Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
this subject drop for ever.’
‘It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?’ continued Mr.
Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry.
‘What if he did? He has a right to do so.’
‘As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he
perhaps would be faithful.’
‘O Ferdinand!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes to
heaven, ‘and you must endure even this!’
‘Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as he
seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you
cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever
engrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessary
how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life.
If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It
was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine
correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom
I have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first
calculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, and
betray your heart.’
‘’Tis false,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; ‘he is as true
and pure as I am; more, much more,’ she added, in a voice of anguish.
‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing
sneer. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you
interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of Lord
Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world;
the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of
human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which,
even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the
affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith.
Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughter
of mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I know
well I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart,
and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that
ever descended on a daughter’s head.’
‘My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!’ exclaimed Miss
Temple, throwing herself at his feet. ‘Oh! do not say so; oh! recall
those words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart
is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God’s sake, pity me.’
‘I would do more than pity you; I would save you.’
‘It is not as you think,’ she continued, with streaming eyes: ‘indeed
it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has
behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate
manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My
friends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us.
He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from his
home, that we might not meet.’
‘You must marry Lord Montfort at once.’
‘Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not of
such terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me;
say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can
I recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows
all; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle.
Oh! my father!’
‘My Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple, moved; ‘my child!’
‘Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you have
spoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done him
great injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, you
would not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Once
you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you
meet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you would
pity him.’
CHAPTER XVII.
_In Which Ferdinand Has a Very Stormy Interview with His
Father_.
IF WE pause now to take a calm and comprehensive review of the state and
prospects of the three families, in whose feelings and fortunes we have
attempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, however
brilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the
elements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundly
discovered, and might even be held as rapidly stirring into movement.
Miss Temple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was
Captain Armine’s: Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, was
the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, in
fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. Temple more than suspected his
daughter’s partiality for Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprised
at seeing so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should
be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of which
he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his life.
The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an active
conspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and if he had a purpose to
conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a crisis.
Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which his son absented
himself from Brook-street, resolved upon bringing him to an explanation.
At first he thought there might be some lovers’ quarrel; but the
demeanour of Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of
her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He consulted his wife.
Now, to tell the truth, Lady Armine, who was a shrewd woman, was not
without her doubts and perplexities, but she would not confess them to
her husband. Many circumstances had been observed by her which filled
her with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon this cast,
and she was of a sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life.
Katherine appeared daily more attached to her, and Lady Armine was
quite of opinion that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She
endeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that everything was quite right,
and she assured him that the season would terminate, as all seasons
ought to terminate, by the marriage.
And perhaps Sir Ratcliffe would have followed her example, only it so
happened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son in
Grosvenor-square.
‘Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now,’ said Sir Ratcliffe.
‘Oh! you are all so gay,’ said Ferdinand. ‘How is my mother?’
‘She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon,
with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, for
he was now almost at his door.
The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little library
on the ground floor, which was his morning room.
‘We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Perhaps you
will come.’
‘Thank you, sir, I am engaged.’
‘It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not like
gaiety, it is very odd.’
‘Heigho!’ said Ferdinand. ‘How do you like your new horse, sir?’
‘Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘I do
not like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct; but the
anxiety of a parent will, I think, excuse the question I am about to
ask. When do you propose being married?’
‘Oh, I do not know exactly.’
‘Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year.
I cannot help thinking your conduct singular. There is nothing wrong
between you and Katherine, is there?’
‘Wrong, sir?’
‘Yes, wrong? I mean, is there any misunderstanding? Have you
quarrelled?’
‘No, sir, we have not quarrelled; we perfectly understand each other.’
‘I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is very
unlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I did not win your mother’s
heart by such proceedings.’
‘Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir?’
‘Certainly not, and that surprises me still more.’
Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted some
minutes. Sir Ratcliffe took up the newspaper; his son leant over the
mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty fire-place. At length he turned
round and said, ‘Father, I can bear this no longer; the engagement
between Katherine and myself is dissolved.’
‘Good God! when, and why?’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper
falling from his hand.
‘Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it.’
‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was so
overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw
himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still and
silent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible.
‘Speak again,’ at length said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Let me hear you speak
again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that your
engagement with your cousin has been long terminated?’
Ferdinand nodded assent.
‘Your poor mother!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. ‘This will kill her.’ He
rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.
‘I knew all was not right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘She will sink under
it; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!’
‘It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater than
yours.’
‘She will pardon you, my boy,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker and
kinder tone. ‘You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherine
is kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she will
pardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother has
great influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; you
are very young, all will yet be well.’
‘It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for you
yourself to do it, sir,’ said Ferdinand, in a tone of calmness.
‘You are not married to another?’
‘In faith; I am bound by a tie which I can never break.’
‘And who is this person?’
‘She must be nameless, for many reasons.’
‘Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, ‘you know not what you are doing.
My life, your mother’s, the existence of our family, hang upon your
conduct. Yet, yet there is time to prevent this desolation. I am
controlling my emotions; I wish you to save us, you, all! Throw yourself
at your cousin’s feet. She is soft-hearted; she may yet be yours!’
‘Dear father, it cannot be.’
‘Then-then, welcome ruin!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, in a hoarse voice.
‘And,’ he continued, pausing between every word, from the difficulty
of utterance, ‘if the conviction that you have destroyed all our hopes,
rewarded us for all our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every
fond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance,
poor fools, have clung and clung to; if this conviction can console you,
sir, enjoy it-----
‘Ferdinand! my son, my child, that I never have spoken an unkind word
to, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will be
home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with all
this misery. Tell me it is not true; recall what you have said; let us
forget these harsh words; reconcile yourself to your cousin; let us be
happy.’
‘Father, if my heart’s blood could secure your happiness, my life were
ready; but this I cannot do.’
‘Do you know what is at stake? Everything. All, all, all! We can see
Armine no more; our home is gone. Your mother and myself must be exiles.
Oh! you have not thought of this: say you have not thought of this.’
Ferdinand hid his face; his father, emboldened, urged the fond plea.
‘You will save us, Ferdinand, you will be our preserver? It is all
forgotten, is it not? It is a lovers’ quarrel, after all?’
‘Father, why should I trifle with your feelings? why should I feign what
can never be? This sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now to