_In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter’s
Chamber_.
HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gained her own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealed sufficient.
She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapable of thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked when, on turning round, she beheld her mistress.
This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity of some exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewed interruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with an effort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to her father which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she wished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form and shape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she might remain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy for her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lost its 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 her heart-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 end of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rare accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! And he 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, had adored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections, worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring upon its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It was not life; it was frenzy!
Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feigned sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut and her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step approached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she had herself deceived. She knew it was her father.
Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressed his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved her. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand without opening 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 to reproach me. Spare me; spare your child.’
‘I came to console, not to reproach,’ said Mr. Temple. ‘But if it please you, 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 you know 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; to a father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your father loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me as your 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; I will 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 my question. Are you engaged to this person?’
‘I was.’
‘Positively engaged?’
‘Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. He left 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 had foreseen 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 you have 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 have not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from this secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, this clandestine 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 his views and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with contempt,--all is now too clear.’
‘Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.’
‘Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if you only wish to spare me.’
‘Cling to my heart, my child. A father’s love has comfort. Is it not so?’
‘I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I never can be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I have a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear father,’ she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple’s neck and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful voice, ‘henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgrace you; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour to atone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.’
‘My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to stem 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 need appear 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 own Henrietta.’
Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in as calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; and then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adorned with her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance in his hands. He sobbed convulsively.
