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.
