Which, Supposing the Reader Is Interested in the Correspondence, Pursues It.
DEAREST! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thousand blessings2, for your letter from Armine, dear, dear Armine, where some day we shall be so happy! It was such a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so clear. How could you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would not be able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting! Always cross, dearest: your handwriting is so beautiful that I never shall find the slightest difficulty in making it out, if your letters were crossed a thousand times. Besides, to tell the truth, I should rather like to experience a little difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so often, over and over again, till I get them by heart, and it is such a delight every now and then to find out some new expression that escaped me in the first fever of perusal3; and then it is sure to be some darling word, fonder than all the rest!
Oh! my Ferdinand, how shall I express to you my love? It seems to me now that I never loved you until this separation, that I have never been half grateful enough to you for all your goodness. It makes me weep to remember all the soft things you have said, all the kind things you have done for me, and to think that I have not conveyed to you at the time a tithe4 of my sense of all your gentle kindness. You are so gentle, Ferdinand! I think that is the greatest charm of your character. My gentle, gentle love! so unlike all other persons that I have met with! Your voice is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have the kindest heart that ever existed: and then it is a daring spirit, too, and that I love!
Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, all will go well. I am full of hope, and would be of joy, if you were here, and yet I am joyful5, too, when I think of all your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is so sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine yesterday, and knew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked in our woods, and sat down on the very bank we loved so, and read your letter over and over again; and then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange; I think I could repeat every word you have uttered since we first knew each other. The morning that began so miserably6 wore away before I dreamed it could be noon.
Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and good! And why should he not be? I was ashamed of myself afterwards for seeming surprised that he was the same as ever. He asked me if your family had returned to Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then he asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that you had now gone to Bath, as their return had been prevented by the illness of a relative. Did I right in this? I looked as unconcerned as I could when I spoke7 of you, but my heart throbbed9, oh! how it throbbed! I hope, however, I did not change colour; I think not; for I had schooled myself for this conversation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa really likes you, and is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a tone of genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the shooting at Armine; that you regretted his unexpected departure had prevented you from speaking before, but that it was at his entire command, only that, after Ducie, all you could hope was, that the extent of the land might make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. Adieu! All good angels guard over you. I will write every day to the post-office, Bath. Think of me very much. Your own faithful
Henrietta.
Letter II.
Henrietta to Ferdinand.
O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read your letters! This morning brought me two; the one from London, and the few lines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the road. Do you know, you will think me very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I must confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. It was so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like my Ferdinand, to snatch the few minutes that should have been given to rest and food to write to his Henrietta. I love you for it a thousand times more than ever! I hope you are really well: I hope you tell me truth. This is a great fatigue10, even for you. It is worse than our mules11 that we once talked of. Does he recollect12? Oh! what joyous13 spirits my Ferdinand was in that happy day! I love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my heart with those pensive14 eyes of his!
Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I mentioned you first. I took up your guitar, and said to whom it belonged. I thought it more natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really likes you, and I am sure will love you very much when he knows all, and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken of with kindness by those I love. I have, of course, little to say about myself. I visit my birds, tend my flowers, and pay particular attention to all those I remember that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to them, and tell them that you will soon return, for, indeed, they seem to miss you, and to droop15 their heads like their poor mistress. Oh! my Ferdinand, shall we ever again meet? Shall I, indeed, ever again listen to that sweet voice, and will it tell me again that it loves me with the very selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear?
O Ferdinand! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I cannot sleep; I can scarcely countenance16 my father at his meals. I am wild and restless; but I am happy, happy in the consciousness of your fond devotion. To-morrow I purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shoot tomorrow. My heart will throb8, I fancy, when I see our porch. God bless my own love; the idol17 of his fond and happy
Henrietta.
Letter III.
Henrietta to Ferdinand.
Dearest! No letter since the few lines on the road, but I suppose it was impossible. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose, from Bath. I know not why I tremble when I write that word. All is well here, papa most kind, the same as ever. He went a little on your land today, a very little, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armine hare! Oh! what a morning have I spent; so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears and smiles! I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. That dear, dear farm-house! And then they all talked of you. How they do love my Ferdinand! But so must everyone. The poor woman has lost her heart to you, I suspect, and I am half inclined to be a little jealous. She did so praise you! So kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I fear, so much too generous! Exactly like my Ferdinand; but, really, this was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence18.
Do you know, I went into your room? I contrived19 to ascend20 alone; the good woman followed me, but I was there alone a moment, and, and, and, what do you think I did? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not help it; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so often and so lately, I could not refrain from pressing my lips to that favoured resting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides.
When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. How I pray that you may find all your family well and happy! I hope they will love me. I already love them, and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to go there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing this in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its influence, but I feel depressed21. Oh, that I were at your side! This house is so desolate22 without you. Everything reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can I express to you what I feel—the affection, the love, the rapture23, the passionate24 joy, with which your image inspires me? I will not be miserable25, I will be grateful to Heaven that I am loved by one so rare and gifted. Your portrait is before me; I call it yours; it is so like! ’Tis a great consolation26. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think of you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I am going to pray for you. Thine own
Henrietta.
Letter IX.
My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing of returning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read your dear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feel in the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiest person in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. You say that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? There are difficulties; I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that your Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon our affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense27. I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myself to think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I am jealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them.
Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myself if I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; God knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched when I think that all is concealed28 from papa, and my lips are sealed until you give me permission to open them.
Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid to tell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery30 so long as we love; so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face, nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless you, Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta.
Letter X.
Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am so sorry, for your dear letter has come today, and it is so kind, so fond, so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you even a shade of annoyance31. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! There is nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to convince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will be calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you are sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dear father? your mother? Be not afraid to speak.
You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is a blank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, save papa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread32 to be with him. This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted33 place since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted, and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now. They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot walk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I have never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearest Ferdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, for it brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. They are my only joy and solace34, and yet——— but no complaints today, no complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted35 love. Oh! that my weak pen could express a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand, I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit’s strength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea. Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged. It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld36 that fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity37. A thousand, thousand loves. Your devoted
Henrietta.
Letter XI.
Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post today has brought me no letter. I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought me mad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too, at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence, Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur38, but when I consented to this clandestine39 method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, few days, and then——— But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! will tomorrow ever come?
Henrietta.
Letter XII.
Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me very serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It is fond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have melted over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid40. Why are we separated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge only from your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to your father; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves41 of our union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then, and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in the dark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should share our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Let us make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal29 anything from one so kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my folly42, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to console me. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It was painful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this life no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed43 and broken. I will not say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and write definitely, to your unhappy
Henrietta.
Letter XVIII.
You tell me that, in compliance44 with my wishes, you will write definitely. You tell me that circumstances have occurred, since your arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that they retard45 that settlement with your father that you had projected and partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters; and assuring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can you withhold46 like that you have occasioned me? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, I will, I must still believe that you are faultless; but, believe me, a want of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every situation, is a want of common sense. Never conceal anything from your Henrietta.
I now take it for granted that your father has forbidden our union; indeed this is the only conclusion that I can draw from your letter. Ferdinand, I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your affection, I will trust to time, to events, to the kindness of my friends, and to that overruling Providence47, which will not desert affections so pure as ours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. Confident in your love, I can live in solitude48, and devote myself to your memory, I———
O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell them all, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them your Henrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them she will be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our union, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let them return to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa; let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trust not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant49, not quite unprepared to act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in its splendour or its proud humility50; and, if not worthy51 of their son (as who can be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing1 of his affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Do this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come.
But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, remember your Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; but remember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy life I have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in a private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him; be just to your Henrietta! Return, I beseech52 you on my knees; return instantly to Ducie; reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious; he will be our best friend; in his hand and bosom53 we shall find solace and support. God bless you, Ferdinand! All will yet go well, mine own, own love. I smile amid my tears when I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh! what misery can there be in this world if we may but share it together?
Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted
Henrietta.
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1
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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