Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta.
Letter X.
Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am so
sorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond,
so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you
even a shade of annoyance. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! There
is nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to
convince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will be
calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you are
sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dear
father? your mother? Be not afraid to speak.
You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is a
blank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, save
papa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to be with him.
This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted
place since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted,
and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now.
They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot
walk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I
have never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearest
Ferdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, for
it brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. They
are my only joy and solace, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, no
complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!
that my weak pen could express a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand,
I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit’s
strength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea.
Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged.
It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld that
fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand,
thousand loves. Your devoted
Henrietta.
Letter XI.
Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought me no letter.
I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought me
mad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too,
at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence,
Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to this
clandestine method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, few
days, and then----- But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! will
to-morrow ever come?
Henrietta.
Letter XII.
Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me very
serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It is
fond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have melted
over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we
separated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge only
from your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to your
father; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves of
our union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then,
and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in the
dark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should share
our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Let
us make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal anything from one so
kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my
folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to console
me. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It was
painful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this life
no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I will
not say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and write
definitely, to your unhappy
Henrietta.
*****
Letter XVIII.
You tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will write
definitely. You tell me that circumstances have occurred, since your
arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that
they retard that settlement with your father that you had projected and
partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters;
and assuring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious to
preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can you
withhold like that you have occasioned me? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand,
I will, I must still believe that you are faultless; but, believe me, a
want of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every situation, is
a want of common sense. Never conceal anything from your Henrietta.
I now take it for granted that your father has forbidden our union;
indeed this is the only conclusion that I can draw from your letter.
Ferdinand, I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your affection, I
will trust to time, to events, to the kindness of my friends, and to
that overruling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure as
ours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. Confident in
your love, I can live in solitude, and devote myself to your memory,
I------
O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell them
all, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them your
Henrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them she
will be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our
union, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let them
return to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa;
let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trust
not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant, not quite unprepared
to act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in its
splendour or its proud humility; and, if not worthy of their son (as who
can be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing of
his affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Do
this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come.
But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, remember
your Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; but
remember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy life
I have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in a
private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him;
be just to your Henrietta! Return, I beseech you on my knees; return
instantly to Ducie; reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious; he
will be our best friend; in his hand and bosom we shall find solace and
support. God bless you, Ferdinand! All will yet go well, mine own, own
love. I smile amid my tears when I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh!
what misery can there be in this world if we may but share it together?
Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted
Henrietta.
CHAPTER III.
_Containing the Arrival at Ducie of a Distinguished Guest_.
IT WAS about three weeks after Ferdinand Armine had quitted Ducie that
Mr. Temple entered the breakfast-room one morning, with an open note in
his hand, and told Henrietta to prepare for visitors, as her old friend,
Lady Bellair, had written to apprise him of her intention to rest the
night at Ducie, on her way to the North.
‘She brings with her also the most charming woman in the world,’ added
Mr. Temple, with a smile.
‘I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her companion so at present,’
said Miss Temple, ‘whoever she may be; but, at any rate, I shall be glad
to see her ladyship, who is certainly one of the most amusing women in
the world.’
This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair made some bustle
in the household of Ducie Bower; for her ladyship was in every respect a
memorable character, and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr.
Temple before his residence at Ducie, very much interested the
curiosity of his fellow-servants by his intimations of her ladyship’s
eccentricities.
‘You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary,’ said the butler;
‘and you, Susan, must look after the page. We shall all be well
cross-examined as to the state of the establishment; and so I advise you
to be prepared. Her ladyship is a rum one, and that’s the truth.’
In due course of time, a handsome travelling chariot, emblazoned with a
viscount’s coronet, and carrying on the seat behind a portly man-servant
and a lady’s maid, arrived at Ducie. They immediately descended, and
assisted the assembled household of the Bower to disembark the contents
of the chariot; but Mr. Temple and his daughter were too well acquainted
with Lady Bellair’s character to appear at this critical moment.
First came forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceedingly
magnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme of gorgeous fashion,
and who, after being landed on the marble steps, was for some moments
absorbed in the fluttering arrangement of her plumage; smoothing her
maroon pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, and
adjusting the glittering pelerine of point device, that shaded the fall
of her broad but well-formed shoulders. In one hand the stately dame
lightly swung a bag that was worthy of holding the Great Seal itself,
so rich and so elaborate were its materials and embroidery; and in the
other she at length took a glass which was suspended from her neck by
a chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flashing eye, as dark as her
ebon curls and as brilliant as her well-rouged cheek, at the surrounding
scene.
The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed next, and then came
forth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best-dressed, and, stranger
than all, oldest little lady in the world. Lady Bellair was of childlike
stature, and quite erect, though ninety years of age; the tasteful
simplicity of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her grey
silk dress, her apron, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella shoes,
all admirably contrasted with the vast and flaunting splendour of
her companion, not less than her ladyship’s small yet exquisitely
proportioned form, her highly-finished extremities, and her keen
sarcastic grey eye. The expression of her countenance now, however, was
somewhat serious. An arrival was an important moment that required all
her practised circumspection; there was so much to arrange, so much to
remember, and so much to observe.
The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his little mistress in
his arms, as he would a child, had planted her on the steps. And then
her ladyship’s clear, shrill, and now rather fretful voice was heard.
‘Here! where’s the butler? I don’t want you, stupid [addressing her
own servant], but the butler of the house, Mister’s butler; what is his
name, Mr. Twoshoes’ butler? I cannot remember names. Oh! you are there,
are you? I don’t want you. How is your master? How is your charming
lady? Where is the parrot? I don’t want it. Where’s the lady? Why don’t
you answer? Why do you stare so? Miss Temple! no! not Miss Temple! The
lady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd! To be sure so; why did
not you say so before? But she has got two names. Why don’t you say
both names? My dear,’ continued Lady Bellair, addressing her travelling
companion, ‘I don’t know your name. Tell all these good people your
name; your two names! I like people with two names. Tell them, my dear,
tell them; tell them your name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it is, Mrs.
Thingabob Twoshoes.’
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, though rather annoyed by this appeal, still
contrived to comply with the request in the most dignified manner; and
all the servants bowed to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.
To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady Bellair, after