“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—”