Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed.
Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me; you are a man and a soldier; you
laugh at a woman’s caution.
Ohl my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you were
ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisite
happiness, would that be!
Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealing
our engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear not
that; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit;
but I feel the burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, more
than I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can annoy
you, especially at this moment, when I feel from my own heart how you
must require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I have
such confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convinced
you have acted wisely; but come back as soon as you can. I know it must
be more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out by
your affection. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath; and I know,
Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess.
But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to me at the
post-office, as you settled.
If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The consciousness
that you are so near makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papa
will be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command.
Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too evident. See, they
fall upon the page. Think of me always. Never let your Henrietta be
absent from your thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is! Your
guitar is on the sofa; a ghost of departed joy!
Farewell, Ferdinand! I cannot write, I cannot restrain my tears. I know
not what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to see
him. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you
here!
Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish you, and bless you.
Think always of me. Would that this pen could express the depth and
devotion of my feelings!
Henrietta.
CHAPTER II.
_Which, Supposing the Reader Is Interested in the
Correspondence, Pursues It_.
DEAREST! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thousand blessings,
for your letter from Armine, dear, dear Armine, where some day we shall
be so happy! It was such a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so
_clear_. How could you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would not
be able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting! Always cross, dearest:
your handwriting is so beautiful that I never shall find the slightest
difficulty in making it out, if your letters were crossed a thousand
times. Besides, to tell the truth, I should rather like to experience
a little difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so often,
over and over again, till I get them by heart, and it is such a delight
every now and then to find out some new expression that escaped me in
the first fever of perusal; and then it is sure to be some darling word,
fonder than all the rest!
Oh! my Ferdinand, how shall I express to you my love? It seems to me
now that I never loved you until this separation, that I have never been
half grateful enough to you for all your goodness. It makes me weep to
remember all the soft things you have said, all the kind things you have
done for me, and to think that I have not conveyed to you at the time
a tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. You are so gentle,
Ferdinand! I think that is the greatest charm of your character. My
gentle, gentle love! so unlike all other persons that I have met with!
Your voice is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have the
kindest heart that ever existed: and then it is a daring spirit, too,
and that I love!
Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, all will go well. I am full of hope,
and would be of joy, if you were here, and yet I am joyful, too, when I
think of all your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is
so sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine yesterday, and
knew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked in our woods, and sat
down on the very bank we loved so, and read your letter over and over
again; and then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange; I think
I could repeat every word you have uttered since we first knew each
other. The morning that began so miserably wore away before I dreamed it
could be noon.
Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and good! And why
should he not be? I was ashamed of myself afterwards for seeming
surprised that he was the same as ever. He asked me if your family had
returned to Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then he
asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that you had now
gone to Bath, as their return had been prevented by the illness of a
relative. Did I right in this? I looked as unconcerned as I could when
I spoke of you, but my heart throbbed, oh! how it throbbed! I hope,
however, I did not change colour; I think not; for I had schooled myself
for this conversation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa
really likes you, and is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a
tone of genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the shooting at
Armine; that you regretted his unexpected departure had prevented you
from speaking before, but that it was at his entire command, only that,
after Ducie, all you could hope was, that the extent of the land might
make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. Adieu! All
good angels guard over you. I will write every day to the post-office,
Bath. Think of me very much. Your own faithful
Henrietta.
Letter II.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.
O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read your
letters! This morning brought me two; the one from London, and the few
lines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the road. Do you know, you
will think me very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I
must confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. It was
so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like my Ferdinand, to
snatch the few minutes that should have been given to rest and food to
write to his Henrietta. I love you for it a thousand times more than
ever! I hope you are really well: I hope you tell me truth. This is a
great fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules that we once
talked of. Does he recollect? Oh! what joyous spirits my Ferdinand was
in that happy day! I love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my
heart with those pensive eyes of his!
Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I mentioned you
first. I took up your guitar, and said to whom it belonged. I thought it
more natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really
likes you, and I am sure will love you very much when he knows all,
and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken of with
kindness by those I love. I have, of course, little to say about myself.
I visit my birds, tend my flowers, and pay particular attention to all
those I remember that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to
them, and tell them that you will soon return, for, indeed, they seem
to miss you, and to droop their heads like their poor mistress. Oh! my
Ferdinand, shall we ever again meet? Shall I, indeed, ever again listen
to that sweet voice, and will it tell me again that it loves me with the
very selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear?
O Ferdinand! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I cannot sleep; I
can scarcely countenance my father at his meals. I am wild and restless;
but I am happy, happy in the consciousness of your fond devotion.
To-morrow I purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shoot
to-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our porch. God bless
my own love; the idol of his fond and happy
Henrietta.
Letter III.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.
Dearest! No letter since the few lines on the road, but I suppose it was
impossible. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose, from Bath. I know
not why I tremble when I write that word. All is well here, papa most
kind, the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day, a very
little, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armine hare! Oh! what a
morning have I spent; so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears and
smiles! I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. That dear,
dear farm-house! And then they all talked of you. How they do love my
Ferdinand! But so must everyone. The poor woman has lost her heart to
you, I suspect, and I am half inclined to be a little jealous. She did
so praise you! So kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I
fear, so much too generous! Exactly like my Ferdinand; but, really, this
was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence.
Do you know, I went into your room? I contrived to ascend alone; the
good woman followed me, but I was there alone a moment, and, and, and,
what do you think I did? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not
help it; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so often and
so lately, I could not refrain from pressing my lips to that favoured
resting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides.
When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. How I pray that
you may find all your family well and happy! I hope they will love me. I
already love them, and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to
go there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing this
in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its influence, but I feel
depressed. Oh, that I were at your side! This house is so desolate
without you. Everything reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can
I express to you what I feel--the affection, the love, the rapture,
the passionate joy, with which your image inspires me? I will not be
miserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I am loved by one so rare
and gifted. Your portrait is before me; I call it yours; it is so like!
‘Tis a great consolation. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think
of you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I am going
to pray for you. Thine own
Henrietta.
*****
Letter IX.
My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing of
returning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read your
dear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feel
in the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiest
person in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. You
say that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? There
are difficulties; I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that
your Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon
our affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense.
I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myself
to think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I am
jealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them.
Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myself
if I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; God
knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel
wretched when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips are
sealed until you give me permission to open them.
Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid to
tell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery so long as we love;
so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face,
nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless you,