‘O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things.’
‘My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate we should be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall write to you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believe only in evil!’
‘Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longer to regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible for all that affects my honour or my heart.’
‘A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory of my ancestors.’
The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. ‘It is so late, and we in darkness here! What will they think? Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse the fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then———’ Her voice faltered.
‘And then———’ echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he could not command his voice.
‘’Tis your guitar,’ said Henrietta; ‘I am happy that it is left behind.’
The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew.
‘Little knows he our misery,’ said Henrietta. ‘It seemed strange, when I felt my own mind, that there could be anything so calm and mechanical in the world.’
Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeed arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did not speak. She reclined on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed her handkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearly tempted to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, and await his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, and then he remembered that, at all events, tomorrow he must not appear at Ducie. ‘Henrietta!’ he at length said.