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 flirt1 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 entirely2 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 sinister3 cast in his countenance4, and a mixture of lurking5 ferocity and fulsome6 insincerity in his demeanour, that I could not away with. What a tiresome7 custom that is, by-the-by - one among the many sources of factitious annoyance8 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 bent9 upon engrossing10 his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth to pay the homage11 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 umbrage12 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 arbiter13 of a dispute between herself and another lady, and he answered the summons with alacrity14, and decided15 the question without a moment's hesitation16 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 judgment18 my wrath19 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 defer20 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 albeit21 he made some clever remarks, and some excessively droll22 ones, I do not think the whole would appear anything very particular, if written here, without the adventitious23 aids of look, and tone, and gesture, and that ineffable24 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 enjoyment25, by coming composedly forward, under pretence26 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 wrest27 his attention from me - on purpose to vex28 me, as I thought: and having now looked through the portfolio29, I left them to their TETE-E-TETE, 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 isolated30 position to come and plant himself beside me. I had flattered myself that I had so effectually repulsed32 his advances on all former occasions, that I had nothing more to apprehend33 from his unfortunate predilection34; 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 renovated35 ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine he had drunk - a circumstance that rendered him infinitely37 the more disgusting; but greatly as I abhorred38 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 determined39 rejection40, nor would it have greatly availed me if I had, for he was too coarse-minded to take any repulse31 that was not as plain and positive as his own effrontery41. The consequence was, that he waxed more fulsomely42 tender, and more repulsively43 warm, and I was driven to the very verge44 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 fervently45 pressed. Instinctively46, 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 purgatorial47 fiend to an angel of light, come to announce that the season of torment48 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 sufficiently49 examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I was beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities50, 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 profligate51 yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me for the affront52.'
'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 dread53 them as rivals. Have I, Helen?'
'You know I detest54 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 extort55 a confession56 of attachment57 from me when he had made no correspondent avowal58 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, severely59 regarding me; 'but please to stay here a little, till that shocking colour is somewhat abated60, 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 kindled36 by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, swelling61 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 watchful62 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 prudence63 left. Well, now,' she added, after a moment's pause, 'you have made yourself conspicuous64 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 transit65 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 thither66, and having dismissed Rachel, who was carefully stowing away my ornaments67, closed the door; and placing a chair beside me, or rather at right angles with mine, sat down. With due deference68 I offered her my more commodious69 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 approbation70 did not go before, and where reason and judgment withheld71 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 tempted72 to marry a man who was deficient73 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 disposition74.'
'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 sanguine75 temperament76, 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 presumptuous77, 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 attentively78 now when I speak seriously to him (and I often venture to reprove his random79 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 intrigue80 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 virtuous81, 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 slanderous82 accusations83, 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 venial84; a few unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune without reference to his character; and thoughtless girls may be glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to penetrate85 beyond the surface; but you, I trusted, were better informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted86 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 salvation87, 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 vice17, 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 misery88 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 virtue89. God grant me success!'
Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture90 my uncle's voice was heard from his chamber91, 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?
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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fulsomely
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repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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purgatorial
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| adj.炼狱的，涤罪的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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70
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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71
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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72
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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73
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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77
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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80
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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81
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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82
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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83
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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85
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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86
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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87
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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88
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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89
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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