CHAPTER XVI.

_In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping_.

THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour,

address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means or

other he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduous

court to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression from

the first; in St. James’-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to

the society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with Count

Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her his

confidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. He

established his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified Sir

Ratcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must be

some acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received him

accordingly as one of their son’s oldest and most cherished friends.

But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even in

business never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, became

great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended and

appreciated that good man’s character.

All Count Mirabel’s efforts were directed to restore the influence of

Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted no

opportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady’s

susceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, his

sacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end

which the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her in

a light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. She

could not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine to

Count Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All her

feelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her old

plan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret

it? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet it

seemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another’s. But,

then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was he

indeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did she

ever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved to

be firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty even

if she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live,

and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! And

those long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all his

truth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. She

was not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet she

was the person who alone punished him. How different was the generous

conduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him,

she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unite

him to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, how

selfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now that

she had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believe

that she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! could

he believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown

fortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What a

return had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished;

lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken,

meditating even death------. The picture was too terrible, too

harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was

seated, and wept bitterly.

She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was her

father.

‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are agitated.’

‘Yes; yes, I am agitated,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘You are unwell.’

‘Worse than unwell.’

‘Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.’

‘Grief for which there is no cure.’

‘Indeed! I am greatly astonished.’

His daughter only sighed.

‘Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.’

‘I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say.’

‘To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘if only for

my sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion.’

‘It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you have

seen.’

‘A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta,

speak.’

‘Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.’

‘Is it so bitter?’

‘Ah! that I should live!’ said Miss Temple.

‘Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all.

Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive such

strong feelings. Has--has------ I know not what to say, but so much

happens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seen

one who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown in

unexpected contact with him; he has not--he has not dared-----’

‘Say nothing harshly of him,’ said Miss Temple wildly; ‘I will not bear

it, even from you.’

‘My daughter!’

‘Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? Have

I urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. My

conduct is yours, but my feelings are my own.’

‘Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of your

happiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strange

return.’

‘Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But let

this subject drop for ever.’

‘It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?’ continued Mr.

Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry.

‘What if he did? He has a right to do so.’

‘As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he

perhaps would be faithful.’

‘O Ferdinand!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes to

heaven, ‘and you must endure even this!’

‘Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as he

seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you

cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever

engrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessary

how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life.

If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It

was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine

correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom

I have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first

calculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, and

betray your heart.’

‘’Tis false,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; ‘he is as true

and pure as I am; more, much more,’ she added, in a voice of anguish.

‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing

sneer. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you

interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of Lord

Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world;

the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of

human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which,

even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the

affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith.

Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughter

of mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I know

well I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart,

and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that

ever descended on a daughter’s head.’

‘My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!’ exclaimed Miss

Temple, throwing herself at his feet. ‘Oh! do not say so; oh! recall

those words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart

is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God’s sake, pity me.’

‘I would do more than pity you; I would save you.’

‘It is not as you think,’ she continued, with streaming eyes: ‘indeed

it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has

behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate

manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My

friends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us.

He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from his

home, that we might not meet.’

‘You must marry Lord Montfort at once.’

‘Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not of

such terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me;

say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can

I recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows

all; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle.

Oh! my father!’

‘My Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple, moved; ‘my child!’

‘Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you have

spoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done him

great injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, you

would not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Once

you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you

meet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you would

pity him.’