Part 23 (1/2)

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 suspense.

I am ent.i.tled 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; G.o.d knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched when I think that all is concealed 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 misery 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. G.o.d 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 to-day, and it is so kind, so fond, so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you even a shade of annoyance. 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 dread to be with him.

This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted 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 solace, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, no complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!

that my weak pen could express a t.i.the 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 beheld that fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand, thousand loves. Your devoted

Henrietta.

Letter XI.

Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day 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 murmur, but when I consented to this clandestine 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 to-morrow 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 candid. 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 disapproves 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 conceal anything from one so kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my folly, 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 perplexed 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 compliance with my wishes, you will write definitely. You tell me that circ.u.mstances have occurred, since your arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that they r.e.t.a.r.d that settlement with your father that you had projected and partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters; and a.s.suring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can you withhold 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 Providence, 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 solitude, and devote myself to your memory, I------