The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the
world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I
may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one
he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.”
“That is no argument at all. It may be very true—and I hope is true,
that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of
yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would _wish_ to
marry _any_ one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never
be won unsought. But when they _are_ sought—when the citadel of the
heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner
is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition
to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she
be extremely careful and discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of
these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the
very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be
stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets
the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen;
there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in
any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there
will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty
considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you
likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you have a fair share of
beauty besides—and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!”
“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?”
“Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is
generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and,
therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the
possessor.”
“Have _you_ been troubled in that way, aunt?”
“No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “but I know many that
have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of
deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and
temptations terrible to relate.”
“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”
“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but _watch_. Keep a guard over
your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as
the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive,
coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained
and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections
be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then
love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears
deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse.—These are
nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure
the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing,
after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate
wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and
superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery
that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a
worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.”
“But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If
everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.”
“Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for
partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but
do _you_ follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen—I
am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me,
_matrimony is a serious thing_.” And she spoke it _so_ seriously, that
one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no
more impertinent questions, and merely answered,—
“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but
you need not fear me, for I not only should think it _wrong_ to marry a
man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be
_tempted_ to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so
handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate
him—despise him—pity him—anything but love him. My affections not only
_ought_ to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so:
for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought
to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as _well_ as love
him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.”
“I hope it may be so,” answered she.
“I _know_ it _is_ so,” persisted I.
“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said she in her
cold, cautious way.
“I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were
entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to
remember her advice than to profit by it;—indeed, I have sometimes been
led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her
counsels may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at
least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her
calculations. I wonder if _she_ was ever in love.
I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle calls
it—kindling with bright hopes and fancies—chiefly raised by this
conversation—and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I
was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but
soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and
sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both
male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed
me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and
laughing at their foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my
criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and they—the
ladies especially—appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and
artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I
knew them less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall
in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one
moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour
with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming
like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.
There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old
friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I could not do better
than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and
disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for
saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less
hateful, but still _more_ tiresome, because she favoured him, and was
always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr.
Boarham by name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore
he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice—drone, drone,
drone, in my ear—while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour
together, and beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving
my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and
reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to
my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a
decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his
distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost
impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction
of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment of more
agreeable society.
One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as if the
whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance
with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and
seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never
danced himself, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and
impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed,
acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the time, and
wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving
a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing
could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence
was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp
answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only
required an indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil
to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his
dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to
overwhelm me with conviction.
But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation of
my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our
conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion’s
remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and laughing to
himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At
length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house,
apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for,
shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr.
Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to
dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during
the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual,
insisted upon an early departure.
I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively
and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and
freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and
expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had
been doomed to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much
careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a
humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that
it did not anger me.
“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we
took our seats in the carriage and drove away.
“Worse than ever,” I replied.
She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.
“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a
pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?”
“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never _attempted_ to help me,
till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly
forward and said, ‘Come, I’ll preserve you from that infliction.’”
“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity.
“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.”
“I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I’ve heard him
say, ‘He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I
fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.”
“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired.
“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is
common to youth.”
“But 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