Kabanata Kabanata 21 · Chapter XXI Opinions

. Chapter 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.

“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?