The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

XXI. OPINIONS

October 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.