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 enquired.
`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 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 ballroom.
It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to call upon my uncle, apologizing 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? bat 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 anyone 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 all upright, honourable man?'
`No.'
`Do you deny that be is a sensible, sober, respectable?'
`No; he may be all this, but--'