Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Энн Бронте

to warn you, Helen and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect. You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you. You can boast a good family, a pretty considerable fortune and expectations. And I know many girls that have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and temptations.”

      “Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”

      “Helen, don't boast, but watch. Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery. 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. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.”

      She spoke it very seriously. I answered,

      “I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say.”

      At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life. 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. I soon grew tired of their peculiarities and their foibles. They – the ladies especially – appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, perhaps, it was because they flattered me; but I did not fall in love with any of them.

      There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old friend of my uncle's. He was old, ugly, disagreeable and wicked. And there was another, less hateful, but still more tiresome, because she favoured him – Mr. Boarham by name. I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice. He was beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by useful information.

      One night, at a ball, he was more than usually tormenting. My patience was quite exhausted. The whole evening was insupportable: I had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham came upon me. In vain I attempted to drive him away, his presence was disagreeable. A gentleman stood by, who was watching me for some time. At length, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house to ask an introduction to me. 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. I found my new acquaintance a very lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did.

      “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?” asked she, after a pause.

      “It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle's old friend.”

      “I have heard of young Mr. Huntingdon. They say, 'He's a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish.'”

      “What does 'a bit wildish' mean?” I inquired.

      “It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is common to youth.”

      “That is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again.”

      It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to my uncle. After that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home.

      One day I looked from my window and beheld Mr. Boarham. Soon 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. He is here 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.”

      “Helen!”

      “What did my uncle say?”

      “He said if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham's offer, you – ”

      “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. If you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.”

      “I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how. I want to be civil. When I've got rid of him, I'll give you my reasons afterwards.”

      “But, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. 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! Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! And noble, I may say. Think how – ”

      “But I hate him, aunt,” said I.

      “Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit? You hate him?!”

      “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.”

      “What objection do you find?”

      “Firstly, he is at least forty years old and I am eighteen. Secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted. 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.”

      “Then compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon and 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.”

      “But don't give him a denial. It will 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.”

      I left the room and went to Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room.

      “My dear young lady,” said he, “I have your kind guardian's permission – ”

      “I know, sir,” said I, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer. I think we were not made for each other.”

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