The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
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 know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as
possible, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg
to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made
for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the
experiment were tried.”
My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my
acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded
at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a
little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.
“I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us
in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me
assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a
young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to
myself, and even rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no
youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of
his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that
my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no
disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all
conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no
young lady’s affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.”
“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we
were not made for each other.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further acquaintance—a longer
time to—”
“No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you
know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so
incongruous—so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.”
“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can excuse—”
“Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your goodness. You
may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object,
that won’t tax them so heavily.”
“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am
sure, will—”
“I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but
in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself;
and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me to believe
that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours—and I
wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of
choosing such a wife.”
“Ah, well!” said he, “I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have
sometimes said to myself, ‘Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take
care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature,
but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove
the husband’s greatest torments!’ I assure you my choice has not been
made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of
the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a
sleepless hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was
not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her
faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an
earnest of virtues yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her
little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner
were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the
patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I failed
to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon,
for the sake of her many excellences. Therefore, my dearest girl, since
_I_ am satisfied, why should _you_ object—on my account, at least?”
“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I
principally object; so let us—drop the subject,” I would have said,
“for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,” but he
pertinaciously interrupted me with,—“But why so? I would love you,
cherish you, protect you,” &c., &c.
I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us.
Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to
convince that I really meant what I said, and really _was_ so obstinate
and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance
that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections.
Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with
his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the
same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same
replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words
were,—“I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can
induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you—at least, I
would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot
love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further you repel
me; so pray don’t say any more about it.”
Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and
offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.
CHAPTER XVII
The next day I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner-party at Mr.
Wilmot’s. He had two ladies staying with him: his niece Annabella, a
fine dashing girl, or rather young woman,—of some five-and-twenty, too
great a flirt to be married, according to her own assertion, but
greatly admired by the gentlemen, who universally pronounced her a