Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
must exist in all capitals.
‘You have no idea,’ he said, turning to Henrietta, ‘what amiable and
accomplished people are the better order of Italians. I wish you would
let me light up this dark house some night, and give you an Italian
party.’
‘I should like it very much,’ said Mr. Temple.
Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative Lord Montfort always
implied her assent, and it was resolved that the Italian party should be
given.
All the best families in Rome were present, and not a single English
person. There were some perhaps, whom Lord Montfort might have wished
to invite, but Miss Temple had chanced to express a wish that no English
might be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion.
The palace was magnificently illuminated. Henrietta had scarcely seen
before its splendid treasures of art. Lord Montfort, in answer to her
curiosity, had always playfully depreciated them, and said that they
must be left for rainy days. The most splendid pictures and long rows
of graceful or solemn statues were suddenly revealed to her; rooms and
galleries were opened that had never been observed before; on all sides
cabinets of vases, groups of imperial busts, rare bronzes, and vivid
masses of tesselated pavement. Over all these choice and beautiful
objects a clear yet soft light was diffused, and Henrietta never
recollected a spectacle more complete and effective.
These rooms and galleries were soon filled with guests, and Henrietta
could not be insensible to the graceful and engaging dignity with which
Lord Montfort received the Roman world of fashion. That constraint
which at first she had attributed to reserve, but which of late she
had ascribed to modesty, now entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always
dignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitous, it seemed that he had a
pleasing word for every ear, and a particular smile for every face. She
stood at some distance leaning on her father’s arm, and watching him.
Suddenly he turned and looked around. It was they whom he wished to
catch. He came up to Henrietta and said, ‘I wish to introduce you to the
Princess------.
She is an old lady, but of the first distinction here. I would not ask
this favour of you unless I thought you would be pleased.’
Henrietta could not refuse his request. Lord Montfort presented her and
her father to the princess, the most agreeable and important person in
Rome; and having now provided for their immediate amusement, he had time
to attend to his guests in general. An admirable concert now, in
some degree, hushed the general conversation. The voices of the most
beautiful women in Rome echoed in those apartments. When the music
ceased, the guests wandered about the galleries, and at length the
principal saloons were filled with dancers. Lord Montfort approached
Miss Temple. ‘There is one room in the palace you have never yet
visited,’ he said, ‘my tribune; ‘tis open to-night for the first time.’
Henrietta accepted his proffered arm. ‘And how do you like the
princess?’ he said, as they walked along. ‘It is agreeable to live in a
country where your guests amuse themselves.’
At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived an open door
which admitted them into a small octagon chamber, of Ionic architecture.
The walls were not hung with pictures, and one work of art alone
solicited their attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry,
surrounded by a rail of bronze arrows of the lightest workmanship, was
that statue of Diana which they had so much admired at Pisa. The cheek,
by an ancient process, the secret of which has been recently regained at
Rome, was tinted with a delicate glow.
‘Do you approve of it?’ said Lord Montfort to the admiring Henrietta.
‘Ah, dearest Miss Temple,’ he continued, ‘it is my happiness that the
rose has also returned to a fairer cheek than this.’
CHAPTER V.
_Which Contains Some Rather Painful Explanations_.
THE reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the Marquis of
Montfort soon became the declared admirer of Miss Temple. He made the
important declaration after a very different fashion from the unhappy
Ferdinand Armine: he made it to the lady’s father. Long persuaded that
Miss Temple’s illness had its origin in the mind, and believing that in
that case the indisposition of the young lady had probably arisen, from
one cause or another, in the disappointment of her affections, Lord
Montfort resolved to spare her feelings, unprepared, the pain of a
personal appeal. The beauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, and
the languid melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admiration and
pity, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, but
gifted with great self-control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple the
conviction that impelled him to the course which he had thought proper
to pursue, and this delicate conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from
the unavoidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Temple contented
himself with communicating to Lord Montfort that his daughter had
indeed entered into an engagement with one who was not worthy of her
affections, and that the moment her father had been convinced of the
character of the individual, he had quitted England with his daughter.
He expressed his unqualified approbation of the overture of Lord
Montfort, to whom he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratified
all those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally not
exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the only mode by which
his daughter’s complete recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort in
himself offered everything which it would seem that the reasonable fancy
of woman could desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished,
sincere, and exceedingly clever; while, at the same time, as Mr.
Temple was well aware, his great position would insure that reasonable
gratification of vanity from which none are free, which is a fertile
source of happiness, and which would, at all times, subdue any bitter
recollections which might occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect of
his daughter.
It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his abandoned
profession, now indulging in intimations and now in panegyric,
conveying to his daughter, with admirable skill, how much the intimate
acquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually
fanning the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which already had
been excited in his daughter’s heart, into one of zealous regard, and
finally seizing his opportunity with practised felicity, it was Mr.
Temple who had at length ventured to communicate to his daughter the
overture which had been confided to him.
Henrietta shook her head.
‘I have too great a regard for Lord Montfort to accede to his wishes,’
said Miss Temple. ‘He deserves something better than a bruised spirit,
if not a broken heart.’
‘But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an impracticable
view of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the best judge of what will
contribute to his own happiness.’
‘Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion,’ replied Miss Temple. ‘If he
knew all that had occurred he would shrink from blending his life with
mine.’
‘Lord Montfort knows everything,’ said the father, ‘that is, everything
he should know.’
‘Indeed!’ said Miss Temple. ‘I wonder he does not look upon me with
contempt; at the least, with pity.’
‘He loves you, Henrietta,’ said her father.
‘Ah! love, love, love! name not love to me. No, Lord Montfort cannot
love me. It is not love that he feels.’
‘You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. Are not these
proofs of love?’
‘Generous, good young man!’ exclaimed Henrietta; ‘I respect, I admire
him; I might have loved him. But it is too late.’
‘My beloved daughter, oh! do not say so! For my sake, do not say so,’
exclaimed Mr. Temple. ‘I have no wish, I have had no wish, my child, but
for your happiness. Lean upon your father, listen to him, be guided by
his advice. Lord Montfort possesses every quality which can contribute
to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never met. There is
not a woman in the world, however exalted her rank, however admirable
her beauty, however gifted her being, who might not feel happy and
honoured in the homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter,
that this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, were it to
occur, I could die content. I should have no more cares, no more hopes.
All would then have happened that the most sanguine parent, even with
such a child as you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy! For
his sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant his
wish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy of you.’
‘I am not worthy of him,’ said Henrietta, in a melancholy voice.
‘Ah, Henrietta, who is like you!’ exclaimed the fond and excited father.
At this moment a servant announced that Lord Montfort would, with
their permission, wait upon them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought.
Suddenly she said, ‘I cannot rest until this is settled. Papa, leave me
with him a few moments alone.’ Mr. Temple retired.
A faint blush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he perceived
that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself at her side, but he was
unusually constrained.
‘My dear Lord Montfort,’ said Miss Temple,’ calmly, ‘I have to speak
upon a painful subject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that I
shall not shrink from this. Papa has informed me this morning that you
have been pleased to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay a
woman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge it in terms the
strongest and the warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, the
high honour that you have intended me. It is indeed an honour of which
any woman might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I know
the worth. No one can appreciate the value of your character better
than myself. I do justice, full justice, to your virtues, your
accomplishments, your commanding talents, and your generous soul. Except
my father, there is no one who holds so high a place in my affection
as yourself. You have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and true
friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. More than friends we
never can be, for I have no heart to give.’
‘Ah, dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, agitated, ‘I ask nothing
but that friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant society; let
the world recognise my right to be your consoler.’
‘You deserve a better and a brighter fate. I should not be your friend
if I could enter into such an engagement.’
‘The only aim of my life is to make you happy,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend,’ said Henrietta
Temple, ‘and I _am_ happy. How different is the world to me from what
it was before I knew you! Ah, why will you disturb this life of
consolation? Why will you call me back to recollections that I would
fain banish? Why------’
‘Dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘do not reproach me! You
make me wretched. Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought this
conversation; that if I were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I
at least took precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their
nonfulfilment.’
‘Best and most generous of men! I would not for the world be unkind to
you. Pardon my distracted words. But you know all? Has papa told you
all? It is my wish.’
‘It is not mine,’ replied Lord Montfort; ‘I wish not to penetrate your
sorrows, but only to soothe them.’
‘Oh, if we had but met earlier,’ said Henrietta Temple; ‘if we had but
known each other a year ago! when I was, not worthy of you, but more
worthy of you. But now, with health shattered, the lightness of my