CHAPTER VII.
_In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter's Chamber_.
HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gainedher own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealedsufficient.
She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapableof thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had sheremained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when herservant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shriekedwhen, on turning round, she beheld her mistress.
This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity ofsome exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewedinterruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with aneffort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to herfather which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How shewished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form andshape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she mightremain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy forher; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lostits tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet,as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come herheart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless;there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an endof beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made lifedelightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rareaccomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries,and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! Andhe had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be,could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, hadadored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light ofhis enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to himher life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections,worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring uponits swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It wasnot life; it was frenzy!
Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feignedsleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut andher back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender stepapproached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she hadherself deceived. She knew it was her father.
Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressedhis lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still lovedher. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand withoutopening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his.
'Henrietta,' he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness.
'Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause toreproach me. Spare me; spare your child.'
'I came to console, not to reproach,' said Mr. Temple. 'But if it pleaseyou, I will not speak; let me, however, remain.'
'Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion,my fatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I know not, I feel that youknow all!'
'I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all.'
'And if you knew all, you would not hate me?'
'Hate you, my Henrietta! These are strange words to use to a father; toa father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as yourfather loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me asyour earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend.'
She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not.
'Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question.'
'I tremble, sir.'
'Then we will speak to-morrow.'
'Oh! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me;I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak; Iwill answer any questions. My conscience is quite clear except to you;no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my father.'
'He never will. But, dearest, tell me; summon up your courage to meet myquestion. Are you engaged to this person?'
'I was.'
'Positively engaged?'
'Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. Heleft me only to speak to his father.'
'This may be the idle tattle of women?'
'No, no,' said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; 'my fears hadforeseen this dark reality. This week has been a week of terror to me;and yet I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Oh! what a fool have I been.'
'I know this person was your constant companion in my absence; that youhave corresponded with him. Has he written very recently?'
'Within two days.'
'And his letters?'
'Have been of late most vague. Oh! my father, indeed, indeed I havenot conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk fromthis secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, thisclandestine correspondence; but it was only for a week, a single week;and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas! alas!all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexed in hisviews and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed withcontempt,--all is now too clear.'
'Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.'
'Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if youonly wish to spare me.'
'Cling to my heart, my child. A father's love has comfort. Is it notso?'
'I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I nevercan be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I havea heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dearfather,' she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple's neckand leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournfulvoice, 'henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgraceyou; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour toatone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.'
'My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitternessonly as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour tostem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you,my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you.Try to sleep; try to compose yourself.'
'These people--to-morrow--what shall I do?'
'Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You needappear no more.'
'Oh! that no human being might again see me!'
'Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy.To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my ownHenrietta.'
Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in ascalm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; andthen he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portraitof his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adornedwith her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for sometime abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance inhis hands. He sobbed convulsively.