The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

Perceiving that I observed the movement, he whispered that he was going to make a note of the sermon; but instead of that, as I sat next him, I could not help seeing that he was making a caricature of the preacher, giving to the respectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect of a most absurd old hypocrite. And yet, upon his return, he talked to my aunt about the sermon with a degree of modest, serious discrimination that tempted me to believe he had really attended to and profited by the discourse.

Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the discussion of a very important matter, which was dismissed in few words.

“Now, Nell,” said he, “this young Huntingdon has been asking for you: what must I say about it? Your aunt would answer ‘no’⁠—but what say you?”

“I say yes, uncle,” replied I, without a moment’s hesitation; for I had thoroughly made up my mind on the subject.

“Very good!” cried he. “Now that’s a good honest answer⁠—wonderful for a girl!⁠—Well, I’ll write to your father tomorrow. He’s sure to give his consent; so you may look on the matter as settled. You’d have done a deal better if you’d taken Wilmot, I can tell you; but that you won’t believe. At your time of life, it’s love that rules the roast: at mine, it’s solid, serviceable gold. I suppose now, you’d never dream of looking into the state of your husband’s finances, or troubling your head about settlements, or anything of that sort?”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Well, be thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads to think for you. I haven’t had time, yet, to examine thoroughly into this young rascal’s affairs, but I see that a great part of his father’s fine property has been squandered away;⁠—but still, I think, there’s a pretty fair share of it left, and a little careful nursing may make a handsome thing of it yet; and then we must persuade your father to give you a decent fortune, as he has only one besides yourself to care for;⁠—and, if you behave well, who knows but what I may be induced to remember you in my will!” continued he, putting his fingers to his nose, with a knowing wink.

“Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,” replied I.

“Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter of settlements,” continued he; “and he seemed disposed to be generous enough on that point⁠—”

“I knew he would!” said I. “But pray don’t trouble your head⁠—or his, or mine about that; for all I have will be his, and all he has will be mine; and what more could either of us require?” And I was about to make my exit, but he called me back.

“Stop, stop!” cried he; “we haven’t mentioned the time yet. When must it be? Your aunt would put it off till the Lord knows when, but he is anxious to be bound as soon as may be: he won’t hear of waiting beyond next month; and you, I guess, will be of the same mind, so⁠—”

“Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to wait till after Christmas, at least.”

“Oh! pooh, pooh! never tell me that tale⁠—I know better,” cried he; and he persisted in his incredulity. Nevertheless, it is quite true. I am in no hurry at all. How can I be, when I think of the momentous change that awaits me, and of all I have to leave? It is happiness enough to know that we are to be united; and that he really loves me, and I may love him as devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. However, I insisted upon consulting my aunt about the time of the wedding, for I determined her counsels should not be utterly disregarded; and no conclusions on that particular are come to yet.

XXI

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 anyone 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,