CHAPTER V.

_Which Contains Some Rather Painful Explanations_.

THE reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the Marquis of

Montfort soon became the declared admirer of Miss Temple. He made the

important declaration after a very different fashion from the unhappy

Ferdinand Armine: he made it to the lady’s father. Long persuaded that

Miss Temple’s illness had its origin in the mind, and believing that in

that case the indisposition of the young lady had probably arisen, from

one cause or another, in the disappointment of her affections, Lord

Montfort resolved to spare her feelings, unprepared, the pain of a

personal appeal. The beauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, and

the languid melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admiration and

pity, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, but

gifted with great self-control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple the

conviction that impelled him to the course which he had thought proper

to pursue, and this delicate conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from

the unavoidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Temple contented

himself with communicating to Lord Montfort that his daughter had

indeed entered into an engagement with one who was not worthy of her

affections, and that the moment her father had been convinced of the

character of the individual, he had quitted England with his daughter.

He expressed his unqualified approbation of the overture of Lord

Montfort, to whom he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratified

all those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally not

exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the only mode by which

his daughter’s complete recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort in

himself offered everything which it would seem that the reasonable fancy

of woman could desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished,

sincere, and exceedingly clever; while, at the same time, as Mr.

Temple was well aware, his great position would insure that reasonable

gratification of vanity from which none are free, which is a fertile

source of happiness, and which would, at all times, subdue any bitter

recollections which might occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect of

his daughter.

It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his abandoned

profession, now indulging in intimations and now in panegyric,

conveying to his daughter, with admirable skill, how much the intimate

acquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually

fanning the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which already had

been excited in his daughter’s heart, into one of zealous regard, and

finally seizing his opportunity with practised felicity, it was Mr.

Temple who had at length ventured to communicate to his daughter the

overture which had been confided to him.

Henrietta shook her head.

‘I have too great a regard for Lord Montfort to accede to his wishes,’

said Miss Temple. ‘He deserves something better than a bruised spirit,

if not a broken heart.’

‘But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an impracticable

view of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the best judge of what will

contribute to his own happiness.’

‘Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion,’ replied Miss Temple. ‘If he

knew all that had occurred he would shrink from blending his life with

mine.’

‘Lord Montfort knows everything,’ said the father, ‘that is, everything

he should know.’

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Temple. ‘I wonder he does not look upon me with

contempt; at the least, with pity.’

‘He loves you, Henrietta,’ said her father.

‘Ah! love, love, love! name not love to me. No, Lord Montfort cannot

love me. It is not love that he feels.’

‘You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. Are not these

proofs of love?’

‘Generous, good young man!’ exclaimed Henrietta; ‘I respect, I admire

him; I might have loved him. But it is too late.’

‘My beloved daughter, oh! do not say so! For my sake, do not say so,’

exclaimed Mr. Temple. ‘I have no wish, I have had no wish, my child, but

for your happiness. Lean upon your father, listen to him, be guided by

his advice. Lord Montfort possesses every quality which can contribute

to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never met. There is

not a woman in the world, however exalted her rank, however admirable

her beauty, however gifted her being, who might not feel happy and

honoured in the homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter,

that this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, were it to

occur, I could die content. I should have no more cares, no more hopes.

All would then have happened that the most sanguine parent, even with

such a child as you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy! For

his sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant his

wish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy of you.’

‘I am not worthy of him,’ said Henrietta, in a melancholy voice.

‘Ah, Henrietta, who is like you!’ exclaimed the fond and excited father.

At this moment a servant announced that Lord Montfort would, with

their permission, wait upon them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought.

Suddenly she said, ‘I cannot rest until this is settled. Papa, leave me

with him a few moments alone.’ Mr. Temple retired.

A faint blush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he perceived

that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself at her side, but he was

unusually constrained.

‘My dear Lord Montfort,’ said Miss Temple,’ calmly, ‘I have to speak

upon a painful subject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that I

shall not shrink from this. Papa has informed me this morning that you

have been pleased to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay a

woman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge it in terms the

strongest and the warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, the

high honour that you have intended me. It is indeed an honour of which

any woman might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I know

the worth. No one can appreciate the value of your character better

than myself. I do justice, full justice, to your virtues, your

accomplishments, your commanding talents, and your generous soul. Except

my father, there is no one who holds so high a place in my affection

as yourself. You have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and true

friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. More than friends we

never can be, for I have no heart to give.’

‘Ah, dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, agitated, ‘I ask nothing

but that friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant society; let

the world recognise my right to be your consoler.’

‘You deserve a better and a brighter fate. I should not be your friend

if I could enter into such an engagement.’

‘The only aim of my life is to make you happy,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend,’ said Henrietta

Temple, ‘and I _am_ happy. How different is the world to me from what

it was before I knew you! Ah, why will you disturb this life of

consolation? Why will you call me back to recollections that I would

fain banish? Why------’

‘Dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘do not reproach me! You

make me wretched. Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought this

conversation; that if I were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I

at least took precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their

nonfulfilment.’

‘Best and most generous of men! I would not for the world be unkind to

you. Pardon my distracted words. But you know all? Has papa told you

all? It is my wish.’

‘It is not mine,’ replied Lord Montfort; ‘I wish not to penetrate your

sorrows, but only to soothe them.’

‘Oh, if we had but met earlier,’ said Henrietta Temple; ‘if we had but

known each other a year ago! when I was, not worthy of you, but more

worthy of you. But now, with health shattered, the lightness of my

spirit vanished, the freshness of my feelings gone, no, my kind friend,

my dear and gentle friend! my affection for you is too sincere to accede

to your request; and a year hence Lord Montfort will thank me for my

denial.’

‘I scarcely dare to speak,’ said Lord Montfort, in a low tone, as if

suppressing his emotion, ‘if I were to express my feelings, I might

agitate you. I will not then venture to reply to what you have urged;

to tell you I think you the most beautiful and engaging being that ever

breathed; or how I dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hours

together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. O Miss Temple, to me

you never could have been more beautiful, more fascinating. Alas! I may

not even breathe my love; I am unfortunate. And yet, sweet lady, pardon

this agitation I have occasioned you; try to love me yet; endure at

least my presence; and let me continue to cherish that intimacy that

has thrown over my existence a charm so inexpressible.’ So saying, he

ventured to take her hand, and pressed it with devotion to his lips.