VIII.

You tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will write
definitely. You tell me that circumstances have occurred, since your
arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that
they retard that settlement with your father that you had projected and
partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters;
and assuring 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------

O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell them
all, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them your
Henrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them she
will be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our
union, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let them
return to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa;
let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trust
not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant, not quite unprepared
to act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in its
splendour or its proud humility; and, if not worthy of their son (as who
can be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing of
his affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Do
this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come.

But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, remember
your Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; but
remember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy life
I have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in a
private