บทที่ บทที่ 17 · Chapter XVII Further Warnings

. Chapter XVII Further Warnings

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

splendid woman; and her gentle cousin, Milicent Hargrave, who had taken

a violent fancy to me, mistaking me for something vastly better than I

was. And I, in return, was very fond of her. I should entirely exclude

poor Milicent in my general animadversions against the ladies of my

acquaintance. But it was not on her account, or her cousin’s, that I

have mentioned the party: it was for the sake of another of Mr.

Wilmot’s guests, to wit Mr. Huntingdon. I have good reason to remember

his presence there, for this was the last time I saw him.

He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand in a

capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr. Grimsby, a

friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked: there was a sinister

cast in his countenance, and a mixture of lurking ferocity and fulsome

insincerity in his demeanour, that I could not away with. What a

tiresome custom that is, by-the-by—one among the many sources of

factitious annoyance of this ultra-civilised life. If the gentlemen

_must_ lead the ladies into the dining-room, why cannot they take those

they like best?

I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken me, if he

_had_ been at liberty to make his own selection. It is quite possible

he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she seemed bent upon engrossing

his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth to pay the homage

she demanded. I thought so, at least, when I saw how they talked and

laughed, and glanced across the table, to the neglect and evident

umbrage of their respective neighbours—and afterwards, as the gentlemen

joined us in the drawing-room, when she, immediately upon his entrance,

loudly called upon him to be the arbiter of a dispute between herself

and another lady, and he answered the summons with alacrity, and

decided the question without a moment’s hesitation in her

favour—though, to my thinking, she was obviously in the wrong—and then

stood chatting familiarly with her and a group of other ladies; while I

sat with Milicent Hargrave at the opposite end of the room, looking

over the latter’s drawings, and aiding her with my critical

observations and advice, at her particular desire. But in spite of my

efforts to remain composed, my attention wandered from the drawings to

the merry group, and against my better judgment my wrath rose, and

doubtless my countenance lowered; for Milicent, observing that I must

be tired of her daubs and scratches, begged I would join the company

now, and defer the examination of the remainder to another opportunity.

But while I was assuring her that I had no wish to join them, and was

not tired, Mr. Huntingdon himself came up to the little round table at

which we sat.

“Are these yours?” said he, carelessly taking up one of the drawings.

“No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.”

“Oh! well, let’s have a look at them.”

And, regardless of Miss Hargrave’s protestations that they were not

worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and receiving the

drawings, one by one from my hand, successively scanned them over, and

threw them on the table, but said not a word about them, though he was

talking all the time. I don’t know what Milicent Hargrave thought of

such conduct, but _I_ found his conversation extremely interesting;

though, as I afterwards discovered, when I came to analyse it, it was

chiefly confined to quizzing the different members of the company

present; and albeit he made some clever remarks, and some excessively

droll ones, I do not think the whole would appear anything very

particular, if written here, without the adventitious aids of look, and

tone, and gesture, and that ineffable but indefinite charm, which cast

a halo over all he did and said, and which would have made it a delight

to look in his face, and hear the music of his voice, if he had been

talking positive nonsense—and which, moreover, made me feel so bitter

against my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by coming

composedly forward, under pretence of wishing to see the drawings, that

she cared and knew nothing about, and while making believe to examine

them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon, with one of her coldest and

most repellent aspects, and beginning a series of the most common-place

and formidably formal questions and observations, on purpose to wrest

his attention from me—on purpose to vex me, as I thought: and having

now looked through the portfolio, I left them to their _tête-à-tête_,

and seated myself on a sofa, quite apart from the company—never

thinking how strange such conduct would appear, but merely to indulge,

at first, the vexation of the moment, and subsequently to enjoy my

private thoughts.

But I was not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the least

welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come and plant

himself beside me. I had flattered myself that I had so effectually

repulsed his advances on all former occasions, that I had nothing more

to apprehend from his unfortunate predilection; but it seems I was

mistaken: so great was his confidence, either in his wealth or his

remaining powers of attraction, and so firm his conviction of feminine

weakness, that he thought himself warranted to return to the siege,

which he did with renovated ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine

he had drunk—a circumstance that rendered him infinitely the more

disgusting; but greatly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did not

like to treat him with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and had just

been enjoying his hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but

determined rejection, nor would it have greatly availed me if I had,

for he was too coarse-minded to take any repulse that was not as plain

and positive as his own effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed

more fulsomely tender, and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to

the very verge of desperation, and about to say I know not what, when I

felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the sofa, suddenly taken by

another and gently but fervently pressed. Instinctively, I guessed who

it was, and, on looking up, was less surprised than delighted to see

Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon me. It was like turning from some

purgatorial fiend to an angel of light, come to announce that the

season of torment was past.

“Helen,” said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never resented

the freedom), “I want you to look at this picture. Mr. Wilmot will

excuse you a moment, I’m sure.”

I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led me across the

room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that I had noticed before, but

not sufficiently examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I

was beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities, when,

playfully pressing the hand he still retained within his arm, he

interrupted me with,—“Never mind the picture: it was not for that I

brought you here; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old

profligate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me

for the affront.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said I. “This is twice you have

delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.”

“Don’t be too thankful,” he answered: “it is not all kindness to you;

it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that makes me

delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don’t think I have

any great reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?”

“You know I detest them both.”

“And me?”

“I have no reason to detest _you_.”

“But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen—Speak! How do you

regard me?”

And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of conscious

power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had no right to

extort a confession of attachment from me when he had made no

correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer. At last I

said,—

“How do _you_ regard _me?_”

“Sweet angel, I adore you! I—”

“Helen, I want you a moment,” said the distinct, low voice of my aunt,

close beside us. And I left him, muttering maledictions against his

evil angel.

“Well, aunt, what is it? What do you want?” said I, following her to

the embrasure of the window.

“I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be seen,” returned

she, severely regarding me; “but please to stay here a little, till

that shocking colour is somewhat abated, and your eyes have recovered

something of their natural expression. I should be ashamed for anyone

to see you in your present state.”

Of course, such a remark had no effect in reducing the “shocking

colour”; on the contrary, I felt my face glow with redoubled fires

kindled by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, swelling

anger was the chief. I offered no reply, however, but pushed aside the

curtain and looked into the night—or rather into the lamp-lit square.

“Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?” inquired my too watchful

relative.

“No.”

“What was he saying then? I heard something very like it.”

“I don’t know what he would have said, if you hadn’t interrupted him.”

“And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?”

“Of course not—without consulting uncle and you.”

“Oh! I’m glad, my dear, you have so much prudence left. Well, now,” she

added, after a moment’s pause, “you have made yourself conspicuous

enough for one evening. The ladies are directing inquiring glances

towards us at this moment, I see: I shall join them. Do you come too,

when you are sufficiently composed to appear as usual.”

“I am so now.”

“Speak gently then, and don’t look so malicious,” said my calm, but

provoking aunt. “We shall return home shortly, and then,” she added

with solemn significance, “I have much to say to you.”

So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture. Little was said by

either party in the carriage during our short transit homewards; but

when I had entered my room and thrown myself into an easy-chair, to

reflect on the events of the day, my aunt followed me thither, and

having dismissed Rachel, who was carefully stowing away my ornaments,

closed the door; and placing a chair beside me, or rather at right

angles with mine, sat down. With due deference I offered her my more

commodious seat. She declined it, and thus opened the conference: “Do

you remember, Helen, our conversation the night but one before we left

Staningley?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“And do you remember how I warned you against letting your heart be

stolen from you by those unworthy of its possession, and fixing your

affections where approbation did not go before, and where reason and

judgment withheld their sanction?”

“Yes; but _my_ reason—”

“Pardon me—and do you remember assuring me that there was no occasion

for uneasiness on your account; for you should never be _tempted_ to

marry a man who was deficient in sense or principle, however handsome

or charming in other respects he might be, for you could not love him;

you should hate—despise—pity—anything but love him—were not those your

words?”

“Yes; but—”

“And did you not say that your affection _must_ be founded on

approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and respect,

you could not love?”

“Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and respect—”

“How so, my dear? Is Mr. Huntingdon a good man?”

“He is a much better man than you think him.”

“That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a _good_ man?”

“Yes—in some respects. He has a good disposition.”

“Is he a man of _principle?_”

“Perhaps not, exactly; but it is only for want of thought. If he had

some one to advise him, and remind him of what is right—”

“He would soon learn, you think—and you yourself would willingly

undertake to be his teacher? But, my dear, he is, I believe, full ten

years older than you—how is it that you are so beforehand in moral

acquirements?”

“Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had good

examples always before me, which he, most likely, has not; and,

besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay, thoughtless

temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.”

“Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and

principle, by your own confession—”

“Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.”

“That sounds presumptuous, Helen. Do you think you have enough for

both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would allow

himself to be guided by a young girl like you?”

“No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have influence

sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life

well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from

destruction. He always listens attentively now when I speak seriously

to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and

sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never

do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would

make him quite a saint. It may he partly jest and partly flattery, but

still—”

“But still you think it may be truth?”

“If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from

confidence in my own powers, but in _his_ natural goodness. And you

have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the

kind.”

“Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about his intrigue with

a married lady—Lady who was it?—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the

other day?”

“It was false—false!” I cried. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?”

“I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know that I

have heard nothing definite against it—nothing that could be proved, at

least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will

not believe them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors,

they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks

anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and all the mammas

smile upon him, and their daughters—and Miss Wilmot herself—are only

too glad to attract his attention.”

“Helen, the world _may_ look upon such offences as venial; a few

unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune

without reference _may_ his character; and thoughtless girls _may_ be

glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to

penetrate beyond the surface; but _you_, I trusted, were better

informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted

judgment. I did not think _you_ would call these venial errors!”

“Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would

do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to be mainly

true, which I do not and will not believe.”

“Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and if he

is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom he calls

his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight is to wallow

in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest and furthest down

the headlong road to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.”

“Then I will save him from them.”

“Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes

to such a man!”

“I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that

I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his. I

will leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage.

If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him

from the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him

to the path of virtue. God grant me success!”

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle’s voice was

heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed. He

was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse. It had been

gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt

took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to

return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the

season. His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and

contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for

removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I think), that in a very

few days we departed; and I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt

flatters herself I shall soon forget him—perhaps she thinks I have

forgotten him already, for I never mention his name; and she may

continue to think so, till we meet again—if ever that should be. I

wonder if it will?