CHAPTER I.
_Which Contains a Love-Letter_.
LET us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the preceding portionof this history, the development of that passion which is at once theprinciple and end of our existence; that passion compared to whosedelights all the other gratifications of our nature--wealth, and power,and fame, sink into insignificance; and which, nevertheless, by theineffable beneficence of our Creator, is open to his creatures of allconditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever be the lot of man, howeverunfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he muststrike a balance in favour of existence; for love can illumine the darkroof of poverty, and can lighten the fetters of the slave.
But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with itssupport, so also the most splendid situations of our life are wearisomewithout its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress asmagnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds and thebreath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot ofwoman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would never havebeen gained: it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, thatanimates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides ourbrain in the august toils of stately councils.
But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in itsdispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes a power sovast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experiencedfor the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting,fascinating and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings thatlife may develop, there is no one, however callous or constrained he mayhave become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory of _firstlove_.
The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It isthe dark conviction that feelings the most ardent may yet grow cold, andthat emotions the most constant and confirmed are, nevertheless, liableto change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, thoughthey may spring from a heart that has lost little of its originalfreshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotionthan was our first idol. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that forever we must behold it with the same adoration; that those eyes, inwhose light we live, will for ever meet ours with mutual glances ofrapture and devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation withothers sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless expressionof our affection; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice; and tobelieve that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world,pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast;oh! must this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no hope forthem so full of hope? no pity for them so abounding with love?
And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when the formervotaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and engrossing can meet eachother with indifference, almost with unconsciousness, and recall withan effort their vanished scenes of felicity, that quick yet profoundsympathy, that ready yet boundless confidence, all that charmingabandonment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness thatanticipates all our wants and all our wishes? It makes the heart achebut to picture such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are imagesfull of distress, and misery, and gloom. The knowledge that such changescan occur flits over the mind like the thought of death, obscuringall our gay fancies with its bat-like wing, and tainting the healthyatmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. It is not somuch ruined cities that were once the capital glories of the world, ormouldering temples breathing with oracles no more believed, or archesof triumph which have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up tocelebrate, that fill the mind with half so mournful an expression ofthe instability of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of exhaustedaffections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired passion.
The morning, which broke sweet, and soft, and clear, brought Ferdinand,with its first glimmer, a letter from Henrietta.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand._
Mine own! I have not lain down the whole night. What a terrible, whatan awful night! To think that he was in the heart of that fearful storm!What did, what could you do? How I longed to be with you! And I couldonly watch the tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at every flashof lightning, in the vain hope that it might reveal him! Is he well, ishe unhurt? Until my messenger return I can imagine only evil. How oftenI was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I thought itmust be useless, and might displease him! I knew not what to do. I beatabout my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, myFerdinand; conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you feelthe least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write to me one line,only one line, to tell me you are well. I shall be in despair until Ihear from you. Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on my pony.He promises to return in a very, very short time. I pray for you, as Iprayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it would neverend. God bless you, my Ferdinand! Write only one word to your own
Henrietta.
_Ferdinand to Henrietta_.
Sweetest, dearest Henrietta!
I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever.Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand! A wet jacket, and Iexperienced no greater evil, does not frighten me. The storm wasmagnificent; I would not have missed it for the world. But I regret itnow, because my Henrietta did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come onto you! Your page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line.God bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless Henrietta! Wordscannot tell you how I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. Thy
Ferdinand.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand._
No! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it would be silly.We could only be together a moment, and, though a moment with you isheaven, I cannot endure again the agony of parting. O Ferdinand! whathas that separation not cost me! Pangs that I could not conceive anyhuman misery could occasion. My Ferdinand, may we some day be happy! Itseems to me now that happiness can never come again. And yet I ought tobe grateful that he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess toyou before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so foolish thatI thought every flash of lightning must descend on your head. I darenot now own how foolish I was. God be praised that he is well. But is hesure that he is _quite_ well? If you have the slightest cold, dearest,do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed.Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me; you are a man and a soldier; youlaugh at a woman's caution.
Ohl my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you wereill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisitehappiness, would that be!
Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealingour engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear notthat; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit;but I feel the burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, morethan I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can annoyyou, especially at this moment, when I feel from my own heart how youmust require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I havesuch confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convincedyou have acted wisely; but come back as soon as you can. I know it mustbe more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out byyour affection. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath; and I know,Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess.But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to me at thepost-office, as you settled.
If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The consciousnessthat you are so near makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papawill be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command.
Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too evident. See, theyfall upon the page. Think of me always. Never let your Henrietta beabsent from your thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is! Yourguitar is on the sofa; a ghost of departed joy!
Farewell, Ferdinand! I cannot
write, I cannot restrain my tears. I knownot what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to seehim. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see youhere!
Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish you, and bless you.Think always of me. Would that this pen could express the depth anddevotion of my feelings!
Henrietta.