Henrietta Temple, Benjamin Disraeli [free ereaders .TXT] 📗

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.'


CHAPTER XVII.


_In Which Ferdinand Has a Very Stormy Interview with His
Father_.


IF WE pause now to take a calm and comprehensive review of the state and prospects of the three families, in whose feelings and fortunes we have attempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, however brilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the elements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundly discovered, and might even be held as rapidly stirring into movement. Miss Temple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was Captain Armine's: Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, was the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, in fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. Temple more than suspected his daughter's partiality for Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprised at seeing so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of which he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his life. The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an active conspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and if he had a purpose to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a crisis.

Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which his son absented himself from Brook-street, resolved upon bringing him to an explanation. At first he thought there might be some lovers' quarrel; but the demeanour of Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He consulted his wife. Now, to tell the truth, Lady Armine, who was a shrewd woman, was not without her doubts and perplexities, but she would not confess them to her husband. Many circumstances had been observed by her which filled her with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon this cast, and she was of a sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life. Katherine appeared daily more attached to her, and Lady Armine was quite of opinion that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She endeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that everything was quite right, and she assured him that the season would terminate, as all seasons ought to terminate, by the marriage.

And perhaps Sir Ratcliffe would have followed her example, only it so happened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son in Grosvenor-square.

'Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now,' said Sir Ratcliffe.

'Oh! you are all so gay,' said Ferdinand. 'How is my mother?'

'She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in,' said Sir Ratcliffe, for he was now almost at his door.

The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little library on the ground floor, which was his morning room.

'We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'Perhaps you will come.'

'Thank you, sir, I am engaged.'

'It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not like gaiety, it is very odd.'

'Heigho!' said Ferdinand. 'How do you like your new horse, sir?'

'Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you,' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'I do not like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct; but the anxiety of a parent will, I think, excuse the question I am about to ask. When do you propose being married?'

'Oh, I do not know exactly.'

'Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year. I cannot help thinking your conduct singular. There is nothing wrong between you and Katherine, is there?'

'Wrong, sir?'

'Yes, wrong? I mean, is there any misunderstanding? Have you quarrelled?'

'No, sir, we have not quarrelled; we perfectly understand each other.'

'I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is very unlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I did not win your mother's heart by such proceedings.'

'Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir?'

'Certainly not, and that surprises me still more.'

Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted some minutes. Sir Ratcliffe took up the newspaper; his son leant over the mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty fire-place. At length he turned round and said, 'Father, I can bear this no longer; the engagement between Katherine and myself is dissolved.'

'Good God! when, and why?' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper falling from his hand.

'Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it.'

'Ferdinand! Ferdinand!' exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still and silent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible.

'Speak again,' at length said Sir Ratcliffe. 'Let me hear you speak again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that your engagement with your cousin has been long terminated?'

Ferdinand nodded assent.

'Your poor mother!' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. 'This will kill her.' He rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.

'I knew all was not right,' he muttered to himself. 'She will sink under it; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!'

'It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater than yours.'

'She will pardon you, my boy,' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker and kinder tone. 'You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherine is kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she will pardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother has great influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; you are very young, all will yet be well.'

'It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for you yourself to do it, sir,' said Ferdinand, in a tone of calmness.

'You are not married to another?'

'In faith; I am bound by a tie which I can never break.'

'And who is this person?'

'She must be nameless, for many reasons.'

'Ferdinand,' said Sir Ratcliffe, 'you know not what you are doing. My life, your mother's, the existence of our family, hang upon your conduct. Yet, yet there is time to prevent this desolation. I am controlling my emotions; I wish you to save us, you, all! Throw yourself at your cousin's feet. She is soft-hearted; she may yet be yours!'

'Dear father, it cannot be.'

'Then-then, welcome ruin!' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, in a hoarse voice. 'And,' he continued, pausing between every word, from the difficulty of utterance, 'if the conviction that you have destroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, poor fools, have clung and clung to; if this conviction can console you, sir, enjoy it-----

'Ferdinand! my son, my child, that I never have spoken an unkind word to, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will be home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with all this misery. Tell me it is not true; recall what you have said; let us forget