CHAPTER V.
_Which Contains Something Very Unexpected_.
MISS TEMPLE had run up stairs to take off her bonnet; Ferdinand stoodbefore the wood fire in the salon. Its clear, fragrant flame wasagreeable after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill drive. Hewas musing over the charms of his Henrietta, and longing for herreappearance, when she entered; but her entrance filled him with alarm.She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An expression ofdread was impressed on her agitated countenance. Ere he could speak sheheld forth her hand to his extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled.
'Good God! you are ill!' he exclaimed. 'No!' she faintly murmured, 'notill.' And then she paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head witheyes fixed upon the ground.
The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had she heard------
But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. 'Pardon me, dearest,'she said; 'I am agitated; I shall soon be better.'
He held her hand with firmness while she leant upon his shoulder. Aftera few minutes of harrowing silence, she said in a smothered voice, 'Papareturns to-morrow.'
Ferdinand turned as pale as she; the blood fled to his heart, his frametrembled, his knees tottered, his passive hand scarcely retained hers;he could not speak. All the possible results of this return flashedacross his mind, and presented themselves in terrible array to hisalarmed imagination. He could not meet Mr. Temple; that was out of thequestion. Some explanation must immediately and inevitably ensue, andthat must precipitate the fatal discovery. The great object was toprevent any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratcliffe beforeFerdinand had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished hehad not postponed his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted Arminewhen first convinced of the hard necessity, the harrowing future wouldnow have been the past, the impending scenes, however dreadful, wouldhave ensued; perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, witha clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no difficulties toovercome but those which must necessarily arise from Mr. Temple'snatural consideration for the welfare of his child. These, howeverdifficult to combat, seemed light in comparison with the perplexitiesof his involved situation. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hungover her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathyfor her distress, but which, in truth, was rather to be attributed tohis own uncertain purpose, and to the confusion of an invention which henow ransacked for desperate expedients.
While he was thus revolving in his mind the course which he must nowpursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressedher hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid all the resourcesof his imagination. It at length appeared to him that the only modeby which he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerousexplanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engagement. Therewas great difficulty, he was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. MissTemple was devoted to her father; and though for a moment led away, bythe omnipotent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into acompact without the sanction of her parent, her present agitation tooclearly indicated her keen sense that she had not conducted herselftowards him in her accustomed spirit of unswerving and immaculate duty;that, if not absolutely indelicate, her behaviour must appear to himvery inconsiderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling! What,to that father, that fond and widowed father, of whom she was the onlyand cherished child! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all hisanxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, hercomfort, her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, hispride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the smilesand tears of long, long years, all passed before her, till at last shereleased herself with a quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and,clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so bitter, so profound,so full of anguish, that Ferdinand started from his seat.
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'Henrietta!' he exclaimed, 'my beloved Henrietta!'
'Leave me,' she replied, in a tone almost of sternness.
He rose and walked up and down the room, overpowered by contendingemotions. The severity of her voice, that voice that hitherto hadfallen upon his ear like the warble of a summer bird, filled him withconsternation. The idea of having offended her, of having seriouslyoffended her, of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinityto whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devotion, inwhose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration to say he lived andhad his being, the idea of being to her, even for a transient moment,an object of repugnance, seemed something too terrible for thought,too intolerable for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all hisimpending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared with this unforeseenand sudden visitation. Oh! what was future evil, what was tomorrow,pregnant as it might be with misery, compared with the quick agonyof the instant? So long as she smiled, every difficulty appearedsurmountable; so long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness,there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. Come whatmay, throned in the palace of her heart, he was a sovereign who mightdefy the world in arms; but, thrust from that great seat, he was afugitive without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, exhausted,broken-hearted!
And she had bid him leave her. Leave her! Henrietta Temple had bid himleave her! Did he live? Was this the same world in which a few hoursback he breathed, and blessed his God for breathing? What had happened?What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work this awful, thisportentous change? Why, if she had known all, if she had suddenly sharedthat sharp and perpetual woe ever gnawing at his own secret heart, evenamid his joys; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had betrayed to herhis distressing secret, could she have said more? Why, it was to shunthis, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, that he hadinvolved himself in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties.Inextricable they must be now; for where, now, was the inspiration thatbefore was to animate him to such great exploits? How could he struggleany longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny? All thatremained for him now was to die; and, in the madness of his sensations,death seemed to him the most desirable consummation.
The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified and miserable,at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of harassed love, might haveinstantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him withsuch unexpected and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of themorrow, the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity fortheir undisturbed communion, the recollection that, at all events, theirtemporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checkedhis first impulse. Besides, it must not be concealed that more than onceit occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit Henriettato meet her father in her present mood. With her determined spiritand strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feelings;smarting, too, under the consciousness of having parted with Ferdinandin anger, and of having treated him with injustice; and, therefore,doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probabilitywould instantly ensue; and Ferdinand recoiled at present from theconsequences of any explanations.
Unhappy Ferdinand! It seemed to him that he had never known miserybefore. He wrung his hands in despair; his mind seemed to desert him.Suddenly he stopped; he looked at Henrietta; her face was still pale,her eyes fixed upon the decaying embers of the fire, her attitudeunchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did notchoose to recognise it. What were her thoughts?
Still of her father? Perhaps she contrasted that fond and faithfulfriend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt ofgratitude, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment ofinsanity, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps,in the spirit of self-torment, she conjured up against this toosuccessful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust,and deceit; recalled to her recollection the too just and too frequenttales of man's impurity and ingratitude; and tortured herself by herown apparition, the merited victim of
his harshness, his neglect, or hisdesertion. And when she had at the same time both shocked and alarmedher fancy by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted by theseimaginary vexations, and eager for consolation in her dark despondency,she may have recurred to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow andapprehension, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty and injustice forvisiting on his head the mere consequences of her own fitful and morbidtemper. She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, his unceasingadmiration; she may have recollected those impassioned accents thatthrilled her heart, those glances of rapturous affection that fixed hereye with fascination. She may have conjured up that form over which oflate she had mused in a trance of love, that form bright with so muchbeauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned with so much intelligence,and hallowed by every romantic association that could melt the heart ormould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured up this form, that wasthe god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy ofdevotion.
The shades of evening were fast descending, the curtains of the chamberwere not closed, the blaze of the fire had died away. The flickeringlight fell upon the solemn countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buriedin the shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame.
On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to be heard, kneltat her side, and, not venturing to touch her hand, pressed his lips toher arm, and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive tenderness,murmured, 'What have I done?'
She turned, her eyes met his, a wild expression of fear, surprise,delight, played over hen countenance; then, bursting into tears, shethrew her arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast.
He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emotions. Histhrobbing heart responded to her tumultuous soul. At length, when thestrength of her passionate affections had somewhat decreased, when theconvulsive sobs had subsided into gentle sighs, and ever and anon hefelt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful love and hercharming repentance upon his bosom, he dared to say, 'Oh! my Henrietta,you did not doubt your Ferdinand?'
'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I amvery wicked.'
Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, butvery low voice, 'Now tell me, why were you unhappy?'
'Papa,' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day should come when Ishould grieve to meet him!'
'And why should my darling grieve?' said Ferdinand.
'I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It isno crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almostfelt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can beeither wrong or unhappy to love you.'
'Bless you, for such sweet words,' replied Ferdinand. 'If my heart canmake you happy, felicity shall be your lot.'
'It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness.'
'And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand whenhe said this]--he will be happy too?'
'So I would hope.'
'If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,' continued Ferdinand,'Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law.'
'Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear youcall him father.'
'Then what alarms my child?'
'I hardly know,' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. 'I think--I thinkit is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went,he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It isa life to us; to him, I fear,' and she hid her face, 'it is only------afortnight.'
'We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in thisfortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued alife.'
'That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we knowit. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel likeus. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, thoughthe dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he hasno thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papanaturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man ofthe world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of menand life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean inour favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not thinkthey are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility.There is no person more clever and more judicious than papa. No personis more considerate. But there are characters so rare, that men of theworld do not admit them into their general calculations, and such isyours, Ferdinand.'
Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but he pressed her hand,though he said nothing.
'He will think we have known each other too short a time,' continuedMiss Temple. 'He will be mortified, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him Iam no longer his.'
'Then do not inform him,' said Ferdinand.
She started.
'Let me inform him,' continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to hismeaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye.
'Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every burthen!' exclaimedMiss Temple. 'How generous and good you are! No, it would be better forme to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret fromyou, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. Thisis the truth; I do not repent the past, I glory in it; I am yours, andI am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would notfalter. But I cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my father isconcerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, withrespect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were heto regret, he could not blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, hewill blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing morethan love you--my engagement--without his advice, his sanction, hisknowledge, or even his suspicion!'
'You take too refined a view of our situation,' replied Ferdinand. 'Whyshould you not spare your father the pain of such a communication, ifpainful it would be? What has passed is between ourselves, and ought tobe between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand,and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enough?'
'I have never concealed anything from papa,' said Henrietta, 'but I willbe guided by you.'
'Leave, then, all to me,' said Ferdinand; 'be guided but by the judgmentof your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, and believe me all will go right.I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?' hecontinued enquiringly.
'It shall be so.'
'Then arises the question,' said Ferdinand, 'when it would be mostadvisable for me to make the communication. Now your father, Henrietta,who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I domake it, I shall be prepared to speak definitely to him upon all mattersof business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling with him. Togo and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man ofthe world like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, withoutshowing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining afamily, is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, hewould be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, settle somethingfirst with Sir Ratcliffe.
Much, you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still,sweet love, there must at least be an appearance of providence andmanagement. We must not disgust your father with our union.'
'Oh! how can he be disgusted?'
'Dear one! This, then, is what I propose; that, as to-morrow we mustcomparatively be separated, I should take advantage of the next fewdays, and get to Bath, and bring affairs to some arrangement. Until myreturn I would advise you to say nothing to your father.'
'How can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances?'exclaimed Miss Temple; 'how can I meet his eye, how can I speak to himwith the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollectionthat, all the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heartis yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of futurecompanionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an etern
al separation!'
'Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted youlast night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had oncethought of, and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I hadreturned to make my communication: would you style your silence, undersuch circumstances, a secret engagement? No, no, dear love; this isan abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent'sfeelings.'
'O Ferdinand! would we were united, and had no cares!'
'You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if,after passing to-morrow with your father, you expected me on thenext day to communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secretengagement because six or seven days are to elapse before thiscommunication takes place, instead of one? My Henrietta is indeedfighting with shadows!'
'Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappy when I think ofthis.'
'Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, theday will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flowsmoothly yet, and we shall all yet live at Armine, Mr. Temple and all.'
'Papa likes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if youoffended him.'
'Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to Sir Ratcliffefirst.'
'Do you, indeed, think so?'
'Indeed I am certain.'
'But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? Must you really go?Must we, indeed, be separated? I cannot believe it; it is inconceivable;it is impossible; I cannot endure it.'
'It is, indeed, terrible,' said Ferdinand. 'This consideration alonereconciles me to the necessity: I know my father well; his only answerto a communication of this kind would be an immediate summons to hisside. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place whenwe must necessarily be much less together than before, than at a laterperiod, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanctionof our parents?'
'O Ferdinand! you reason, I only feel.'
Such an observation from one's mistress is rather a reproach thana compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whoseprincipal characteristic was, perhaps, a too dangerous susceptibility;a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tendertemper; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse ofsentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration tohis heart. The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for however shorta period, was absolute agony to him; he found difficulty in conceivingexistence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their partingeven for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. The onlyprocess, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for theimpending sorrow would have been the frank indulgence of the feelingswhich it called forth. Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim ofcircumstances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being whomhe idolised; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart,lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head; and,while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps,existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged toendure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute to him adeficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much; he covered his eyes withhis hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, 'Alas! my Henrietta, ifyou knew all, you would not say this!'
'My Ferdinand,' she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholytone, 'why, what is this? you weep! What have I said, what done? DearestFerdinand, do not do this.' And she threw herself on her knees beforehim, and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection.
He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. 'OHenrietta!' he exclaimed, 'we have been so happy!'
'And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I amso sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shallthink of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. Itwas so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good.'
'Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together to-morrow,Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for amoment escape from your memory.'
'Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be atevery hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a littleword; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!'
'And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?'
Henrietta looked perplexed. 'Papa opens the bag every morning, and everymorning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done'?'
'I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for yourletters.'
'I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will lookso--so--so--clandestine.'
'I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante.'
'Ferdinand!'
''Tis only for a week.'
'O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things.'
'My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate weshould be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall writeto you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believeonly in evil!'
'Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longerto regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible forall that affects my honour or my heart.'
'A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory ofmy ancestors.'
The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. 'It is so late, and wein darkness here! What will they think? Ferdinand, sweetest, rousethe fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then------' Her voicefaltered.
'And then------' echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he couldnot command his voice.
''Tis your guitar,' said Henrietta; 'I am happy that it is left behind.'
The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire,arranged the room, and withdrew.
'Little knows he our misery,' said Henrietta. 'It seemed strange, when Ifelt my own mind, that there could be anything so calm and mechanical inthe world.'
Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeedarrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did notspeak. She reclined on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed herhandkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearlytempted to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, andawait his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, andthen he remembered that, at all events, tomorrow he must not appear atDucie. 'Henrietta!' he at length said.
'A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute,' she exclaimed in an excited tone;'do not speak, I am preparing myself.'
He remained in his leaning posture; and in a few moments Miss Templerose and said, 'Now, Ferdinand, I am ready.' He looked round. Hercountenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm.
'Let us embrace,' she said, 'but let us say nothing.'
He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He imprinted a thousand kisseson her cold lips; she received them with no return. Then she said in alow voice, 'Let me leave the room first;' and, giving him one kiss uponhis forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared.
When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggering step quittedDucie, he found the night so dark that it was with extreme difficultyhe traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove. The absolutenecessity of watching every step he took in some degree diverted hismind from his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was soclose, that he congratulated himself when he had gained its skirts; butjust as he was about to emerge upon the common, and was looking forwardto the light of some cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, aflash of lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to descendlike a flight of fiery steps from the highest heavens to the lowestearth, revealed to him for a moment the whole broad bosom of the common,and showed to him that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbedas his own heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald ofDoomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers. They began to moan andlow to the rising
wind, and cluster under the trees, that sent forthwith their wailing branches sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild.Avoiding the woods, and striking into the most open part of the country,Ferdinand watched the progress of the tempest.
For the wind had now risen to such a height that the leaves and branchesof the trees were carried about in vast whirls and eddies, while thewaters of the lake, where in serener hours Ferdinand was accustomedto bathe, were lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouringsettlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, and then theforked lightning, pouring down at the same time from opposite quartersof the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour,the wide-spreading scene of danger and devastation.
Now descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, that it was asif a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand gasped for breath beneath itsoppressive power; while the blaze of the variegated lightning, thecrash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind, all simultaneouslyin movement, indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then thatstrange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the unrulyand disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, and seem toconcentrate their energies for an increased and final explosion. Itcame at last; and the very earth seemed to rock in the passage of thehurricane.
Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one solitary being alonebeheld them without terror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm,as nature became more disturbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind.He contrasted the present tumult and distraction with the sweet andbeautiful serenity which the same scene had presented when, a short timeback, he first beheld it. His love, too, had commenced in stillness andin sunshine; was it, also, to end in storm and in destruction?
BOOK IV.