The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

“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