He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however

suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his

brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St

Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in

the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half

a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,

with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an

extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.

Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for

he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the

encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were

gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.

It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the

other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his

declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.

A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.

Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually

withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the

negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a

professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it

a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered

and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.

Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw

herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement

with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no

hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain

profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the

profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to

think of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off

by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a

state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not

be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from

one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be

prevented.

Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession;

but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But

he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour,

he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that

would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew

he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth,

and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been

enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His

sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on

her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a

dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong.

Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to

imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light.




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