nephew Darcy and his children there?" asked Lady Catherine.

"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy as well as their children stayed at Netherfield with the Bingleys."

Lady Catherine was silent. "It is all very vexing," she said at last, "That they should choose to spend their Christmas there instead of here in Kent."

It struck Franny that perhaps Lady Catherine had spent the entire holiday alone in the great house. "Did General Fitzwilliam not come?" she asked. "Nor Miss Anne?"

"My nephew had his duties to attend to. And do not mention Anne to me. I will never forgive her for marrying a lowly sailor without consulting me." Lady Catherine's voice as she said this was hard, but not the look in her eyes. Poor lady, thought Franny. Too proud to reveal her emotions.

Franny missed her Aunt Anne a great deal, and would have liked to say so, but she also knew how it would be if she expressed her feelings for her doting friend. It had been long since Franny last saw or heard from Aunt Anne. Not since her last birthday, had the former Anne de Bourgh returned to Rosings. Franny wondered what she was doing now. Could she be travelling around the country with her husband, as she had often said she would? And Franny wondered with some sorrow whether Aunt Anne remembered her.

In front of a little cottage, in the Kent village of Hunsford, a woman of twenty or one-and-twenty struggled to carry the firewood that rested in a messy heap upon her doorstep. She was not an ugly woman by nature, though in nature, her husband sometimes said she was. On her best days, she had a lovely command of her sweet voice, and a talent for animating her very regular, very pretty features. Her school days had been spent studying how best to exploit her charms to the desire of her gentleman friends, and for the most part, she had met with relative success. Thus, how she managed to land herself in her present situation was far beyond her comprehension. She had always known that wedlock to a commoner was not for her, and yet she had done just that. Blindness-that was all it was. She had been blinded by the red coat, and thought the rest of her life would revolve around countless balls and societies with fellow wives of officers. Unfortunately, her husband failed her in that expectation. He thought he might settle on a farm and provide a stable home for his wife and future children. She had never learned to love infants; nor could she now. She disliked the inconveniences of motherhood. She could not understand how anyone should find those noisy, malodorous products of deceiving ecstasy and nine months' pain so lovely. Frankly, babies were intolerable and troublesome. The cry of her own infant trailed out into the cool spring air, and the woman grimaced. Violently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Mrs. John Denny cursed under her breath. Oh, that she had to live and bear this subsistence! She would gladly exchange her present situation with any lady willing, even with some awkward young woman like Miss Frances Collins. After all, to be the daughter of a gentleman with property must be something. Then she would never have to beg for sympathy from Miss Collins by speaking as though she had the misfortune of not receiving a proper education. Just then, a gig drove up the path leading to the Dennys' cottage, the noise of which broke her trance. The riders stopped to greet her.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Denny," said the woman who stepped down. She had a calmness about her even as she took in the sight of the decrepit cottage.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Bets Denny returned a little suspiciously. She knew that the pair was not the couple that had been staying at the parsonage, and there was an element of exoticism in the visitors. But she suspected that there was something she ought to recognize in the lady. Bets wiped her hands on her apron and looked from the lady, to the gentleman, and back to the lady again. The woman certainly knew her name. "Can I help you with anything? Are you looking for an establishment?"

"Not exactly... We - my husband and I - were driving through the countryside. In a sense, we are new to these parts...at this time. We were searching for a place-"

"To stay?" Bets Denny already saw images of taking in lodgers. Yes, the prospect of earning a little money on the side of her husband's meagre income was something to look well upon. "I have two rooms which can suit-"

"Oh, I am not looking for lodgings."

"How may I be at your service then, ma'am?"

"Can you tell me this: How was the harvest in the fall?" asked the lady pleasantly.

Mrs. Denny blinked. "Quite well. Better than the last."

"Do you think you can tell us whether there have been any changes to the village since last summer?"

"Changes?" repeated Mrs. Denny, wrinkling her brow. "The Collinses left the parsonage-"

"They did?" the lady interjected with some surprise.

"But they have just returned. They were visiting an important relation in another county."

"I see," said the lady. "But have there been any substantial changes? Any changes that would make Hunsford...and Rosings...quite different from what they were before?"

Mrs. Denny wondered what the woman was alluding to. She shook her head. "I do not think there have been any."

"In that case, do not let us hold you from your duties," said the lady, applying a handkerchief to her nose. "We shall see you again by and by." She tucked a five-pound note into Mrs. Denny's hand, leaving the latter to stare at the money in wonder. Without another word, the pair took their leave of Mrs. Denny and went on their way.

After that puzzling episode, Mrs. Denny found herself thinking about the gentleman and the lady repeatedly. There was something very familiar in the lady's demeanor, she was certain. Was it in her manner of dress? No, certainly not. Many grand ladies dressed as the woman was dressed. Perhaps her hair? Or her face? Yes, it was her face, and her tiny stature. Mrs. Denny's husband would not listen to her ramblings.

"I'm tired of hearing you speak of them. They're strangers. Strangers are always coming and going," said Mr. Denny, busy playing with the baby.

"Yes, you said the same thing about your brother's friends, but they were not like your brother's friends. When Wellington and his friends came, none of them were strangers to us except for one. And the other was Mrs. Bertram's brother."

"That proves that it is a small world after all," replied Mr. Denny lazily.

Mrs. Denny was vexed by her husband's indifference. "I do not see how you can bear it all so cheerfully," she scolded him. "The lady and the gentleman-they could be very important people. The lady, as I have said, gave me five pounds without my asking. They must have very good connections about them. You ought to find out some way to befriend them, John, as soon as you find out their name."

"And I say you had better do the job if you are so eager for their attention," returned Mr. Denny impatiently. "I have had enough, befriending all those strangers that you wanted me to befriend. If they are at all like the Bertrams, then I would rather not."

"You were not patient with the Bertrams, that was all."

"Yes, but the Bertrams were not like the Collinses. Mr. Bertram had no ear for me, I tell you, and Mrs. Bertram was not the simpleton you said she was."

Mrs. Denny pouted and was silent for a moment as she watched her husband and her baby play. "Perhaps, John, you should have gone into the navy with your brother."

"Do you not remember? I suffer from seasickness!"

"I think blue would have suited you.-You are always blue in the face when you are upset." Mrs. Denny waited for a response to this, but none came. "Come off it, John," she tried again. "Can't you be a little more agreeable and pleasing like Wellington?"

Mr. Denny stared at his wife in disbelief and anger. "It seems to me at times," he said slowly, "That you much prefer my brother to me."

"If that is what you feel, than I can have nothing further to say. But I married you, did I not, and kept our vows?"

"Yes, and you ought to remember them when Wellington next comes to visit." In great annoyance, John Denny retreated to his corner to smoke a pipe.

Although she was exasperated by this exchange, Mrs. Denny found herself suddenly remembering who the lady was. Anger and disappointment always did that for her. She could recall a dozen more names when her head was clouded with vexation than when her head was clear as water. The lady's face, the lady's tiny stature, her hushed tone of politeness. Yes, the more Mrs. Denny thought about it, the more she was convinced. The fashionable woman could be no other lady than the former Miss de Bourgh of Rosings Park....

Chapter 13

The first months back in Hunsford came and went. Whenever Franny felt lonely, she pulled out Mr. Bennet's book and read it, familiarizing herself with the Bennets' genealogy, wondering what happened to the other lines of the family, and who was to be her father's heir. It was the stuff of any great mystery and Franny dearly loved a good mystery. However, she need not look for adventures, for adventure had managed to find her. Miss Anne de Bourgh, now wife of Captain James Hunte, had returned to Rosings Park. Her husband was a retired naval officer with an abundant supply of stories. Aunt Anne herself was not without tales to relate to Franny.

At first, everyone in the village wondered how the indomitable Lady Catherine de Bourgh would react to her daughter's return. Certainly, there had been bitterness when Miss de Bourgh married without her mother's consent, but after being so long without her child (and Lady Catherine, contrary to popular belief, did in earnest love her daughter), her ladyship's mind was not unbendable. The reunion between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Mrs. Hunte was not as hostile as one would have expected. The former bore it well, considering the circumstances. She acknowledged that the late Sir Lewis had left Rosings Park to their daughter by right; yet not without a struggle did Lady Catherine relinquish all control over her daughter's life. (Perhaps Anne herself exerted threats of another exile in order to secure her mother's acceptance-but of that let nothing more be said.) In exchange for Lady Catherine's continued distribution of advice, her ladyship was obliged to bestow her blessing on her daughter's marriage, so that from that day forth, Captain Hunte's permanence was secured at Rosings Park.

People in the village liked him. He was his wife's senior in years, yet more youthful at heart. Though he was not the dashing man that many expected, his nature was generally good, and his character unblemished. In his own way, he added to Rosings Park a liveliness that had never been there before. He was well mannered without pretense; even Lady Catherine had to admit that her son-in-law was not as uncouth as she had predicted. A scar that ran from under his left ear lobe down to his chin, and a slight limp in his right leg, only added to his character and endeared him to all. Like Mrs. Hunte, the captain was endowed with such patience, parental instincts and good humour that he treated Franny as though she was his daughter. Had Franny not been under the watchful guardianship of her mother and father, the Huntes would have quite spoiled her.

Captain Hunte was the perfect sort of hero, Franny wrote in a letter to Cynthia. She could think of no one who did so much good to her kind Aunt Anne. And the Huntes were such an affectionate couple! Kent seemed so improved, Lady Catherine so tolerable, and the dinners at Rosings Park so entertaining! The sudden variation in life was devastatingly agreeable. In another epistle to Cynthia, Franny narrated the adventures of Captain Hunte-how he had been aboard the Medea when it sailed to protect an English port in the Mediterranean from French pirates.

"What an unusual name for a ship," Franny once remarked to Captain Hunte. "Was it really called the Medea? Would it not have been ill fortune to name it after the antagonist of a tragedy?"

"She was a good ship, in spite of her name," Captain Hunte assured her. "One could not have found a better ship, nor one so willing to take a little injury and still survive intact after a battle of defences. A name means nothing. I once knew of a great ship called Jiminy Star. She sank on her maiden voyage round the Cape of Good Hope. Now you see? A name is nothing."

Mrs. Bets Denny was pleased to find Miss Collins return to Kent without the company of the Somersets. To be sure, Franny did mention the Somersets in relation to her holiday in Hertfordshire, but of anything else, there was little to learn. Mrs. Denny knew that Franny's cousin Arthur was gone, sufficiently out of his cousin's sight, and hopefully out of mind. Bets Denny had a vision of her own, and a vague design on how to bring her vision about. Arthur Somerset would have been in the way.

"I am glad to see that your circumstances are so much improved," Franny said after handing Mrs. Denny a basket of goods. "I wish you could have been in Hertfordshire too. You would have enjoyed the journey very much. I met a dear old friend there."

"A old friend?" asked Mrs. Denny uncertainly. When Franny told her about Miss Cynthia Bingley, she sighed inwardly in relief, glad to hear that it was not anyone influential. "Miss Bingley sounds like a wonderful lady," Mrs. Denny said at last. "She is likely a nice girl."

"She is a sweet girl; and very sympathetic. I do not think she could ever cause harm against anyone. She has so much joy around her always. We keep a regular correspondence so that we need not miss one another too much. I will be inviting her to come to Hunsford some time in the summer."

Mrs. Denny dabbed expertly at a dampness in her eyes. "I hope my company does not disappoint you, Miss Collins." There was a touch of anguish in her tone.

"Oh, do not say that!" said Franny, not wishing to rouse Mrs. Denny's jealousy. "You make me sound quite ungrateful. No, I do not tell you about Cynthia in the hopes of offending you, Mrs. Denny. I had no intentions of doing that. I had only thought of sharing my joy with you. But enough. I'll say no more..."

"Do not apologize on account of me," returned the woman, pressing a hand to her bosom. "I understand my own connections are not-"

"Oh!" exclaimed Franny again. Think it wise to change the subject, she remarked on the nice changes that had been wrought on the Dennys' cottage.

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