CHAPTER XIV.
_In Which Some Light Is Thrown upon Some Circumstances Which Were Before Rather Mysterious_.
LADY ARMINE now proposed that the family should meet in Ferdinand's roomafter dinner; but Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects generallyprevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. It was therefore butonce acted upon during the week that followed the scene described inour last chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had so severe aheadache, that it was quite impossible for her to join the circle. Atlength, however, Ferdinand made his appearance below, and establishedhimself in the library: it now, therefore, became absolutely necessarythat Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered state ofher betrothed, which had at first apparently so much affected hersensibility, and, by the united influence of habit and Mr. Glastonbury,it is astonishing what progress she made. She even at last could socommand her feelings, that she apparently greatly contributed to hisamusement. She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him.
Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often offered him herarm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist observing a great differencein her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted her at Bath.Far from conducting herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as ifher claim to be his companion were irresistible, her carriage, on thecontrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; she annoyed him withno expressions of fondness, and listened to the kind words which heoccasionally urged himself to bestow upon her with a sentiment of graveregard and placid silence, which almost filled him with astonishment.
One morning, the weather being clear and fine, Ferdinand insisted thathis mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted his side, should drive outwith Sir Ratcliffe; and, as he would take no refusal, Lady Armine agreedto comply. The carriage was ordered, was at the door; and as Lady Arminebade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and took the arm ofMiss Grandison, who seemed on the point of retiring; for Glastonburyremained, and therefore Ferdinand was not without a companion.
'I will see you go off,' said Ferdinand.
'Adieu!' said Lady Armine. 'Take care of him, dear Kate,' and thephaeton was soon out of sight.
'It is more like May than January,' said Ferdinand to his cousin. 'Ifancy I should like to walk a little.'
'Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury?' said Katherine.
'Not if my arm be not too heavy for you,' said Ferdinand. So theywalked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until they arrived at agarden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose flowers Henrietta Temple somuch admired. It had no flowers now, but seemed as desolate as theirunhappy loves.
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'A moment's rest,' said Ferdinand, and sighed. 'Dear Kate, I wish tospeak to you.'
Miss Grandison turned pale.
'I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I would endeavour torelieve myself.'
Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. 'It concerns you,Katherine.'
Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at this strangeaddress.
'If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miserable andbroken-hearted man,' continued Ferdinand, 'I might shrink from thiscommunication; I might delegate to another this office, humiliating asit then might be to me, painful as it must, under any circumstances,be to you. But,' and here his voice faltered, 'but I am far beyond thepower of any mortification now. The world and the world's ways touch meno more. There is a duty to fulfil; I will fulfil it. I have offendedagainst you, my sweet and gentle cousin; grievously, bitterly,infamously offended.'
'No, no, no!' murmured Miss Grandison.
'Katherine, I am unworthy of you; I have deceived you. It is neitherfor your honour nor your happiness that these ties which our friendsanticipate should occur between us. But, Katherine, you are avenged.'
'Oh! I want no vengeance!' muttered Miss Grandison, her face pale asmarble, her eyes convulsively closed. 'Cease, cease, Ferdinand; thisconversation is madness; you will be ill again.'
'No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is much to tell;it must be told, if only that you should not believe that I was asystematic villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another when Ibreathed to you those vows.'
'Oh! anything but that; speak of anything but that!'
Ferdinand took her hand.
'Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle cousin, I admire, Iesteem you; I could die content if I could but see you happy. With yourcharms and virtues I thought that we might be happy. My intentions wereas sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh! no, dear Katherine,I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom.'
'Have I accused you, Ferdinand?'
'But you will when you know all.'
'I do know all,' said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice.
Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her cousin.
'You do know all,' he at length exclaimed. 'And can you, knowing all,live under the same roof with me? Can you see me? Can you listen to me?Is not my voice torture to you? Do you not hate and despise me?'
'It is not my nature to hate anything; least of all could I hate you.'
'And could you, knowing all, still minister to my wants and watch my sadnecessities? This gentle arm of yours; could you, knowing all, let melean upon it this morning? O Katherine! a happy lot be yours, for youdeserve one!'
'Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may be, some otherconsiderations prompted me. My feelings have not been so much consideredthat they need now be analysed.'
'Reproach me, Katherine, I deserve _your_ reproaches.'
'Mine may not be the only reproaches that you have deserved, Ferdinand;but permit me to remark, from me you have received none. I pity you, Isincerely pity you.'
'Glastonbury has told you?' said Ferdinand.
'That communication is among the other good offices we owe him,' repliedMiss Grandison.
'He told you?' said Ferdinand enquiringly.
'All that it was necessary I should know for your honour, or, as somemight think, for my own happiness; no more, I would listen to no more.I had no idle curiosity to gratify. It is enough that your heart isanother's; I seek not, I wish not, to know that person's name.'
'I cannot mention it,' said Ferdinand; 'but there is no secret from you.Glastonbury may--should tell all.'
'Amid the wretched she is not the least miserable,' said Miss Grandison.
'O Katherine!' said Ferdinand, after a moment's pause, 'tell me that youdo not hate me; tell me that you pardon me; tell me that you think memore mad than wicked!'
'Ferdinand,' said Miss Grandison, 'I think we are both unfortunate.'
'I am without hope,' said Ferdinand; 'but you, Katherine, your life muststill be bright and fair.'
'I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am alone in theworld. Your family are my only relations; I cling to them. Your motheris my mother; I love her with the passion of a child. I looked upon ourunion only as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound usall. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family; theirs I feelis staked upon you. It is the conviction of the total desolation thatmust occur if our estrangement be suddenly made known to them, and you,who are so impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, thathas induced me to sustain the painful part that I now uphold. This isthe reason that I would not reproach you, Ferdinand, that I would notquarrel with you, that I would not desert them in this hour of theiraffliction.'
'Katherine, beloved Katherine!' exclaimed the distracted Ferdinand, 'whydid we ever part?'
'No! Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For me, that separation,however fruitful at the present moment in mortification and unhappiness,must not be considered altogether an event of unmingled misfortune. Inmy opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment than tobe neglected for a life.'
'Despised! Katherine, for God's sake, spare me; for God's sake, do notuse such language! Despised! Katherine, at this moment I declare
mostsolemnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy Iam of you! Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot amendit; but let me assure you that at this very hour there is no being onearth I more esteem, more reverence than yourself.'
'It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly believe that your feelingstowards me were otherwise than kind and generous. But let us understandeach other. I shall remain at present under this roof. Do notmisapprehend my views. I seek not to recall your affections. The pasthas proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each other. Ihave not those dazzling qualities that could enchain a fiery brain likeyours. I know myself; I know you; and there is nothing that would fillme with more terror now than our anticipated union. And now, afterthis frank conversation, let our future intercourse be cordial andunembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. The feelings between usshould by nature be amiable: no incident has occurred to disturb them,for I have not injured or offended you; and as for your conduct towardsme, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it.'
'Katherine,' said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, 'kindest, mostgenerous of women! My heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, toexpress what I feel. We are kinsfolk; let us be more. You say my motheris your mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. Let me bea brother to you; you shall find me, if I live, a faithful one.'