to the promotion and preservation—’
‘Another time, sir, we will talk of this—and I should have felt disposed to judge more favourably of your pretensions, if you too had chosen another time and place, and let me add—another manner for your declaration.’
‘Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,’ he began—
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said she, with dignity—‘The company are inquiring for you in the other room.’ And she turned to me.
‘Then you must plead for me, Helen,’ said he, and at length withdrew.
‘You had better retire to your room, Helen,’ said my aunt, gravely. ‘I will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.’
‘Don’t be angry, aunt,’ said I.
‘My dear, I am not angry,’ she replied: ‘I am surprised. If it is true that you told him you could not accept his offer without our consent—’
‘It is true,’ interrupted I.
‘Then how could you permit—?’
‘I couldn’t help it, aunt,’ I cried, bursting into tears. They were not altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous excitement of my feelings. But my good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer tone, she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my forehead, bade me good-night, and put her candle in my hand; and I went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of sleeping. I feel calmer now that I have written all this; and I will go to bed, and try to win tired nature’s sweet restorer.
CHAPTER XX
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SEPTEMBER 24TH.—IN the morning I rose, light and cheerful—nay, intensely happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my aunt’s views, and by the fear of not obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright effulgence of my own hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of requited love. It was a splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy it, in a quiet ramble, in company with my own blissful thoughts. The dew was on the grass, and ten thousand gossamers were waving in the breeze; the happy red-breast was pouring out its little soul in song, and my heart overflowed with silent hymns of gratitude and praise to heaven.
But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted by the only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that moment, without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr. Huntingdon came suddenly upon me. So unexpected was the apparition, that I might have thought it the creation of an over-excited imagination, had the sense of sight alone borne witness to his presence; but immediately I felt his strong arm round my waist and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his keen and gleeful salutation, ‘My own Helen!’ was ringing in my ear.
‘Not yours yet!’ said I, hastily swerving aside from this too presumptuous greeting. ‘Remember my guardians. You will not easily obtain my aunt’s consent. Don’t you see she is prejudiced against you?’
‘I do, dearest; and you must tell me why, that I may best know how to combat her objections. I suppose she thinks I am a prodigal,’ pursued he, observing that I was unwilling to reply, ‘and concludes that I shall have but little worldly goods wherewith to endow my better half? If so, you must tell her that my property is mostly entailed, and I cannot get rid of it. There may be a few mortgages on the rest—a few trifling debts and incumbrances here and there, but nothing to speak of; and though I acknowledge I am not so rich as I might be—or have been—still, I think, we could manage pretty comfortably on what’s left. My father, you know, was something of a miser, and in his latter days especially saw no pleasure in life but to amass riches; and so it is no wonder that his son should make it his chief delight to spend them, which was accordingly the case, until my acquaintance with you, dear Helen, taught me other views and nobler aims. And the very idea of having you to care for under my roof would force me to moderate my expenses and live like a Christian—not to speak of all the prudence and virtue you would instil into my mind by your wise counsels and sweet, attractive goodness.’
‘But it is not that,’ said I; ‘it is not money my aunt thinks about. She knows better than to value worldly wealth above its price.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘She wishes me to—to marry none but a really good man.’
‘What, a man of “decided piety”?—ahem!—Well, come, I’ll manage that too! It’s Sunday to-day, isn’t it? I’ll go to church morning, afternoon, and evening, and comport myself in such a godly sort that she shall regard me with admiration and sisterly love, as a brand plucked from the burning. I’ll come home sighing like a furnace, and full of the savour and unction of dear Mr. Blatant’s discourse—’
‘Mr. Leighton,’ said I, dryly.
‘Is Mr. Leighton a “sweet preacher,” Helen—a “dear, delightful, heavenly-minded man”?’
‘He is a good man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much for you.’
‘Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest—but don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my name is Arthur.’
‘I’ll call you nothing—for I’ll have nothing at all to do with you if you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as you say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on such a subject.’
‘I stand corrected,’ said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful sigh. ‘Now,’ resumed he, after a momentary pause, ‘let us talk about something else. And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then I’ll let you alone. I can’t be quiet while I see you walking there.’
I complied; but said we must soon return to the house.
‘No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,’ he answered. ‘You spoke of your guardians just now, Helen, but is not your father still living?’
‘Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my guardians, for they are so in deed, though not in name. My father has entirely given me up to their care. I have never seen him since dear mamma died, when I was a very little girl, and my aunt, at her request, offered to take charge of me, and took me away to Staningley, where I have remained ever since; and I don’t think he would object to anything for me that she thought proper to sanction.’
‘But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to object?’
‘No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.’
‘He is very much to blame—but he doesn’t know what an angel he has for his daughter—which is all the better for me, as, if he did, he would not be willing to part with such a treasure.’
‘And Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I, ‘I suppose you know I am not an heiress?’
He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I would not disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of such uninteresting subjects. I was glad of this proof of disinterested affection; for Annabella Wilmot is the probable heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in addition to her late father’s property, which she has already in possession.
I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house; but we walked slowly, and went on talking as we proceeded. I need not repeat all we said: let me rather refer to what passed between my aunt and me, after breakfast, when Mr. Huntingdon called my uncle aside, no doubt to make his proposals, and she beckoned me into another room, where she once more commenced a solemn remonstrance, which, however, entirely failed to convince me that her view of the case was preferable to my own.
‘You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,’ said I. ‘His very friends are not half so bad as you represent them. There is Walter