Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
that is the truth. I will leave you now, love, and send the nurse, for
my presence excites you. Try to sleep, love.’ And Lady Armine rang the
bell, and quitted the room.
CHAPTER XIV.
_In Which Some Light Is Thrown upon Some Circumstances Which
Were Before Rather Mysterious_.
LADY ARMINE now proposed that the family should meet in Ferdinand’s room
after dinner; but Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects generally
prevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. It was therefore but
once acted upon during the week that followed the scene described in
our last chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had so severe a
headache, that it was quite impossible for her to join the circle. At
length, however, Ferdinand made his appearance below, and established
himself in the library: it now, therefore, became absolutely necessary
that Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered state of
her betrothed, which had at first apparently so much affected her
sensibility, and, by the united influence of habit and Mr. Glastonbury,
it is astonishing what progress she made. She even at last could so
command her feelings, that she apparently greatly contributed to his
amusement. She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him.
Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often offered him her
arm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist observing a great difference
in her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted her at Bath.
Far from conducting herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as if
her claim to be his companion were irresistible, her carriage, on the
contrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; she annoyed him with
no expressions of fondness, and listened to the kind words which he
occasionally urged himself to bestow upon her with a sentiment of grave
regard and placid silence, which almost filled him with astonishment.
One morning, the weather being clear and fine, Ferdinand insisted that
his mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted his side, should drive out
with Sir Ratcliffe; and, as he would take no refusal, Lady Armine agreed
to comply. The carriage was ordered, was at the door; and as Lady Armine
bade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and took the arm of
Miss Grandison, who seemed on the point of retiring; for Glastonbury
remained, and therefore Ferdinand was not without a companion.
‘I will see you go off,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Adieu!’ said Lady Armine. ‘Take care of him, dear Kate,’ and the
phaeton was soon out of sight.
‘It is more like May than January,’ said Ferdinand to his cousin. ‘I
fancy I should like to walk a little.’
‘Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury?’ said Katherine.
‘Not if my arm be not too heavy for you,’ said Ferdinand. So they
walked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until they arrived at a
garden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose flowers Henrietta Temple so
much admired. It had no flowers now, but seemed as desolate as their
unhappy loves.
‘A moment’s rest,’ said Ferdinand, and sighed. ‘Dear Kate, I wish to
speak to you.’
Miss Grandison turned pale.
‘I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I would endeavour to
relieve myself.’
Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. ‘It concerns you,
Katherine.’
Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at this strange
address.
‘If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miserable and
broken-hearted man,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘I might shrink from this
communication; I might delegate to another this office, humiliating as
it then might be to me, painful as it must, under any circumstances,
be to you. But,’ and here his voice faltered, ‘but I am far beyond the
power of any mortification now. The world and the world’s ways touch me
no more. There is a duty to fulfil; I will fulfil it. I have offended
against you, my sweet and gentle cousin; grievously, bitterly,
infamously offended.’
‘No, no, no!’ murmured Miss Grandison.
‘Katherine, I am unworthy of you; I have deceived you. It is neither
for your honour nor your happiness that these ties which our friends
anticipate should occur between us. But, Katherine, you are avenged.’
‘Oh! I want no vengeance!’ muttered Miss Grandison, her face pale as
marble, her eyes convulsively closed. ‘Cease, cease, Ferdinand; this
conversation is madness; you will be ill again.’
‘No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is much to tell;
it must be told, if only that you should not believe that I was a
systematic villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another when I
breathed to you those vows.’
‘Oh! anything but that; speak of anything but that!’
Ferdinand took her hand.
‘Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle cousin, I admire, I
esteem you; I could die content if I could but see you happy. With your
charms and virtues I thought that we might be happy. My intentions were
as sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh! no, dear Katherine,
I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom.’
‘Have I accused you, Ferdinand?’
‘But you will when you know all.’
‘I do know all,’ said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice.
Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her cousin.
‘You do know all,’ he at length exclaimed. ‘And can you, knowing all,
live under the same roof with me? Can you see me? Can you listen to me?
Is not my voice torture to you? Do you not hate and despise me?’
‘It is not my nature to hate anything; least of all could I hate you.’
‘And could you, knowing all, still minister to my wants and watch my sad
necessities? This gentle arm of yours; could you, knowing all, let me
lean upon it this morning? O Katherine! a happy lot be yours, for you
deserve one!’
‘Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may be, some other
considerations prompted me. My feelings have not been so much considered
that they need now be analysed.’
‘Reproach me, Katherine, I deserve _your_ reproaches.’
‘Mine may not be the only reproaches that you have deserved, Ferdinand;
but permit me to remark, from me you have received none. I pity you, I
sincerely pity you.’
‘Glastonbury has told you?’ said Ferdinand.
‘That communication is among the other good offices we owe him,’ replied
Miss Grandison.
‘He told you?’ said Ferdinand enquiringly.
‘All that it was necessary I should know for your honour, or, as some
might think, for my own happiness; no more, I would listen to no more.
I had no idle curiosity to gratify. It is enough that your heart is
another’s; I seek not, I wish not, to know that person’s name.’
‘I cannot mention it,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but there is no secret from you.
Glastonbury may--should tell all.’
‘Amid the wretched she is not the least miserable,’ said Miss Grandison.
‘O Katherine!’ said Ferdinand, after a moment’s pause, ‘tell me that you
do not hate me; tell me that you pardon me; tell me that you think me
more mad than wicked!’
‘Ferdinand,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I think we are both unfortunate.’
‘I am without hope,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but you, Katherine, your life must
still be bright and fair.’
‘I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am alone in the
world. Your family are my only relations; I cling to them. Your mother
is my mother; I love her with the passion of a child. I looked upon our
union only as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound us
all. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family; theirs I feel
is staked upon you. It is the conviction of the total desolation that
must occur if our estrangement be suddenly made known to them, and you,
who are so impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, that
has induced me to sustain the painful part that I now uphold. This is
the reason that I would not reproach you, Ferdinand, that I would not
quarrel with you, that I would not desert them in this hour of their
affliction.’
‘Katherine, beloved Katherine!’ exclaimed the distracted Ferdinand, ‘why
did we ever part?’
‘No! Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For me, that separation,
however fruitful at the present moment in mortification and unhappiness,
must not be considered altogether an event of unmingled misfortune. In
my opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment than to
be neglected for a life.’
‘Despised! Katherine, for God’s sake, spare me; for God’s sake, do not
use such language! Despised! Katherine, at this moment I declare most
solemnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy I
am of you! Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot amend
it; but let me assure you that at this very hour there is no being on
earth I more esteem, more reverence than yourself.’
‘It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly believe that your feelings
towards me were otherwise than kind and generous. But let us understand
each other. I shall remain at present under this roof. Do not
misapprehend my views. I seek not to recall your affections. The past
has proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each other. I
have not those dazzling qualities that could enchain a fiery brain like
yours. I know myself; I know you; and there is nothing that would fill
me with more terror now than our anticipated union. And now, after
this frank conversation, let our future intercourse be cordial and
unembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. The feelings between us
should by nature be amiable: no incident has occurred to disturb them,
for I have not injured or offended you; and as for your conduct towards
me, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it.’
‘Katherine,’ said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, ‘kindest, most
generous of women! My heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, to
express what I feel. We are kinsfolk; let us be more. You say my mother
is your mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. Let me be
a brother to you; you shall find me, if I live, a faithful one.’
CHAPTER XV.
_Which Leaves Affairs in General in a Scarcely More
Satisfactory Position than the Former One_.
FERDINAND felt much calmer in his mind after this conversation with his
cousin. Her affectionate attention to him now, instead of filling him as
it did before with remorse, was really a source of consolation, if that
be not too strong a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughly
wretched as Captain Armine; for his terrible illness and impending death
had not in the slightest degree allayed or affected his profound passion
for Henrietta Temple. Her image unceasingly engaged his thoughts; he
still clung to the wild idea that she might yet be his. But his health
improved so slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily taking
any steps to induce such a result. All his enquiries after her, and
Glastonbury, at his suggestion, had not been idle, were quite fruitless.
He made no doubt that she had quitted England. What might not happen,
far away from him, and believing herself betrayed and deserted? Often
when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he regretted his
recovery.
Yet his family, thanks to the considerate conduct of his admirable
cousin, were still contented and happy. His slow convalescence was now
their only source of anxiety. They regretted the unfavourable season of
the year; they looked forward with hope to the genial influence of the
coming spring. That was to cure all their cares; and yet they might
well suspect, when they watched his ever pensive, and often suffering
countenance, that there were deeper causes than physical debility and
bodily pain to account for that moody and woe-begone expression. Alas!
how changed from that Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, and courage,