Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
‘Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Grandison?’ enquired
Mr. Temple.
‘Oh! there is no doubt in the world,’ said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.
‘Everything is quite settled. My most particular friend, Lady Julia
Harteville, is to be one of the bridesmaids. I have seen all the
presents. Both the families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the
happy pair together every day. They are related, you know. It is an
excellent match, for the Armines have great estates, mortgaged to
the very last acre. I have heard that Sir Ratcliffe Armine has not a
thousand a year he can call his own. We are all so pleased,’ added Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite one of the family. ‘Is it not
delightful?’
‘They are to be married next month,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I did not quite
make the match, but I did something. I love the Grandisons, because Lord
Grandison was my son’s friend fifty years ago.’
‘I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Armine is,’ continued Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd. ‘The truth is, Captain Armine has been wild, very wild
indeed; a little of a _roue_; but then such a fine young man, so very
handsome, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could you
expect? But he has sown his wild oats now. They have been engaged these
six months; ever since he came from abroad. He has been at Bath all the
time, except for a fortnight or so, when he went to his Place to make
the necessary preparations. We all so missed him. Captain Armine was
quite the life of Bath I am almost ashamed to repeat what was said of
him,’ added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, blushing through her rouge; ‘but they
said every woman was in love with him.’
‘Fortunate man!’ said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a grave expression.
‘And he says, he is only going to marry because he is wearied of
conquests,’ continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; ‘how impertinent, is it
not? But Captain Armine says such things! He is quite a privileged
person at Bath!’
Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of general retirement
had arrived, she had not returned. Her maid brought a message that
her mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses for not again
descending.
CHAPTER VII.
_In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter’s
Chamber_.
HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gained
her own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealed
sufficient.
She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapable
of thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had she
remained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when her
servant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked
when, on turning round, she beheld her mistress.
This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity of
some exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewed
interruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with an
effort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to her
father which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she
wished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form and
shape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she might
remain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy for
her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lost
its tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet,
as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come her
heart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless;
there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an end
of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life
delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rare
accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries,
and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! And
he had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be,
could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, had
adored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of
his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him
her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections,
worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring upon
its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It was
not life; it was frenzy!
Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feigned
sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut and
her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step
approached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she had
herself deceived. She knew it was her father.
Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressed
his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved
her. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand without
opening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his.
‘Henrietta,’ he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness.
‘Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause to
reproach me. Spare me; spare your child.’
‘I came to console, not to reproach,’ said Mr. Temple. ‘But if it please
you, I will not speak; let me, however, remain.’
‘Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion,
my fatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I know not, I feel that you
know all!’
‘I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all.’
‘And if you knew all, you would not hate me?’
‘Hate you, my Henrietta! These are strange words to use to a father; to
a father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your
father loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me as
your earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend.’
She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not.
‘Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question.’
‘I tremble, sir.’
‘Then we will speak to-morrow.’
‘Oh! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me;
I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak; I
will answer any questions. My conscience is quite clear except to you;
no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my father.’
‘He never will. But, dearest, tell me; summon up your courage to meet my
question. Are you engaged to this person?’
‘I was.’
‘Positively engaged?’
‘Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. He
left me only to speak to his father.’
‘This may be the idle tattle of women?’
‘No, no,’ said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; ‘my fears had
foreseen this dark reality. This week has been a week of terror to me;
and yet I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Oh! what a fool have I been.’
‘I know this person was your constant companion in my absence; that you
have corresponded with him. Has he written very recently?’
‘Within two days.’
‘And his letters?’
‘Have been of late most vague. Oh! my father, indeed, indeed I have
not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from
this secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, this
clandestine correspondence; but it was only for a week, a single week;
and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas! alas!
all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexed in his
views and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with
contempt,--all is now too clear.’
‘Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.’
‘Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if you
only wish to spare me.’
‘Cling to my heart, my child. A father’s love has comfort. Is it not
so?’
‘I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I never
can be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I have
a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear
father,’ she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple’s neck
and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful
voice, ‘henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgrace
you; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour to
atone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.’
‘My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness
only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to
stem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you,
my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you.
Try to sleep; try to compose yourself.’
‘These people--to-morrow--what shall I do?’
‘Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You need
appear no more.’
‘Oh! that no human being might again see me!’
‘Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy.
To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my own
Henrietta.’
Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in as
calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; and
then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait
of his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adorned
with her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some
time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance in
his hands. He sobbed convulsively.
CHAPTER VIII.
_In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_.
IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every
now and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissing
rain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled,
and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in
the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of
the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts
seemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell into
fits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of
anxiety than study.
The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, and
heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closed
his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet an
ancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his
Redeemer.
Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for the
soul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent from
his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated
his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the
sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of his
outer chamber.
Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and
enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing a
well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdinand
Armine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him.
Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire,
retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat.
‘You are wet; I fear thoroughly?’
‘It matters not,’ said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice.
‘From Bath?’ enquired Glastonbury.
But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter
wretchedness, ‘Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of
human beings.’
The good father started.
‘Yes!’ continued Ferdinand; ‘this is the end of all your care, all your
affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house is
fated; my life draws to an end.’
‘Speak, my Ferdinand,’ said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have