Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
‘Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I am
very wicked.’
Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, but
very low voice, ‘Now tell me, why were you unhappy?’
‘Papa,’ sighed Henrietta, ‘dearest papa, that the day should come when I
should grieve to meet him!’
‘And why should my darling grieve?’ said Ferdinand.
‘I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It is
no crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almost
felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can be
either wrong or unhappy to love you.’
‘Bless you, for such sweet words,’ replied Ferdinand. ‘If my heart can
make you happy, felicity shall be your lot.’
‘It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness.’
‘And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand when
he said this]--he will be happy too?’
‘So I would hope.’
‘If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,’ continued Ferdinand,
‘Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law.’
‘Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear you
call him father.’
‘Then what alarms my child?’
‘I hardly know,’ said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. ‘I think--I think
it is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went,
he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is
a life to us; to him, I fear,’ and she hid her face, ‘it is only------a
fortnight.’
‘We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in this
fortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued a
life.’
‘That’s true, that’s very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we know
it. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel like
us. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though
the dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he has
no thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papa
naturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man of
the world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of men
and life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean in
our favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not think
they are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility.
There is no person more clever and more judicious than papa. No person
is more considerate. But there are characters so rare, that men of the
world do not admit them into their general calculations, and such is
yours, Ferdinand.’
Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but he pressed her hand,
though he said nothing.
‘He will think we have known each other too short a time,’ continued
Miss Temple. ‘He will be mortified, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him I
am no longer his.’
‘Then do not inform him,’ said Ferdinand.
She started.
‘Let me inform him,’ continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to his
meaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye.
‘Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every burthen!’ exclaimed
Miss Temple. ‘How generous and good you are! No, it would be better for
me to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from
you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. This
is the truth; I do not repent the past, I glory in it; I am yours, and
I am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would not
falter. But I cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my father is
concerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, with
respect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were he
to regret, he could not blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, he
will blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing more
than love you--my engagement--without his advice, his sanction, his
knowledge, or even his suspicion!’
‘You take too refined a view of our situation,’ replied Ferdinand. ‘Why
should you not spare your father the pain of such a communication, if
painful it would be? What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to
be between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand,
and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enough?’
‘I have never concealed anything from papa,’ said Henrietta, ‘but I will
be guided by you.’
‘Leave, then, all to me,’ said Ferdinand; ‘be guided but by the judgment
of your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, and believe me all will go right.
I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?’ he
continued enquiringly.
‘It shall be so.’
‘Then arises the question,’ said Ferdinand, ‘when it would be most
advisable for me to make the communication. Now your father, Henrietta,
who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I do
make it, I shall be prepared to speak definitely to him upon all matters
of business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling with him. To
go and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man of
the world like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, without
showing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining a
family, is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, he
would be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, settle something
first with Sir Ratcliffe.
Much, you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still,
sweet love, there must at least be an appearance of providence and
management. We must not disgust your father with our union.’
‘Oh! how can he be disgusted?’
‘Dear one! This, then, is what I propose; that, as to-morrow we must
comparatively be separated, I should take advantage of the next few
days, and get to Bath, and bring affairs to some arrangement. Until my
return I would advise you to say nothing to your father.’
‘How can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances?’
exclaimed Miss Temple; ‘how can I meet his eye, how can I speak to him
with the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollection
that, all the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heart
is yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of future
companionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal separation!’
‘Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted you
last night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had once
thought of, and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I had
returned to make my communication: would you style your silence, under
such circumstances, a secret engagement? No, no, dear love; this is
an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent’s
feelings.’
‘O Ferdinand! would we were united, and had no cares!’
‘You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if,
after passing to-morrow with your father, you expected me on the
next day to communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secret
engagement because six or seven days are to elapse before this
communication takes place, instead of one? My Henrietta is indeed
fighting with shadows!’
‘Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappy when I think of
this.’
‘Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, the
day will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flow
smoothly yet, and we shall all yet live at Armine, Mr. Temple and all.’
‘Papa likes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if you
offended him.’
‘Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to Sir Ratcliffe
first.’
‘Do you, indeed, think so?’
‘Indeed I am certain.’
‘But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? Must you really go?
Must we, indeed, be separated? I cannot believe it; it is inconceivable;
it is impossible; I cannot endure it.’
‘It is, indeed, terrible,’ said Ferdinand. ‘This consideration alone
reconciles me to the necessity: I know my father well; his only answer
to a communication of this kind would be an immediate summons to his
side. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place when
we must necessarily be much less together than before, than at a later
period, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanction
of our parents?’
‘O Ferdinand! you reason, I only feel.’
Such an observation from one’s mistress is rather a reproach than
a compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whose
principal characteristic was, perhaps, a too dangerous susceptibility;
a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender
temper; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse of
sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration to
his heart. The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for however short
a period, was absolute agony to him; he found difficulty in conceiving
existence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their parting
even for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. The only
process, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for the
impending sorrow would have been the frank indulgence of the feelings
which it called forth. Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of
circumstances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being whom
he idolised; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart,
lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head; and,
while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps,
existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged to
endure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute to him a
deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much; he covered his eyes with
his hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, ‘Alas! my Henrietta, if
you knew all, you would not say this!’
‘My Ferdinand,’ she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholy
tone, ‘why, what is this? you weep! What have I said, what done? Dearest
Ferdinand, do not do this.’ And she threw herself on her knees before
him, and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection.
He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘O
Henrietta!’ he exclaimed, ‘we have been so happy!’
‘And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I am
so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shall
think of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It
was so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good.’
‘Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together to-morrow,
Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for a
moment escape from your memory.’
‘Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be at
every hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a little
word; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!’
‘And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?’
Henrietta looked perplexed. ‘Papa opens the bag every morning, and every
morning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done’?’
‘I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for your
letters.’
‘I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look
so--so--so--clandestine.’
‘I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante.’
‘Ferdinand!’
‘’Tis only for a week.’
‘O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things.’
‘My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate we
should be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall write
to you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believe
only in evil!’
‘Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longer
to regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible for
all that affects my honour or my heart.’