I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was young.’
She sternly shook her head.
‘He was jesting then, I suppose,’ said I, ‘and here he was speaking at random—at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing blue eyes.’
‘False reasoning, Helen!’ said she, with a sigh.
‘Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I don’t think it is false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of people’s characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For instance, I should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful, sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham’s, that he was not an agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless as an occasional partner in the ball-room.’
It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not heard, till the previous night, of my uncle’s arrival in town; and after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.
‘I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,’ he would say,—‘can you tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I his—that’s certain.’
‘I wish you’d tell him so, then,’ said my aunt.
‘Why, what for? If I don’t want him, somebody does, mayhap’ (winking at me). ‘Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know—not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t hear of that match: for, somehow, these old chaps don’t go down with the girls—with all their money, and their experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d rather have this young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold. Wouldn’t you, Nell?’
‘Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I’d rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.’
‘And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs. Huntingdon—eh?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.’
‘Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather be an old maid—let alone the pauper?’
‘I can’t tell till I’m asked.’
And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr. Boarham coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing to hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind her.
‘Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,’ said she. ‘He wishes to see you.’
‘Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see him.’
‘Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He is come on a very important errand—to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.’
‘I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it. What right had he to ask any one before me?’
‘Helen!’
‘What did my uncle say?’
‘He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you—’
‘Did he say obliging offer?’
‘No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might please yourself.’
‘He said right; and what did you say?’
‘It is no matter what I said. What will you say?—that is the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.’
‘I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want to be civil and yet decided—and when I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you my reasons afterwards.’
‘But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?’
‘No.’
‘Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?’
‘No; he may be all this, but—’
‘But, Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is this such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of such noble qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, noble I may call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your power to secure this inestimable blessing for life—a worthy and excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—’
‘But I hate him, aunt,’ said I, interrupting this unusual flow of eloquence.
‘Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—you hate him? and he so good a man!’
‘I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I—one as good as himself, or better—if you think that possible—provided she could like him; but I never could, and therefore—’
‘But why not? What objection do you find?’
‘Firstly, he is at least forty years old—considerably more, I should think—and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person that I never can surmount.’
‘Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is the better man.’
‘I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness—than be his wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense—so let me go.’
‘But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present—’
‘But I have thoughts of it.’
‘Or that you desire a further acquaintance.’
‘But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the contrary.’
And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room, humming snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.
‘My dear young lady,’ said he, bowing and smirking with great complacency, ‘I have your kind guardian’s permission—’
‘I