It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment. 

It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment.

It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment.

It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment. 

It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment.

It is a truth, not perhaps universally acknowledged, though it ought to be, that in every small society there resides at least one family persuaded of its own moderation, while displaying, in the conduct of daily life, the most elaborate species of vanity. In the village of Ashmore, where the lanes were clean, the hedgerows neat, and the opinions of the inhabitants more regularly trimmed than either, this distinction belonged, by common consent and private contradiction, to the household of Mr. and Mrs. Linton. Their house stood a little apart from the High Street, sufficiently removed for dignity, yet near enough for the conveniences of observation; and Mrs. Linton, who thought herself formed for retirement, had the happiest talent in the world for discovering every event from her drawing-room window. She possessed two daughters, the elder sensible enough to be occasionally tiresome, the younger lively enough to be frequently indiscreet, and both had been brought up with that mixture of gentility and economy which teaches young women to despise vulgar ambition while secretly trembling lest no advantageous ambition should ever be directed toward themselves. Mr. Linton, a man of mild understanding and excellent temper, had long since yielded the government of the house to his wife, not from weakness, as she declared when it suited her to praise him, but from philosophy, as he himself sometimes believed when denied the smaller comforts of independence.

Miss Eleanor Linton, at four-and-twenty, had so much composure in her manners and so little pretension in her speech, that many people, who only know how to admire noise, called her cold. Yet Eleanor was neither cold nor indifferent; she only thought before she felt at liberty to speak, and this prudent habit, though of immense value to its possessor, rarely contributes to immediate popularity. Her sister Clara, who had just completed her nineteenth year, possessed every advantage which quick spirits, bright eyes, and a most unresisting disposition toward admiration could bestow. She laughed with ease, listened with delight, and repented with sincerity, a sequence which made her charming to others and occasionally alarming to those who loved her best. When, therefore, it was reported that Hartley Lodge, empty since the death of old Sir Matthew Vane, had been taken for the spring and summer by a gentleman of considerable fortune, accompanied by his widowed sister and an unmarried friend, the intelligence spread through Ashmore with the rapidity and solemn importance which always attend such revolutions. Mrs. Linton received it with becoming calm for nearly seven minutes, after which she rang for tea, sent Clara to inquire of the milliner’s wife whether anything further were known, and observed to Eleanor that she had no taste for new acquaintance, but could not help fearing that strangers, if left to inferior guidance, might form an unfortunate estimate of the neighbourhood.

The gentleman in question proved to be Mr. Edmund Fairfax, a man of eight-and-twenty, with an estate in the north, a thoughtful countenance, and that quiet civility which is frequently mistaken, by the vain and the shallow, for encouragement. He was attended by his sister, Mrs. Dalton, cheerful, well-bred, and benevolent, and by Mr. Henry Verner, whose ready address and smiling confidence recommended him, from the first evening, to every person who valued ease above judgment. At the first assembly after their arrival, Mr. Fairfax danced twice with Clara, once from inclination and once from accident, and spoke to Eleanor on the state of the roads, a subject which she improved beyond expectation by answering with intelligence. Mr. Verner danced wherever a place was open, praised everybody within hearing of someone else, and had, before the evening concluded, convinced half the mothers present that he admired their daughters, and half the daughters that he understood them uniquely. Clara came home enchanted by his vivacity, amused by Mr. Fairfax’s reserve, and wholly certain that Hartley Lodge would rescue the summer from dullness; Eleanor, who had observed a greater distinction in the attentions paid than Clara had perceived, was less eager in her conclusions, though not less interested in the newcomers. Mrs. Linton, having determined that Mrs. Dalton was an agreeable woman and Mr. Fairfax a desirable establishment, congratulated herself on having always thought Ashmore capable of attracting superior society.

What followed, in the course of six weeks, was precisely such a confusion of dinners, walks, accidental meetings, intentional calls, and misconstrued silences as may be expected whenever vanity, affection, and conjecture are permitted to dine together. Clara, delighted by Mr. Verner’s gallantry, grew every day more disposed to interpret his attentions into constancy, though he bestowed the same species of admiration on every agreeable woman within ten miles. Eleanor, seeing both his vanity and her sister’s danger, endeavoured to caution without wounding, but advice from a prudent sister is rarely welcome where folly arrives in a more flattering form. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairfax, who had seemed at first almost austere, began, by slow degrees, to show that beneath his reserve there existed a mind both feeling and exact, not quick to display itself, but more pleasing the longer it was known. He spoke seldom in company, but always to the purpose; judged others with fairness; and seemed, in Eleanor’s presence, less occupied by restraint than by a desire not to say too much. She, who had no vanity to assure her of triumph and too much sincerity to seek one, was gradually surprised into esteem before she suspected she could be an object of preference. Mrs. Dalton, whose penetration had all the sweetness of good nature, perceived the growing attachment with satisfaction, but said nothing; for there are some women so excellent as to understand that happiness is best assisted by kindness, not management. The crisis came, as such things often do, through the indiscretion of one person and the integrity of another. Mr. Verner, after leading Clara to expect what he had never seriously intended, accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight elsewhere and, within days, was reported engaged to a young lady with twenty thousand pounds. Clara’s mortification was severe, because her feelings had been sincere, though her judgment had been weak; and Eleanor’s distress for her sister was increased by the necessity of witnessing her mother’s alternate indignation against perfidy and resentment against disappointment.

It was during this season of domestic discomfort that Mr. Fairfax distinguished himself most sensibly in Eleanor’s regard, not by professions, of which he made none, but by the delicacy with which he avoided intrusion, while never appearing indifferent to the sufferings of the family. He showed Clara a degree of respectful compassion that restored her self-command without humiliating her; he treated Mrs. Linton’s agitations with patient civility; and he found, in short conversations with Eleanor, opportunities of expressing that steadiness of principle which gives dignity to affection. At length, on an evening when the heat had driven the household into the garden and Clara, now calmer and wiser, had wandered with Mrs. Dalton toward the orchard, Mr. Fairfax asked Eleanor whether she believed herself capable of being happy in a life less animated by display and more governed by mutual confidence. No woman of understanding could mistake the meaning of such a question when delivered with a countenance at once earnest and timid; and Eleanor, who had long esteemed him too much to trifle with either his peace or her own, answered with a modesty that did not conceal her happiness. Their engagement, when disclosed, was received by Mrs. Linton with transports carefully balanced between maternal tenderness and self-congratulation; Mr. Linton declared he had always liked Fairfax’s manner; and Clara, embracing her sister with tears half gay, half penitential, confessed herself almost as glad to see good sense rewarded as she once had been eager to see charm admired. Thus Ashmore, which had expected entertainment, was furnished instead with instruction; and if some were disappointed that fortune had not united itself with greater brilliance, wiser observers allowed that where esteem leads and affection follows, the marriage may safely dispense with astonishment.