Henrietta.
Letter IX.
My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing of returning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read your dear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feel in the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiest person in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. You say that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? There are difficulties; I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that your Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon our affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense.
I am ent.i.tled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myself to think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I am jealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them.
Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myself if I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; G.o.d knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips are sealed until you give me permission to open them.
Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid to tell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery so long as we love; so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face, nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. G.o.d bless you, Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta.
Letter X.
Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am so sorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond, so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you even a shade of annoyance. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! There is nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to convince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will be calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you are sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dear father? your mother? Be not afraid to speak.
You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is a blank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, save papa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to be with him.
This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted place since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted, and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now.
They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot walk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I have never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearest Ferdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, for it brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. They are my only joy and solace, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, no complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!
that my weak pen could express a t.i.the of my fond devotion. Ferdinand, I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit"s strength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea.
Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged.
It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld that fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand, thousand loves. Your devoted
Henrietta.
Letter XI.
Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought me no letter.
I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought me mad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too, at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence, Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to this clandestine method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, few days, and then----- But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! will to-morrow ever come?
Henrietta.
Letter XII.
Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me very serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It is fond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have melted over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we separated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge only from your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to your father; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves of our union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then, and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in the dark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should share our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Let us make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal anything from one so kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to console me. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It was painful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this life no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I will not say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and write definitely, to your unhappy
Henrietta.
Letter XVIII.
You tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will write definitely. You tell me that circ.u.mstances have occurred, since your arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that they r.e.t.a.r.d that settlement with your father that you had projected and partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters; and a.s.suring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can you withhold like that you have occasioned me? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, I will, I must still believe that you are faultless; but, believe me, a want of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every situation, is a want of common sense. Never conceal anything from your Henrietta.
I now take it for granted that your father has forbidden our union; indeed this is the only conclusion that I can draw from your letter.
Ferdinand, I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your affection, I will trust to time, to events, to the kindness of my friends, and to that overruling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure as ours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. Confident in your love, I can live in solitude, and devote myself to your memory, I------
O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell them all, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them your Henrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them she will be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our union, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let them return to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa; let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trust not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant, not quite unprepared to act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in its splendour or its proud humility; and, if not worthy of their son (as who can be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing of his affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Do this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come.
But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, remember your Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; but remember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy life I have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in a private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him; be just to your Henrietta! Return, I beseech you on my knees; return instantly to Ducie; reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious; he will be our best friend; in his hand and bosom we shall find solace and support. G.o.d bless you, Ferdinand! All will yet go well, mine own, own love. I smile amid my tears when I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh!
what misery can there be in this world if we may but share it together?
Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted
Henrietta.
CHAPTER III.
_Containing the Arrival at Ducie of a Distinguished Guest_.
IT WAS about three weeks after Ferdinand Armine had quitted Ducie that Mr. Temple entered the breakfast-room one morning, with an open note in his hand, and told Henrietta to prepare for visitors, as her old friend, Lady Bellair, had written to apprise him of her intention to rest the night at Ducie, on her way to the North.
"She brings with her also the most charming woman in the world," added Mr. Temple, with a smile.
"I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her companion so at present,"
said Miss Temple, "whoever she may be; but, at any rate, I shall be glad to see her ladyship, who is certainly one of the most amusing women in the world."
This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair made some bustle in the household of Ducie Bower; for her ladyship was in every respect a memorable character, and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr.
Temple before his residence at Ducie, very much interested the curiosity of his fellow-servants by his intimations of her ladyship"s eccentricities.
"You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary," said the butler; "and you, Susan, must look after the page. We shall all be well cross-examined as to the state of the establishment; and so I advise you to be prepared. Her ladyship is a rum one, and that"s the truth."
In due course of time, a handsome travelling chariot, emblazoned with a viscount"s coronet, and carrying on the seat behind a portly man-servant and a lady"s maid, arrived at Ducie. They immediately descended, and a.s.sisted the a.s.sembled household of the Bower to disembark the contents of the chariot; but Mr. Temple and his daughter were too well acquainted with Lady Bellair"s character to appear at this critical moment.
First came forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceedingly magnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme of gorgeous fashion, and who, after being landed on the marble steps, was for some moments absorbed in the fluttering arrangement of her plumage; smoothing her maroon pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, and adjusting the glittering pelerine of point device, that shaded the fall of her broad but well-formed shoulders. In one hand the stately dame lightly swung a bag that was worthy of holding the Great Seal itself, so rich and so elaborate were its materials and embroidery; and in the other she at length took a gla.s.s which was suspended from her neck by a chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flashing eye, as dark as her ebon curls and as brilliant as her well-rouged cheek, at the surrounding scene.
The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed next, and then came forth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best-dressed, and, stranger than all, oldest little lady in the world. Lady Bellair was of childlike stature, and quite erect, though ninety years of age; the tasteful simplicity of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her grey silk dress, her ap.r.o.n, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella shoes, all admirably contrasted with the vast and flaunting splendour of her companion, not less than her ladyship"s small yet exquisitely proportioned form, her highly-finished extremities, and her keen sarcastic grey eye. The expression of her countenance now, however, was somewhat serious. An arrival was an important moment that required all her practised circ.u.mspection; there was so much to arrange, so much to remember, and so much to observe.
The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his little mistress in his arms, as he would a child, had planted her on the steps. And then her ladyship"s clear, shrill, and now rather fretful voice was heard.
"Here! where"s the butler? I don"t want you, stupid [addressing her own servant], but the butler of the house, Mister"s butler; what is his name, Mr. Twoshoes" butler? I cannot remember names. Oh! you are there, are you? I don"t want you. How is your master? How is your charming lady? Where is the parrot? I don"t want it. Where"s the lady? Why don"t you answer? Why do you stare so? Miss Temple! no! not Miss Temple! The lady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd! To be sure so; why did not you say so before? But she has got two names. Why don"t you say both names? My dear," continued Lady Bellair, addressing her travelling companion, "I don"t know your name. Tell all these good people your name; your two names! I like people with two names. Tell them, my dear, tell them; tell them your name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it is, Mrs.
Thingabob Twoshoes."
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, though rather annoyed by this appeal, still contrived to comply with the request in the most dignified manner; and all the servants bowed to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.
To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady Bellair, after scanning everything and everybody with the utmost scrutiny, indicated some intention of entering, when suddenly she turned round:
"Man, there"s something wanting. I had three things to take charge of.
The parrot and my charming friend; that is only two. There is a third.