In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping.
THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, address, and audacity1 of one habituated to success. By some means or other he contrived2 to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduous court to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable3 impression from the first; in St. James’-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to the society of a distinguished4 foreigner. He was delighted with Count Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her his confidante, though he concealed5 this bold step from Ferdinand. He established his intimacy6 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 susceptible7 brain. His virtues8, his talents, his accomplishments9, 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 engrossed10 her thought and imagination. She could not resist the fascination11 of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse12. 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 desolate13? Was he indeed to die? And Digby, the amiable14, generous Digby; ah! why did she ever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved to be firm; she could not falter15; 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 vividly16! And those long days of passionate17 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 soothe19 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 fidelity20 he was punished; lone18, disconsolate21, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating22 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 agitated23.’
‘Yes; yes, I am agitated,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘You are unwell.’
‘Worse than unwell.’
‘Tell me what ails24 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 entreat25 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 beseech26 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 murmur27? 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 affected28 calmness, as he seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you cannot upbraid29 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 misery30, girl, you made that misery yourself. It was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine31 correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished32 all the solicitude33 of long years, the dupe of the first calculating libertine34 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 anguish35.
‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing sneer36. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed37 bride of Lord Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world; the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous38, 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 bind39 you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter one jot40 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 descended41 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 honourable42, 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 injustice43; 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 kindly44 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.’
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1
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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3
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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13
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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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17
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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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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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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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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32
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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41
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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42
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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43
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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