The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ctober 1st.—All is settled now. My father has given his consent, and
the time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort of compromise between the
respective advocates for hurry and delay. Milicent Hargrave is to be
one bridesmaid and Annabella Wilmot the other—not that I am
particularly fond of the latter, but she is an intimate of the family,
and I have not another friend.

When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather provoked me by her
manner of taking it. After staring a moment in mute surprise, she
said,—

“Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congratulate you—and I am glad to
see you so happy; but I did not think you would take him; and I can’t
help feeling surprised that you should like him so much.”

“Why so?”

“Because you are so superior to him in every way, and there’s something
so bold and reckless about him—so, I don’t know how—but I always feel a
wish to get out of his way when I see him approach.”

“You are timid, Milicent; but that’s no fault of his.”

“And then his look,” continued she. “People say he’s handsome, and of
course he is; but I don’t like that kind of beauty, and I wonder
that you should.”

“Why so, pray?”

“Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in his
appearance.”

“In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted
heroes of romance. Well, give me my flesh and blood lover, and I’ll
leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you—if you can find them.”

“I don’t want them,” said she. “I’ll be satisfied with flesh and blood
too—only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don’t you
think Mr. Huntingdon’s face is too red?”

“No!” cried I, indignantly. “It is not red at all. There is just a
pleasant glow, a healthy freshness in his complexion—the warm, pinky
tint of the whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks,
exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a
painted doll, or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous
yellow.”

“Well, tastes differ—but I like pale or dark,” replied she. “But, to
tell you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope
that you would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be
introduced to you next season; and I thought you would like him, and
was certain he would like you; and I flattered myself I should thus
have the felicity of seeing the two persons I like best in the
world—except mamma—united in one. He mayn’t be exactly what you would
call handsome, but he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer and
better than Mr. Huntingdon;—and I’m sure you would say so, if you knew
him.”

“Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because you’re his sister; and, on
that account, I’ll forgive you; but nobody else should so disparage
Arthur Huntingdon to me with impunity.”

Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly.

“And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable
import, “you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied I. “Don’t you envy me?”

“Oh, dear, no!” she exclaimed. “I shall probably be Lady Lowborough
some day, and then you know, dear, I shall be in a capacity to inquire,
‘Don’t you envy me?’”

“Henceforth I shall envy no one,” returned I.

“Indeed! Are you so happy then?” said she, thoughtfully; and something
very like a cloud of disappointment shadowed her face. “And does he
love you—I mean, does he idolise you as much as you do him?” she added,
fixing her eyes upon me with ill-disguised anxiety for the reply.

“I don’t want to be idolised,” I answered; “but I am well assured that
he loves me more than anybody else in the world—as I do him.”

“Exactly,” said she, with a nod. “I wish—” she paused.

“What do you wish?” asked I, annoyed at the vindictive expression of
her countenance.

“I wish,” returned, she, with a short laugh, “that all the attractive
points and desirable qualifications of the two gentlemen were united in
one—that Lord Lowborough had Huntingdon’s handsome face and good
temper, and all his wit, and mirth and charm, or else that Huntingdon
had Lowborough’s pedigree, and title, and delightful old family seat,
and I had him; and you might have the other and welcome.”

“Thank you, dear Annabella: I am better satisfied with things as they
are, for my own part; and for you, I wish you were as well content with
your intended as I am with mine,” said I; and it was true enough; for,
though vexed at first at her unamiable spirit, her frankness touched
me, and the contrast between our situations was such, that I could well
afford to pity her and wish her well.

Mr. Huntingdon’s acquaintances appear to be no better pleased with our
approaching union than mine. This morning’s post brought him letters
from several of his friends, during the perusal of which, at the
breakfast-table, he excited the attention of the company by the
singular variety of his grimaces. But he crushed them all into his
pocket, with a private laugh, and said nothing till the meal was
concluded. Then, while the company were hanging over the fire or
loitering through the room, previous to settling to their various
morning avocations, he came and leant over the back of my chair, with
his face in contact with my curls, and commencing with a quiet little
kiss, poured forth the following complaints into my ear:—

“Helen, you witch, do you know that you’ve entailed upon me the curses
of all my friends? I wrote to them the other day, to tell them of my
happy prospects, and now, instead of a bundle of congratulations, I’ve
got a pocketful of bitter execrations and reproaches. There’s not one
kind wish for me, or one good word for you, among them all. They say
there’ll be no more fun now, no more merry days and glorious nights—and
all my fault—I am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in
pure despair, will follow my example. I was the very life and prop of
the community, they do me the honour to say, and I have shamefully
betrayed my trust—”

“You may join them again, if you like,” said I, somewhat piqued at the
sorrowful tone of his discourse. “I should be sorry to stand between
any man—or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage
to do without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.”

“Bless you, no,” murmured he. “It’s ‘all for love or the world well
lost,’ with me. Let them go to—where they belong, to speak politely.
But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more
for having ventured so much for your sake.”

He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them
to me, and told him I did not wish to see them.

“I’m not going to show them to you, love,” said he. “They’re hardly fit
for a lady’s eyes—the most part of them. But look here. This is
Grimsby’s scrawl—only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn’t say much,
to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others’
words, and the less he says, the more he thinks—and this is Hargrave’s
missive. He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had
fallen in love with you from his sister’s reports, and meant to have
married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.”

“I’m vastly obliged to him,” observed I.

“And so am I,” said he. “And look at this. This is Hattersley’s—every
page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable
complaints, ending up with swearing that he’ll get married himself in
revenge: he’ll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to
set her cap at him,—as if I cared what he did with himself.”

“Well,” said I, “if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I
don’t think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their
society; for it’s my belief they never did you much good.”

“Maybe not; but we’d a merry time of it, too, though mingled with
sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost—Ha, ha!” and while he
was laughing at the recollection of Lowborough’s troubles, my uncle
came and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Come, my lad!” said he. “Are you too busy making love to my niece to
make war with the pheasants?—First of October, remember! Sun shines
out—rain ceased—even Boarham’s not afraid to venture in his waterproof
boots; and Wilmot and I are going to beat you all. I declare, we old
’uns are the keenest sportsmen of the lot!”

“I’ll show you what I can do to-day, however,” said my companion. “I’ll
murder your birds by wholesale, just for keeping me away from better
company than either you or them.”

And so saying he departed; and I saw no more of him till dinner. It
seemed a weary time; I wonder what I shall do without him.

It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved themselves
much keener sportsmen than the two younger ones; for both Lord
Lowborough and Arthur Huntingdon have of late almost daily neglected
the shooting excursions to accompany us in our various rides and
rambles. But these merry times are fast drawing to a close. In less
than a fortnight the party break up, much to my sorrow, for every day I
enjoy it more and more—now that Messrs. Boarham and Wilmot have ceased
to tease me, and my aunt has ceased to lecture me, and I have ceased to
be jealous of Annabella—and even to dislike her—and now that Mr.
Huntingdon is become my Arthur, and I may enjoy his society without
restraint. What shall I do without him, I repeat?