‘Farewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel.’
‘No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go in anger. Pardon me, pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke for the best.’
‘I, at least, will never be false,’ said Ferdinand with energy. ‘It shall not be said of me that I broke vows consecrated by the finest emotions of our nature. No, no, I have had my dream; it was but a dream: but while I live, I will live upon its sweet memory.’
‘Ah! Ferdinand, why were you not frank; why did you conceal your situation from me?’
‘No explanation of mine can change our respective situations,’ said Ferdinand; ‘I content myself therefore by saying that it was not Miss Temple who had occasion to criticise my conduct.’
‘You are bitter.’
‘The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, the most amiable of her sex; if only in gratitude for all her surpassing goodness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never can be hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almost unparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection that I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirable person. Alas! alas! that in all my misery the only woman who sympathises with my wretchedness is the woman I have injured. And so delicate as well as so generous! She would not even enquire the name of the individual who had occasioned our mutual desolation.’
‘Would that she knew all,’ murmured Henrietta; ‘would that I knew her.’
‘Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very affection for my cousin, the complete appreciation which I now possess of her character, before so little estimated and so feebly comprehended by me, is the very circumstance that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may, I am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her so. Our engagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements than of any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yet she is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I believe, that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, will not ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm and virtue and accident of fortune to attract the admiration and attention of the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could have been but mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style such sentiments love. But,’ added he sarcastically, ‘this is too delicate a subject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.’
‘For God’s sake, do not be so bitter!’ she exclaimed; and then she added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, ‘Let me never be taunted by those lips! O Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends?’