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.
