THE BARON PROPOSES FOR HELEN WILLIAMS, AND IS DULY ACCEPTED, WITH A
COMPLIMENT ON HIS BEAUTY.
The baron had put out to sea in chase of the vampyre, without
considering that there was really great danger in so doing, inasmuch as
that the elements were not quite in a kindly disposed condition, and
there was a heavy sea.
Where he had obtained his skill as a seaman, Heaven only knows;
but certain it is he had obtained such knowledge somewhere, for
he commenced navigating the boat with the greatest skill, and soon
succeeded in getting close in shore.
The moment the keel grated upon the beach, a man rushed into the water,
and laid hold of the boat with one hand, and the baron with the other,
exclaiming,—
“You are my prisoner! You took my boat, and I don’t care who or what
you are, I will have justice.”
“How much money do you require?”
“More than you will like to pay. I sha’n’t let you off under a pound.”
“Here are five pounds.”
“Lor! Excuse me, your honour; I didn’t mean what I said; if so be as
your honour is such a gentleman as I now sees as your honour is, it
don’t make any matter in the world. I hopes as how your honour will
always take my boat when you wants one, and no mistake.”
The baron made no reply to all these compliments, but walked away at
once towards his own house on the cliffs.
“I have missed him,” he muttered, “and all my labour has been in vain.
I thought that at least I had got rid of that affliction; I thought
that he at least would have rotted in the tomb. Curse on the tardiness
that left him unburied until the moonbeams had rested upon him. After
that all was in vain, unless some new death had come over him.”
There was a flush of anger upon the baron’s face as he reached his own
house, and let himself into it by a garden-gate that he always kept the
key of, which would have effectually prevented any of his servants from
taking any notice of him, had they met him.
But at such an hour, it was not likely he should meet any one, nor did
he do so.
He at once sought his own chamber, where he remained for some time
immersed in deep thought. This thought was not wholly devoted to a
consideration of his annoyance at the escape of the vampyre; but he
took into his most serious thoughts the circumstances attending upon
his entertainment.
The question of to marry, or not to marry, was not one that had to be
settled by the baron. No, that he had done already; and he had not made
the announcement he had to Mr. Leek, of his matrimonial intention,
unadvisedly.
What the baron now considered was, whether he should propose to Miss
Helen Williams or not.
He certainly had been somewhat struck by the quiet beauty of the young
girl; and probably he was aware that he was not just the sort of person
to win a young maiden’s heart, and that if he achieved such a honour
at all, it would most probably be in consequence of acting upon the
cupidity of her relations.
As he was determined, therefore, to marry, it became necessary that he
should select some one for his victim who, in addition to the personal
charms which appeared to him to be a desideratum, should be of so
pliant and amiable a disposition as to give way to those solicitations
and incessant remonstrances which she was likely to be assailed with if
she resisted.
It was fortunate for Mr. Leek that the baron did fix his regards
upon Helen Williams; because, from what we know of Mrs. Williams,
we can well perceive that it is quite evident she will not let any
considerations of her daughter’s happiness stand in the way of an
equitable arrangement with that gentleman.
And although there might have been, and indeed were, persons at the
baron’s entertainment whom he would more gladly have called by the
name of bride than Helen Williams, yet he was not slow to perceive
that those parties had wills of their own, and, if their relatives had
pleased to do so, they would not themselves have admitted that they
were up for sale to the highest bidder.
The result of the baron’s considerations, therefore, was, that Helen
Williams would suit him very well, and that the poverty of her family
was just the circumstance of all others which insured his success.
“I will wed her,” he said, “although I cannot win her. She will be
mine, because I shall purchase her; which, to my mind, is a much more
admirable mode of embarking in a matrimonial career than the trouble of
a tedious courtship, with all its frivolities and follies.”
Whether or not the baron was used to matrimonial affairs, we cannot
say; but certain it is he did not seem to consider that the proposing
for a young lady and marrying her was a matter of very grave or serious
moment; but really, by the style in which he considered it, anybody
would have thought it one of the most ordinary concerns of life.
During his short stay at Anderbury, he had managed, by the magic power
of wealth, to procure everything he required in the shape of servants,
carriages, and horses; and now, on the morning after his most strange
and mysterious adventure with the corpse of the murdered man, he
ordered his carriage, and went out to pay a number of visits to the
parties who had been present at his entertainment.
Among those visits he included one to the Williams’s family, and by
about twelve o’clock in the day reached their residence, and was
received with such an extraordinary amount of bustle, that it was quite
ludicrous to see it; but still it suited him, because it showed how
they worshipped wealth, with the exception of Helen, and she did not
make her appearance at all.
Mrs. Williams was all smiles and sweetness, paying so many compliments
to the baron, that, although he knew nothing of the diplomatic
arrangement of Mr. Leek, he yet felt quite certain that he had her with
him most completely, and that none of her exertions would be wanting
for the purpose of securing his victim.
After these compliments had somewhat subsided, the baron said,—
“Madam, I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing your daughter Helen,
who did me the honour of being at my poor entertainment the other
evening, and attracted while there the eyes of all beholders.”
“Oh, certainly, my lord baron. I have not the slightest doubt in my own
mind but that Helen is quite—quite panting, in a manner of speaking,
for the honour of seeing you again.”
“You are very obliging, madam; and I can assure you that one of the
most gratifying circumstances that have occurred to me during my short
residence in this neighbourhood, had consisted in the fact of my making
the acquaintance of you and your amiable family.”
“Will you excuse me for one moment?” said Mrs. Williams; and, after a
courteous bow from the baron, she left the apartment, and proceeded to
the room of her daughter Helen, whom she addressed, saying,—
“Helen, are you aware that the baron is here—the great baron, the Baron
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh? Good God! how can you be so foolish? He has
actually asked for you, and you are not there; when you know as well as
I do, Helen, that such a man as that, to whom the expense is no object,
might pop in a moment.”
“He might what, mother?”
“Pop the question—propose, of course. Don’t tell me that you don’t
know what I mean. I have no patience with such nonsense. Only think
how rich he is. You know as well as I that it would be the making of
you and the whole family; and I can tell you, Helen, that, if you are
not a positive fool, in my opinion, he will pop, for there was quite a
particular expression upon his face when he asked for you.”
“But I fancy, mother, there is always a particular expression upon his
face—a particularly ugly one, I mean; for, beyond all question, he is
the most ordinary man I ever saw in my life.”
“Now, really, Helen, you are enough to vex a saint. What can a man’s
looks have to do with his property?”
“But what’s his property to me, mother?”
“Oh! good gracious! Have I lived to hear a child of mine ask what a
man’s property is to her, when he begins to be attentive! I did not
expect it—I will confess, I did not expect it. I did think there would
be a little consideration on the part of a child of my own, when she
knows I have to strive, and strive, and stretch our means like a thin
piece of Indian rubber, to make both ends meet.”
“But, mother, if I cannot love this man, wherefore should I for one
moment entertain the thought of making him my husband?”
“Self, self!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams, lifting up her hands; “nothing
but self.”
“I cannot suppose, mother, that it is an extraordinary act to decline
sacrificing one’s whole existence for the sake of marrying a man with
money, who can not only not love, but who is an object of positive
aversion as this man is to me.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Williams; “that’s right. See me dragged to
prison, and see us all without shoes to our feet. That’s what you would
do, rather than give up your nonsensical notion about people’s looks.”
“But, why,” said Helen, “should these calamities, which have never yet
appeared, all suddenly come over us, because I do not feel inclined to
marry the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh?”
“And as for the man’s looks,” added Mrs. Williams, rather adroitly
shifting the argument, and declining to answer the rather home question
put by Helen—“as for the man’s looks, I am quite ashamed of any
daughter of mine talking about men’s looks—it’s indelicate, positively
indelicate.”
“I cannot see your argument, mother, and I implore you not to persecute
me about this man, whom I really cannot love.”
“Persecute, indeed! but I tell you what it is, Helen, you don’t seem
to be at all aware, first of all, that I am drowned in debt; secondly,
that I shall have to bring your brother Charles home from college to
make him a tailor, or a shoemaker, or something of that sort, and you
will have to go out as a daily governess, while I rot away by slow
degrees in a prison.”
“But, mother, if these evils are all about to fall upon us, cannot
some fair means be adopted of extrication from them. Your income, I
always understood, was a certain one, and surely it almost amounts to
criminality to live far beyond it.”
“Not at all, when you expect your daughter to be a reasonable
Christian, and to marry decently and respectably. Really, my dear, I
must say that I little expected such remarks as you make, from a child
of mine, I can tell you.”
Mrs. Williams was right enough there, for it was a wonder that such
remarks should come from a child of her’s, who could not be supposed to
have heard any such sentiments, but who must have, from the mere force
of a just and admirable disposition, given utterance to them.
“Mother,” she said, after a pause, “do not fancy that I would not
do much to relieve you from any burthens you may have; and, if
difficulties have arisen, they are to be remedied in the best way we
can, as well as regretted. But I pray you not to ask me to wed this
man, whom I cannot love.”
“Well, well. I’m sure you make a terrible fuss, and I don’t know what
about, for my part. It’s nothing, I rather suppose; and, after all, the
baron may not be going to propose at all for you, and I may be wrong.”
As Mrs. Williams thus admitted the possibility that she might be wrong,
she looked with an expression of countenance, as much as to say, “Did
you ever, in all your life, hear of such virtue as that, or such
self-denial?”
“Then what do you wish for me to do, mother?”
“To see him. You cannot put such a slight—indeed, I might almost say,
an insult upon him, as not to see him when he actually calls and asks
for you. He is, you know, after all, a gentleman.”
Helen found it difficult to say that she would not see the baron, so,
although it was done with great reluctance, she followed her mother
to the room in which that lady had left him, and where he did most
anxiously expect her. He felt that his cause was not quite so good as
it had been, and that the non-appearance of Helen got up some serious
doubts as to the complying disposition he thought she had.
When, however, he at length saw her, some of those fears were
dispelled, and he began to imagine that his suit did not look quite so
desperate.
There was certainly about the baron a rather courtly air and manner,
which, as Mrs. Williams said, shewed that he lived in the best society;
and Helen would not allow her aversion to the man to carry her so far
as not to behave to him with politeness, so that for some moments that
the conversation proceeded, any one would have thought that those three
persons were upon the most amicable of terms with each other.
But Mrs. Williams, like some skilful old general, was well versed in
matrimonial tactics, and, after making a few remarks, she deliberately
left the room, to poor Helen’s great chagrin; for, although she had
consented out of ordinary civility to see the baron, she had by no
means intended to have a _tete-a-tete_ with him.
That was quite another affair, and one may well suppose what a degree
of indignation she felt at being forced into such circumstances, and
by her mother, too, who, of all persons in the world, ought to have
protected her, and to whom she ought to have looked certainly for very
different things indeed.
It was a very awkward situation to be placed in for poor Helen,
inasmuch as she now really could not leave the baron completely alone
without great rudeness; and yet she much dreaded, in consequence of the
hints that her mother had thrown out, what the interview would be that
was about to ensue.
How devoutly and particularly she hoped that, after all, the
supposition of her mother that the baron had any matrimonial intentions
towards her was a mistake, and she felt that the first words he might
utter would be the means of chance letting her know if such really was
the case, or if she was to be what she could not help styling, the
victim of his addresses.
Of course the baron knew perfectly well that Mrs. Williams had taken
her departure for the express purpose of giving him an opportunity
of pressing his suit to her daughter, if he felt so disposed, and
as he did feel so disposed, he was not at all likely to neglect the
opportunity.
None but a man of great tact and discretion, however, could have made
so good use of such an opportunity as the baron; for although he
certainly did not succeed in removing from the mind of Helen Williams a
strong feeling that he was an uncommonly disagreeable man, he did not
add to that impression.
“Miss Williams,” he said, “I have not until now had an opportunity of
thanking you for the very great favour you did me, by making one at the
party at Anderbury House.”
“The obligation,” said Helen, “was on my side, sir, and I beg that
you will not pay me so empty a compliment as to endeavour to make it
otherwise.”
“You do yourself a great injustice. The grace which you lent to my
entertainment was to my mind its greatest charm. I feel, I assure you,
compelled to say so much, because it is the genuine truth, and not for
the purpose of paying to you an empty compliment, which I have too
much respect for you to do.”
Helen was silent, for she knew not very well what to reply to this
speech, inasmuch as it was one of those general ones that require no
reply, unless the persons to whom they are uttered choose to enter at
length into a civil complimentary kind of warfare, for the express
purpose of so doing.
The baron waited for some reply to be made, and then, as none came, he
spoke himself, saying, after at least two minutes’ pause,—
“Miss Williams, you may, or you may not, have heard that my principal
intention in settling in this neighbourhood—which I was informed,
and I find correctly so, is celebrated for the respectability of its
inhabitants—was to marry.”
“Sir,” said Helen, “I know nothing of that matter, nor do I think it is
one with which I ought to be in any way troubled.”
“Without explanation, certainly not, Miss Williams; but will you allow
me to add, that unless my speech had contained certainly something
more than a mere compliment, or a mere desire to give you a piece of
gossiping information, I should not have uttered it on any account;
but I have something to add to it, which does concern your private ear
most particularly, and which I do hope will meet with your favourable
consideration.”
He paused again, and, as Helen returned no answer, he after a time
continued, saying, in a still lower tone,—
“May I venture to hope that no preconceived prejudice will have the
effect of diminishing any expectations and hopes with which I have
pleased myself?”
It is said, and said most truly too, that there are none so blind as
those who won’t see, and the same rule may be most unquestionably
applied to those who won’t hear or understand; and although it was, of
course, impossible that Helen Williams could have any doubt as to what
the baron meant, she was resolved that he should speak out plainly, in
order that she might, without giving room for any ambiguity, likewise
speak as plainly to him, in answer to the proposition that was upon his
lips.
Perhaps the baron was wise enough to see that much, for he proceeded
now with much more clearness to declare what he meant, when he said,—
“I told you, Miss Williams, that my object in coming here was to
contract a matrimonial alliance, being tired of the solitary life I had
been leading for some years. I should not have troubled you with such a
communication, had it not been in my power to add to it another, that
will explain why I did so.”
Helen merely inclined her head, to signify that she heard him.
“That other communication,” he continued, “is to the effect that I have
found the person on whom I feel convinced that I can fix my affections,
without the possibility of their ever wandering again from the dear
object. Amid all the rank, beauty, and intelligence that graced my
halls on that occasion which will ever be hallowed in my imagination, I
had eyes but for one form, and ears but for one voice.”
Still Helen was silent.
“There may be many who, in the possession of much attraction and much
virtue, may make many happy homes; but the heart culls its own flower,
and will think that it presents the most delicate and most beautiful
tints to the eye. That flower, from amidst all the galaxy of beauty,
I think—nay, I know, that I have selected. Can you not now guess the
purport of my simple words, Helen?”
It was tolerably familiar to call her Helen upon so short an
acquaintance, and she drew back, looking some astonishment, which he
perceiving, and divining the cause—for no one could accuse the baron of
want of tact—replied to.
“Forgive me, if, in conversing with you, my heart seems to forget the
distance that is between us, and I think of you by that name which,
certainly, it is presumptuous on my part to call you by; but there are
persons in whose thoughts and feelings we so deeply sympathise, and
who, from the first moment that we see them, become bound to us by so
many mysterious links of feeling, that we seem as if we had known them
for ages, and as if, from that moment, we could be as familiar—ay, much
more so—than with many whom we may have met often in the great world.”
This was true, and, what is more, it happened to be a truth that
touched a right chord in the breast of Helen Williams; for she felt
what he said recall recollections of the past, when there was one whom
she had seen, and, from the first moment that she had seen him, had
felt that time and circumstances could effect no change in those first
dear and delightful impressions which had swept across her heart.
The baron saw the contemplative aspect of her face, and he added,—
“You feel the truth of what I utter?”
She started, for she had indeed felt the truth of the sentiment,
although her heart was far away, and for a moment she had completely
forgotten the existence of the baron, or that it was from his lips she
had heard the sentiment expressed.
It was a mortification to him to see this—for he did see it—and he
said,—
“Miss Williams, I hope I have said enough, at all events, to convince
you that I am not one of those cold, worldly-minded spirits who have
none of what may be truly called the higher and the nobler feelings of
humanity; but who can, and who do feel and think that there is much of
beauty and much of innocence in life, and that both are the dearest and
best gifts of Heaven.”
“I have nothing to say in contradiction to what you have uttered,” said
Helen; “but you will, I trust, now excuse me, sir, from continuing a
conversation which can have no good result, and which, between persons
who are nearly perfect strangers, is scarcely desirable.”
This was a speech which, if anything would, was calculated to bring the
baron to the point at once; and, as she rose while she uttered it; as
with an intention of leaving the room, he at once said,—
“Nay, as I am here, allow me to utter that which I came to speak, and
do not, I pray you, hastily decide upon a question of more importance
to yourself and to me than any which can be ordinarily asked. Let me
beg of you, Miss Williams, to be seated, and to believe that, in my
manner of putting this question to you, there shall be nothing which
can, in the slightest degree, prove offensive to you.”
Thus urged, it would have been something savouring of ill-manners, if
Helen Williams had refused to accede to his request; and, although
there was nothing she so devoutly wished as that that interview should
be over, and over quickly, she felt that perhaps the surest way of
accomplishing that object, was to listen quietly to what he had to say;
and accordingly she did so, reseating herself again on the chair she
had so recently occupied, and determined in her own mind to give him
a decisive answer. He then seemed rather in doubt as to how he should
commence, and, as he spoke, there was an air of hesitation and doubt
about him such as he, indeed, very seldom wore.
Probably, he felt that it was rather a climax that he had arrived at,
and that if he was to accomplish anything in the matrimonial way, it
was a very doubtful case as regarded his present application.
“I cannot but feel,” he said, “that what I am about to say sounds hasty
and premature, considering that we have known each other for so short
a space of time. It is not for me to enlarge upon circumstances which,
I fear, will have but little weight with you; but still it is my duty
to mention that I have a large fortune, and consequently can afford to
place the object of my affections in such a position in life as that
she shall feel surrounded with everything that can make her existence
pleasant and desirable.”
“Go on, sir,” said Helen; “I am staying to hear you, in order that I
might clearly and distinctly answer you.”
This was by no means encouraging; but still the baron proceeded:—
“I wish to make you an offer of my hand and heart; and, as the Baroness
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, I am quite certain that you will add a dignity
to that title, instead of receiving one from it.”
“Sir,” said Helen, “an offer of this kind from any gentleman is a
compliment which ought always to be appreciated, and I assure you it is
one which I feel highly; but as one’s future happiness in a marriage
is by far too important an affair to be trifled with, I must beg to
decline the honour you intend me.”
“Decline!” said the baron.
“Yes, sir, I said decline; and I trust that the justice of the Baron
Stolmuyer will effectually preserve me from anything in the shape of a
persecution for so declining.”
At this moment, and before the baron could make any answer to what was
said to him by Helen in this firm and determined manner, the door was
flung open, and Mrs. Williams rushed into the room.
“My dear sir,” she cried to the baron, “of course you understand
these matters perfectly well. Girls, you know, are always so very
unreasonable, that you can’t expect anything from them but a refusal at
first, although they may really mean quite the reverse.”
“Mother, is this just or fair?” said Helen, reproachfully.
“Oh, stuff—stuff! don’t speak to me about justice and fairness, indeed,
when you are so absurd as to behave in this dreadful manner towards the
baron.”
“But, madam,” said the baron, “I fear——”
“Fear nothing, my lord; but if you will have the kindness to step into
the next apartment for a few minutes, I will join you, and we can talk
this matter over.”
Mrs. Williams did not think it at all necessary to make any excuse for
having listened to the baron’s overtures; and perhaps, indeed, she
thought that it was not necessary to do so, and that her interest in
the affair was a sufficient extenuation of what certainly was a most
abominable proceeding.
Shame and disgust at her mother’s conduct now kept Helen silent; and
as the baron was perfectly willing to give himself all the chances he
could, he made a low bow, and left the apartment, in conformity with
the desires of Mrs. Williams, wondering much in his own mind by what
miracle she purposed influencing her daughter’s decision after the
extremely positive negative she had given to his proposal.
He waited with much impatience, as well as curiosity, and as our
readers may, as well as the baron, be a little curious to know what
arguments Mrs. Williams used, we shall proceed to give them a brief
outline of what she said.
“Are you mad?” was the first ejaculation. “Are you thoroughly and
entirely out of your senses, that you behave yourself in this
extraordinary manner?”
“In what extraordinary manner? A man asks me if I can wed him and
love him, and, as he asks me politely, I tell him as politely that I
cannot, which is the whole of the affair. Is there anything so very
extraordinary in such behaviour as that?”
“Indeed, I think there is something very extraordinary in it. I tell
you what it is, Helen, Mr. Leek is firmly of opinion that the baron’s
income must be at least ten thousand pounds a-year.”
“I do not think I shall marry a man for his income, if it were ten
times that amount.”
“This is insanity—positive insanity. Have you really the least idea of
what you are talking about? But I know what it is well enough; I know
very well what it is; of course it’s that fellow, James Anderson, that
comes between you and your wits. That’s the scamp that prevents you
from exercising a proper control over yourself, and you know it is; but
he is gone to sea, and it is to be hoped we shall never look upon him
again. I don’t wish to see him, and I am quite sure you need not, so
you had better make up your mind to marry the baron at once.”
“This is too cruel—much too cruel; and but that I see it with my own
eyes, I would not have believed it possible.”
She burst into tears as she spoke, and then for a brief moment—but it
was only for a moment—the heart of the mother was a little touched. The
love of money again assumed its sway, and the happiness of her child
sunk into insignificance compared with that worst of passions.
“Listen to me, Helen,” she said; “it’s all very well to make choice of
who you like, and to refuse who you like, when it can be done; but I
tell you that, in this case, it cannot be done, for we are all of us
on the brink of ruin, and, if you will not by this marriage rescue us
from that state, destruction must come upon us all. You can save me,
you can save your sisters, and you can save your brother, if you will.
Of course, if you will not, I cannot make you; and you will have the
consolation of knowing that, although you had it in your power to save
us all from destruction, you did not do it.”
“But why should I be placed in so cruel a situation as to be called
upon to sacrifice myself completely for my family? Would it not be
nobler to meet difficulties, if they have arisen, with a good spirit?”
“As you please—as you please; I can say no more.”
Mrs. Williams moved towards the door; but Helen called to her, saying,—
“Give me time to think—I only ask you to give me time to think.”
This was a grand concession, and Mrs. Williams at once acceded to the
proposition, that it was prudent to leave well enough alone in such a
case, and that, having once seen that persecution would do something,
it was highly desirable to leave it to work its way.
She accordingly at once left the room, and proceeded into the
adjoining apartment, to which the baron had retired; and where, from
his attitude, it seemed highly probable that he had taken example by
Mrs. Williams; and, as she had listened to his conversation with her
daughter, he had, in like manner, listened to her.
“I have the pleasure to inform you, baron,” she said, “that my
daughter, although at first taken a little by surprise as regards your
offer, now accepts it; and I can only add, for my own part, that it is
with great pleasure I contemplate having so handsome and distinguished
a son-in-law.”
“Madam, I highly esteem your compliment; and I must beg of you as a
favour, that you will fix the wedding-day as quickly as you please or
can; and that, as it must put you to some expense as well as your other
daughters, and as it would be very unjust that, on my account, you
should expend one penny piece, you will do me the favour of accepting
from me a £500 note to cover those expenses.”
Mrs. Williams quite instinctively held out her hand, but the baron
added, with a bow that damped her expectations a little—
“A sum which I shall have the pleasure of handing to you as soon as the
wedding-day is fixed.”
It would be doing great injustice to the acuteness of Mrs. Williams, if
we did not say she quite understood this to be a bribe for expediting
proceedings; and if anything was likely to clench the matter, and to
place the marriage of the baron with Helen beyond the shadow of a
doubt, it certainly was this fact, that £500 was offered to the mother
for what we cannot help calling the sale of her child.
But these kind of things are much more common in society than people
are at all aware; and one half the marriages that take place at all,
are most unquestionably matters of barter. When the highest bidder
obtains the prize, if prize that can be called, which generally
consists of a shallow, conceited heart, nurtured in all kinds of
selfishness, and full of feelings, not one of which can be considered
great or estimable.
It is sad, indeed, when, as in the case of Helen Williams, the victim
is made a victim on account of her better and nobler feelings, and
where it is not her own selfishness, but the selfishness of others,
which she is condemned to be victimised to. Whether she will or will
not consent, under the circumstances we have narrated, to become the
bride of the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, we shall shortly discover;
but certain it is that he entertained a strong notion she would, and
that Mrs. Williams thoroughly made up her mind that she should.
Nothing can save Helen but a determination of character, which we fear
we cannot say she possesses.
Her correct reason makes her say things which, if she could carry
them out, would be as proper and as decisive as possible; but the
great fault of her character consists in a weakness of purpose, which
effectually prevents her from carrying out the suggestion presented to
her by her own superior intellect.