LORD MONTFORT was scarcely disheartened by this interview with Miss Temple. His lordship was a devout believer in the influence of time. It was unnatural to suppose that one so young and so gifted as Henrietta could ultimately maintain that her career was terminated because her affections had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly of so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord Montfort differed from most men in this respect, that the consciousness of this intimacy did not cost him even a pang. He preferred indeed to gain the heart of a woman like Miss Temple, who, without having in the least degree forfeited the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of her feelings, had yet learnt in some degree to penetrate the mystery of the passions, to one so untutored in the world’s ways, that she might have bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, but not more innocent. He was convinced that the affection of Henrietta, if once obtained, might be relied on, and that the painful past would only make her more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, and amid all the dazzling characters and seducing spectacles of the world, cling to him with a firmer gratitude and a more faithful fondness. And yet Lord Montfort was a man of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste. He was a man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine; but with Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason; with Ferdinand, the romance of imagination. The first was keenly alive to all the imperfections of our nature, but he also gave that nature credit for all its excellencies. He observed finely, he calculated nicely, and his result was generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, and his impetuous passions struggled to realise them.
Although Lord Montfort carefully abstained from pursuing the subject which nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilful ally in Mr. Temple. That gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading his lordship’s cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own; and this was the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment of his daughter.
Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of children, left to reflect, sometimes asked herself whether she were justified, from what she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, in not accomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well? There had been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There had been no deception as to the past. Lord Montfort knew all. She told him that she could bestow only a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired only to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the death which she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was she always to lead this life? Was her father to pass the still long career which probably awaited him in ministering to the wearisome caprices of a querulous invalid? This was a sad return for all his goodness: a gloomy catastrophe to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to blend her life with another’s, what individual could offer pretensions which might ensure her tranquillity, or even happiness, equal to those proffered by Lord Montfort? Ah! who was equal to him? so amiable, so generous, so interesting! It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to that being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. If it be agonising to be deserted, there is at least consolation in being cherished. And who cherished her? One whom all admired; one to gain whose admiration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was she before she knew Montfort? If she had not known Montfort, what would she have been even at this present? She recalled the hours of anguish, the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, the cheerless, hopeless, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying on her solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and all its passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And now there was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, without considerate attention and innocent amusement. If she were querulous, no one murmured; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her fancies; but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thine was the magic that had worked this change! And for whom were all these choice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, betrayed! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consolation of a despised woman. Leaning on the arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta Temple might meet the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at least without feeling herself an object of pity!
Time had flown. The Italian spring, with all its splendour, illumined the glittering palaces and purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort and his friends were returning from Capua in his galley. Miss Temple was seated between her father and their host. The Ausonian clime, the beautiful scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day of exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain from expressing her delight. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that glittered over the glowing mountains; her cheek was as radiant as the sunset.
‘Ah! what a happy day this has been!’ she exclaimed.
The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the delight her exclamation had afforded one of her companions. With a trembling heart Lord Montfort leant back in the galley; and yet, ere the morning sun had flung its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was his betrothed.
ALTHOUGH Lord Montfort was now the received and recognised admirer of Miss Temple, their intended union was not immediate. Henrietta was herself averse from such an arrangement, but it was not necessary for her to urge this somewhat ungracious desire, as Lord Montfort was anxious that she should be introduced to his family before their marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in his native country. Their return to England, therefore, was now meditated. The event was hastened by an extraordinary occurrence.
Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom single. Mr. Temple at this moment was perfectly content with his destiny. Easy in his own circumstances, with his daughter’s future prosperity about to be provided for by an union with the heir to one of the richest peerages in the kingdom, he had nothing to desire. His daughter was happy, he entertained the greatest esteem and affection for his future son-in-law, and the world went well with him in every respect.
It was in this fulness of happiness that destiny, with its usual wild caprice, resolved ‘to gild refined gold and paint the lily;’ and it was determined that Mr. Temple should wake one morning among the wealthiest commoners of England.
There happened to be an old baronet, a great humourist, without any very near relations, who had been a godson of Mr. Temple’s grandfather. He had never invited or encouraged any intimacy or connection with the Temple family, but had always throughout life kept himself aloof from any acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple indeed had only seen him once, but certainly under rather advantageous circumstances. It was when Mr. Temple was minister at the German Court, to which we have alluded, that Sir Temple Devereux was a visitor at the capital at which Mr. Temple was Resident. The minister had shown him some civilities, which was his duty; and Henrietta had appeared to please him. But he had not remained long at this place; and refused at the time to be more than their ordinary guest; and had never, by any letter, message, or other mode of communication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that the hospitable minister and his charming daughter had dwelt a moment on his memory. And yet Sir Temple Devereux had now departed from the world, where it had apparently been the principal object of his career to avoid ever making a friend, and had left the whole of his large fortune to the Right Honourable Pelham Temple, by this bequest proprietor of one of the finest estates in the county of York, and a very considerable personal property, the accumulated savings of a large rental and a long life.
This was a great event. Mr. Temple had the most profound respect for property. It was impossible for the late baronet to have left his estate to an individual who could more thoroughly appreciate its possession. Even personal property was not without its charms; but a large landed estate, and a large landed estate in the county of York, and that large landed estate flanked by a good round sum of Three per Cent. Consols duly recorded in the Rotunda of Threadneedle Street,—it was a combination of wealth, power, consideration, and convenience which exactly hit the ideal of Mr. Temple, and to the fascination of which perhaps the taste of few men would be insensible. Mr. Temple being a man of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments of a parvenu to contend with. ‘It was the luckiest thing in the world,’ he would say, ‘that poor Sir Temple was my grandfather’s godson, not only because in all probability it obtained us his fortune, but because he bore the name of Temple: we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as strangers, we shall not be looked upon as a new family, and in a little time the whole affair will be considered rather one of inheritance than bequest. But, after all, what is it to me! It is only for your sake, Digby, that I rejoice. I think it will please your family. I will settle everything immediately on Henrietta. They shall have the gratification of knowing that their son is about to marry the richest heiress in England.’
The richest heiress in England! Henrietta Temple the richest heiress in England! Ah! how many feelings with that thought arise! Strange to say, the announcement of this extraordinary event brought less joy than might have been supposed to the heiress herself.
It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple mused over this freak of destiny. It was in vain to conceal it, her thoughts recurred to Ferdinand. They might have been so happy! Why was he not true? And perhaps he had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personal distress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind feminine fancy conjured up every possible extenuation of his dire offence. She grew very sad. She could not believe that he was false at Ducie; oh, no! she never could believe it! He must have been sincere, and if sincere, oh! what a heart was lost there! What would she not have given to have been the means of saving him from all his sorrows! She recalled his occasional melancholy, his desponding words, and how the gloom left his brow and his eye brightened when she fondly prophesied that she would restore the house. She might restore it now; and now he was another’s, and she, what was she? A slave like him. No longer her own mistress, at the only moment she had the power to save him. Say what they like, there is a pang in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place, watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. Ah! the heart, the heart!
MISS GRANDISON had resolved upon taking a house in London for the season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to be her guests. Lady Armine’s sister was to join them from Bath. As for Ferdinand, the spring had gradually restored him to health, but not to his former frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incapable of exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours; circumstances, however, occurred which rendered some energy on his part absolutely necessary. His creditors grew importunate, and the arrangement of his affairs or departure from his native land was an alternative now inevitable. The month of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples and Lord Montfort in England, welcomed also to London Miss Grandison and her guests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, who had evaded the journey with his family, and who would not on any account become a guest of his cousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of Grosvenor-square; but not quite alone, for almost at the last hour Glastonbury had requested permission to accompany him, and Ferdinand, who duly valued the society of the only person with whom he could converse about his broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without reserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satisfaction.
A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of rural seclusion, has without doubt a very peculiar effect upon the mind. The immense population, the multiplicity of objects, the important interests hourly impressed upon the intelligence, the continually occurring events, the noise, the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, all combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual insignificance; and those absorbing passions that in our solitude, fed by our imagination, have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes, rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, into less colossal proportions, and seem invested, as it were, with a more shadowy aspect. As Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded streets of London, urged on by his own harassing and inexorable affairs, and conscious of the impending peril of his career, while power and wealth dazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to look back upon the passionate past with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, and almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul had entailed upon him so much anxiety, and prompted him to reject the glittering cup of fortune that had been proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed for enjoyment and repose; the memory of his recent sufferings made him shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of which the consequences had been so severe.
It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, that he stepped into a military club and took up a newspaper. Caring little for politics, his eye wandered over, uninterested, its pugnacious leading articles and tedious parliamentary reports; and he was about to throw it down when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly engrossed all his attention. It was in the ‘Morning Post’ that he thus read:
‘The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke of———, whose return to England we recently noticed, has resided for several years in Italy. His lordship is considered one of the most accomplished noblemen of the day, and was celebrated at Rome for his patronage of the arts. Lord Montfort will shortly be united to the beautiful Miss Temple, the only daughter of the Right Honourable Pelham Temple. Miss Temple is esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England, as she will doubtless inherit the whole of the immense fortune to which her father so unexpectedly acceded. Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr. Temple was formerly our minister at several of the German Courts, where he was distinguished by his abilities and his hospitality to his travelling countrymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the Yorkshire estates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15,000L. per annum. The personal property is also very considerable. We understand that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the Duke of ——-, in Grosvenor-square. Lord Montfort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiable daughter to this country.’
What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand Armine when he read this paragraph. The wonders it revealed succeeded each other with such rapidity that for some time he was deprived of the power of reflection. Henrietta Temple in England! Henrietta Temple one of the greatest heiresses in the country! Henrietta Temple about to be immediately married to another! His Henrietta Temple, the Henrietta Temple whom he adored, and by whom he had been worshipped! The Henrietta Temple whose beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on his heart! The Henrietta Temple for whom he had forfeited fortune, family, power, almost life!
O Woman, Woman! Put not thy trust in woman! And yet, could he reproach her? Did she not believe herself trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, deluded, deserted? And did she, could she love another? Was there another to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and all that beautiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion? Was there another to whom she had pledged her pure and passionate soul? Ah, no! he would not, he could not believe it. Light and false Henrietta could never be. She had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved: who that saw her would not admire and love? and he was the victim of her pique, perhaps of her despair.
But she was not yet married. They were, according to these lines, to be soon united. It appeared they had travelled together; that thought gave him a pang. Could he not see her? Could he not explain all? Could he not prove that his heart had ever been true and fond? Could he not tell her all that had happened, all that he had suffered, all the madness of his misery; and could she resist that voice whose accents had once been her joy, that glance which had once filled her heart with rapture? And when she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had indeed never deceived her, was worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even at this moment for her sweet sake, what were all the cold-blooded ties in which she had since involved herself? She was his by an older and more ardent bond. Should he not claim his right? Could she deny it?
Claim what? The hand of an heiress. Should it be said that an Armine came crouching for lucre, where he ought to have commanded for love? Never! Whatever she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her. It was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the victim, if one indeed there might chance to be. He had loved her, she had returned his passion; for her sake he had made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited a splendid inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he had thought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign solitude, he had never ceased reproaching himself for his conduct, and had accused himself of deception and cruelty; but now, in this moment of her flush prosperity, ‘esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England’ (he ground his teeth as he recalled that phrase), and the affianced bride of a great noble (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too; what a strange thing is life!), proud, smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone, with a broken heart and worse than desperate fortunes, and all for her sake, his soul became bitter: he reproached her with want of feeling; he pictured her as void of genuine sensibility; he dilated on her indifference since they had parted; her silence, so strange, now no longer inexplicable; the total want of interest she had exhibited as to his career; he sneered at the lightness of her temperament; he cursed her caprice; he denounced her infernal treachery; in the distorted phantom of his agonised imagination she became to him even an object of hatred.
Poor Ferdinand Armine! it was the first time he had experienced the maddening pangs of jealousy.
Yet how he had loved this woman! How he had doated on her! And now they might have been so happy! There is nothing that depresses a man so much as the conviction of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, great wealth, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such a combination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, of vexatious circumstances; it would appear that he had been so near perfect happiness and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, and seriously meditated depriving himself of it.
It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at his cousin’s; for Glastonbury, who was usually his companion, had accepted an invitation this day to dine with the noble widow of his old patron. Ferdinand, however, found himself quite incapable of entering into any society, and he hurried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to Brook-street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about to step into a hackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no opportunity of communicating his sorrows to his friend, even had he been inclined.
WHEN Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old duchess, he found nobody in the drawing-room but a young man of distinguished appearance, whose person was unknown to him, but who nevertheless greeted him with remarkable cordiality. The good Glastonbury returned, with some confusion, his warm salutation.
‘It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the young man. ‘I am not surprised you have forgotten me. I am Digby; perhaps you recollect me?’
‘My dear child! My dear lord! You have indeed changed! You are a man, and I am a very old one.’ ‘Nay! my dear sir, I observe little change. Believe me, I have often recalled your image in my long absence, and I find now that my memory has not deceived me.’
Glastonbury and his companion fell into some conversation about the latter’s travels, and residence at Rome, in the midst of which their hostess entered.
‘I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our family circle,’ said her Grace, ‘for I do not think I can well ask you to meet any who love you better. It is long since you have seen Digby.’
‘Mr. Glastonbury did not recognise me, grandmamma,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘These sweet children have all grown out of your sight, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the duchess; ‘but they are very good. And as for Digby, I really think he comes to see his poor grandmother every day.’
The duke and duchess, and two young daughters, were now announced.
‘I was so sorry that I was not at home when you called, Glastonbury,’ said his Grace; ‘but I thought I should soon hear of you at grandmamma’s.’
‘And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come up and see me?’ said the younger duchess.
‘And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, do you remember me?’ said one beautiful daughter.
‘And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me? I am Isabella.’
Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty of his situation, and yet every now and then quite at ease when his ear recalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glastonbury was gratified and happy. The duke took him aside, and they were soon engaged in conversation.
‘How is Henrietta to-day, Digby?’ enquired Isabella.
‘I left her an hour ago; we have been riding, and expected to meet you all. She will be here immediately.’
There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door opened, and Miss Temple was announced.
‘I must make papa’s apologies,’ said Henrietta, advancing and embracing the old duchess. ‘I hope he may get here in the evening: but he bade me remind your Grace that your kind invitation was only provisionally accepted.’
‘He is quite right,’ said the old lady; ‘and indeed I hardly expected him, for he told me there was a public dinner which he was obliged to attend. I am sure that our dinner is a very private one indeed,’ continued the old lady with a smile. ‘It is really a family party, though there is one member of the family here whom you do not know, my dear Miss Temple, and whom, I am sure, you will love as much as all of us do. Digby, where is———’
At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Montfort offered his arm to Henrietta. ‘There, lead the way,’ said the old lady; ‘the girls must beau themselves, for I have no young men to-day for them. I suppose man and wife must be parted, so I must take my son’s arm; Mr. Glastonbury, you will hand down the duchess.’ But before Glastonbury’s name was mentioned Henrietta was half-way down stairs.
The duke and his son presided at the dinner. Henrietta sat on one side of Lord Montfort, his mother on the other. Glastonbury sat on the right hand of the duke, and opposite their hostess; the two young ladies in the middle. All the guests had been seated without Glastonbury and Henrietta recognising each other; and, as he sat on the same side of the table as Miss Temple, it was not until Lord Montfort asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta heard a name that might well indeed turn her pale.
Glastonbury! It never entered into her head at the moment that it was the Mr. Glastonbury whom she had known. Glastonbury! what a name! What dreadful associations did it not induce! She looked forward, she caught the well-remembered visage; she sunk back in her chair. But Henrietta Temple had a strong mind; this was surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. Glastonbury’s attention was not attracted to her: he knew, indeed, that there was a lady at the table, called Henrietta, but he was engrossed with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter of Mr. Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire that Mr. Glastonbury beheld that form which he had not forgotten, and looked upon a lady whose name was associated in his memory with the most disastrous and mournful moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the duchess out of the room, and Glastonbury, perplexed and agitated, resumed his seat.
But Henrietta was the prey of emotions far more acute and distracting. It seemed to her that she had really been unacquainted with the state of her heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonbury. How his image recalled the past! She had schooled herself to consider it all a dream; now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal performers in that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbury in the house, under the same roof as she? Where was Ferdinand? There was one at hand who could tell her. Was he married? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining it since her return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he was married; but was he happy? And Glastonbury, who, if he did not know all, knew so much. How strange it must be to Glastonbury to meet her! Dear Glastonbury! She had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened to Ferdinand’s charming narratives of all his amiable and simple life! Dear, dear Glastonbury, whom she was so to love! And she met him now, and did not speak to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he—he would, perhaps, look upon her with pity, certainly with pain. O Life! what a heart-breaking thing is life! And our affections, our sweet and pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that nourish all things, and make the most barren and rigid soil teem with life and beauty, oh! why do we disturb the flow of their sweet waters, and pollute their immaculate and salutary source! Ferdinand, Ferdinand Armine, why were you false?
The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, followed by the duke and his son. Henrietta was sitting in an easy chair, one of Lord Montfort’s sisters, seated on an ottoman at her side, held her hand. Henrietta’s eye met Glastonbury’s; she bowed to him.
‘How your hand trembles, Henrietta!’ said the young lady.
Glastonbury approached her with a hesitating step. He blushed faintly, he looked exceedingly perplexed. At length he reached her, and stood before her, and said nothing.
‘You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said Henrietta; for it was absolutely necessary that some one should break the awkward silence, and she pointed to a chair at her side.
‘That would indeed be impossible,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Oh, you knew Mr. Glastonbury before,’ said the young lady. ‘Grandmamma, only think, Henrietta knew Mr. Glastonbury before.’
‘We were neighbours in Nottinghamshire,’ said Henrietta, in a quick tone.
‘Isabella,’ said her sister, who was seated at the piano, ‘the harp awaits you.’ Isabella rose, Lord Montfort was approaching Henrietta, when the old duchess called to him.
Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone.
‘This is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said Henrietta.
What could poor Glastonbury say? Something he murmured, but not very much to the purpose. ‘Have you been in Nottinghamshire lately?’ said Henrietta.
‘I left it about ten days back with——-,’ and here Glastonbury stopped, ‘with a friend,’ he concluded.
‘I trust all your friends are well,’ said Henrietta, in a tremulous voice.
‘No; yes; that is,’ said Glastonbury, ‘something better than they were.’
‘I am sorry that my father is not here,’ said Miss Temple; ‘he has a lively remembrance of all your kindness.’
‘Kindness, I fear,’ said Glastonbury, in a melancholy tone, ‘that was most unfortunate.’
‘We do not deem it so, sir,’ was the reply.
‘My dear young lady,’ said Glastonbury, but his voice faltered as he added, ‘we have had great unhappiness.’
‘I regret it,’ said Henrietta. ‘You had a marriage, I believe, expected in your family?’
‘It has not occurred,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Indeed!’
‘Alas! madam,’ said her companion, ‘if I might venture indeed to speak of one whom I will not name, and yet——-’
‘Pray speak, sir,’ said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed voice.
‘The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. God, in His infinite mercy, has visited him with great afflictions.’
‘You speak of Captain Armine, sir?’
‘I speak indeed of my broken-hearted Ferdinand; I would I could say yours. O Miss Temple, he is a wreck.’ ‘Yes! yes!’ said Henrietta in a low tone.
‘What he has endured,’ continued Glastonbury, ‘passes all description of mine. His life has indeed been spared, but under circumstances that almost make me regret he lives.’
‘He has not married!’ muttered Henrietta.
‘He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone,’ said Glastonbury; ‘his mind sunk under the terrible bereavement. For weeks he was a maniac; and, though Providence spared him again to us, and his mind, thanks to God, is again whole, he is the victim of a profound melancholy, that seems to defy alike medical skill and worldly vicissitude.’
‘Digby, Digby!’ exclaimed Isabella, who was at the harp, ‘Henrietta is fainting.’ Lord Montfort rushed forward just in time to seize her cold hand.
‘The room is too hot,’ said one sister.
‘The coffee is too strong,’ said the other.
‘Air,’ said the young duchess.
Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant room. There was a balcony opening into a garden. He seated her on a bench, and never quitted her side, but contrived to prevent anyone approaching her. The women clustered together.
‘Sweet creature!’ said the old duchess, ‘she often makes me tremble; she has but just recovered, Mr. Glastonbury, from a long and terrible illness.’
‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury.
‘Poor dear Digby,’ continued her grace, ‘this will quite upset him again. He was in such spirits about her health the other day.’
‘Lord Montfort?’ enquired Glastonbury.
‘Our Digby. You know that he is to be married to Henrietta next month.’
‘Holy Virgin!’ muttered Glastonbury; and, seizing advantage of the confusion, he effected his escape.
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IT WAS still an early hour when Mr. Glastonbury arrived at his hotel. He understood, however, that Captain Armine had already returned and retired. Glastonbury knocked gently at his door, and was invited to enter. The good man was pale and agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. Glastonbury took a chair, and seated himself by his side.
‘My dear friend, what is the matter?’ said Ferdinand.
‘I have seen her, I have seen her!’ said Glastonbury.
‘Henrietta! seen Henrietta?’ enquired Ferdinand.
Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a most rueful expression of countenance.
‘What has happened? what did she say?’ asked Ferdinand in a quick voice.
‘You are two innocent lambs,’ said Glastonbury, rubbing his hands.
‘Speak, speak, my Glastonbury.’
‘I wish that my death could make you both happy,’ said Glastonbury; ‘but I fear that would do you no good.’
‘Is there any hope?’ said Ferdinand. ‘None!’ said Glastonbury. ‘Prepare yourself, my dear child, for the worst.’
‘Is she married?’ enquired Ferdinand.
‘No; but she is going to be.’
‘I know it,’ said Ferdinand.
Glastonbury stared.
‘You know it? what! to Digby?’
‘Digby, or whatever his name may be; damn him!’
‘Hush! hush!’ said Glastonbury.
‘May all the curses———’
‘God forbid,’ said Glastonbury, interrupting him.
‘Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous———’
‘She is an angel,’ said Glastonbury, ‘a very angel. She has fainted, and nearly in my arms.’
‘Fainted! nearly in your arms! Oh, tell me all, tell me all, Glastonbury,’ exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed with an eager voice and sparkling eyes. ‘Does she love me?’
‘I fear so,’ said Glastonbury. ‘Fear!’
‘Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart!’ said Glastonbury.
‘When I told her of all your sufferings———’
‘Did you tell her? What then?’
‘And she herself has barely recovered from a long and terrible illness.’
‘My own Henrietta! Now I could die happy,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I thought it would break your heart,’ said Glastonbury.
‘It is the only happy moment I have known for months,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mind,’ said Glastonbury. ‘I really never meant to tell you anything. I do not know how I came into your room.’
‘Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.’
‘Only think!’ said Glastonbury; ‘I never was so unhappy in my life.’
‘I have endured for the last four hours the tortures of the damned,’ said Ferdinand, ‘to think that she was going to be married, to be married to another; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of the past; and that I was dying like a dog in this cursed caravanserai! O Glastonbury! nothing that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this day. And now you have come and made me comparatively happy. I shall get up directly.’
Glastonbury looked quite astonished; he could not comprehend how his fatal intelligence could have produced effects so directly contrary from those he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdinand’s reiterated enquiries, he contrived to give a detailed account of everything that had occurred, and Ferdinand’s running commentary continued to be one of constant self-congratulation.
‘There is, however, one misfortune,’ said Ferdinand, ‘with which you are unacquainted, my dear friend.’
‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury, ‘I thought I knew enough.’
‘Alas! she has become a great heiress!’
‘Is that it?’ said Glastonbury.
‘There is the blow,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Were it not for that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from the arms of this stripling.’
‘Stripling!’ said Glastonbury. ‘I never saw a truer nobleman in my life.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Ferdinand.
‘Nay, second scarcely to yourself! I could not believe my eyes,’ continued Glastonbury. ‘He was but a child when I saw him last; but so were you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordinary rival.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely met a personage so highly accomplished, or who more quickly impressed you with his moral and intellectual excellence.’
‘And they are positively engaged?’
‘To be married next month,’ replied Glastonbury.
‘O Glastonbury! why do I live?’ exclaimed Ferdinand; ‘why did I recover?’
‘My dear child, but just now you were comparatively happy.’
‘Happy! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, is there in this world a thing so deplorable as I am!’
‘I thought I did wrong to say anything,’ said Glastonbury, speaking as it were to himself.
Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in his bed, with his face averted from Glastonbury.
‘Good night,’ said Glastonbury, after remaining some time in silence.
‘Good night,’ said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful tone.
WRETCHED as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected; Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln’s Inn by ten o’clock the next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about to cross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window. He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person to whom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was not a single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached the equipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerable agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was, however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair.
‘You wicked man,’ said her little ladyship, in a great rage. ‘Oh! how I hate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I have been giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been in town, and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife? Oh! you are not married. You should marry; I hate a ci-devant jeune homme. However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your name, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have a great deal to say to you.’ And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely necessary to comply.
‘Now, where shall we go?’ said her ladyship; ‘I have got till two o’clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, to receive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come every day if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards. I never see them; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear people who leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere? You do not! Why do not you? How is your worthy father, Sir Peter? Is his name Sir Peter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And your charming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite one of my favourites. And were not you to marry? Tell me, why have you not? Miss—Miss—you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son’s friend. In town, are they? Where do they live? Brook-street! I will go and call upon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live.’
And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair’s carriage stopped opposite the house of Miss Grandison.
‘Are they early risers?’ said her ladyship; ‘I get up every morning at six. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, and then they cannot refuse.’
In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected an entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered into the morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine.
‘My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are so bright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite love you, that I do. Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends. And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time? Here have I been giving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends; telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longing to see you; and you have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over; I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three evenings yet; to-night, you must come to me to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday; you must come on all three nights. Oh! why did you not call upon me? I should have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you to meet Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they would have tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dine with you some day. Now, when will you have me? Let me see, when am I. free?’ So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was her inseparable companion in London. ‘All this week I am ticketed; Monday, the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with Bonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday, where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, the Maxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famous house for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, for he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at one o’clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. So it cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell you to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am always at home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come every day, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny little grandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked Lady Grandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got the estate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of my greatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked her to dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where she lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.’
So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyship took Ferdinand’s arm and retired.
Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour with them, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, he observed Lady Bellair’s little red book, which she had left behind.
‘Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?’ said Miss Grandison; ‘we must take it to her immediately.’
‘I will leave it,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I shall pass her house.’
Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a long building, in the Italian style, situate in the midst of gardens, which, though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste, that it was very difficult to believe that you were in a great city. The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which Lady Bellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the ground floor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair’s injunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing what to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was ushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases of brilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, and Etruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in that classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hope first rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far into the gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory of considerable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a long building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, and screened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls of this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, and prints of the country seats of Lady Bellair’s friends, all of which she took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a sweeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel.
Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higher than her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials, on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, with which her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, loitered in the hall.
‘You have brought me my book!’ she exclaimed, as Ferdinand entered with the mystical volume. ‘Give it me, give it me. Here I cannot tell Mrs. Fancourt what day I can dine with her. I am engaged all this week and all next, and I am to dine with your dear family when I like. But Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because they will keep. You do not know this gentleman,’ she said, turning to Mrs. Fan-court. ‘Well, I shall not introduce you; he will not suit you; he is a fine gentleman, and only dines, with dukes.’
Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an introduction.
‘General Faneville,’ Lady Bellair continued, to a gentleman on her left, ‘what day do I dine with you? Wednesday. Is our party full? You must make room for him; he is my greatest favourite. All the ladies are in love with him.’
General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high honour; Ferdinand protested he was engaged on Wednesday; Mrs. Fancourt looked very disappointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning the name of so distinguished a personage.
There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. Lady Maxbury, and her daughter, Lady Selina, were announced.
‘Have you got him?’ asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her new visitors entered.
‘He has promised most positively,’ answered Lady Maxbury.
‘Dear, good creature!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘you are the dearest creature that I know. And you are charming,’ she continued, addressing herself to Lady Selina; ‘if I were a man, I would marry you directly. There now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is married already; but he should, if he were not. And how will he come?’ enquired Lady Bellair.
‘He will find his way,’ said Lady Maxbury.
‘And I am not to pay anything?’ enquired Lady Bellair.
‘Not anything,’ said Lady Maxbury.
‘I cannot bear paying,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘But will he dance, and will he bring his bows and arrows? Lord Dorfield protests ‘tis nothing without the bows and arrows.’
‘What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair?’ enquired the general.
‘Have you seen him?’ enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly.
‘Not yet,’ replied the gentleman.
‘Well, then, you will see him to-night,’ said Lady Bellair, with an air of triumph. ‘He is coming to me to-night.’
Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart.
‘You must not go without seeing my squirrel,’ said her ladyship, ‘that my dear funny grandson gave me: he is such a funny boy. You must see it, you must see it,’ added her ladyship, in a peremptory tone. ‘There, go out of that door, and you will find your way to my summer-room, and there you will find my squirrel.’
The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with the stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length found himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was seated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep she raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple.
He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought and motion alike deserted him.
There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand with an expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her features. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed the first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: he moved to retire.
He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced his name.
‘Captain Armine!’ said the voice.
How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he still proceeded to the door.
‘Ferdinand!’ said the voice.
He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her arm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table at which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet she neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear voice, ‘I am here.’
‘I have seen Mr. Glastonbury,’ she muttered.
‘I know it,’ he replied.
‘Your illness has distressed me,’ she said, after a slight pause, her face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made no reply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke.
‘I would that we were at least friends,’ she said. The tears came into Ferdinand’s eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now sweet. It touched his heart.
‘Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,’ he replied.
She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, ‘Farewell, Miss Temple.’
She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart. He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he in his turn averted his eyes.
‘Our misery is—has been great,’ she said in a firmer tone, ‘but was it of my making?’
‘The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation, however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly,’ said Ferdinand; ‘I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake,’ he added, in a tone of great bitterness.
Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, ‘I cannot recall the past: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you the interest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes! you can be happy, Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy.’
‘O Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call you, this is worse than that death I curse myself for having escaped.’
‘No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only exert yourself, bear up against irresistible fate. Your cousin, everyone says she is so amiable; surely———’
‘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?’
‘Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips is mere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little did I suppose that we ever should have met again. I go nowhere, I enter no single house; my visit here this morning was one of those whimsical vagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady indeed seems, somehow or other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to her.’
The page entered the room. ‘Miss Temple,’ said the lad, ‘my lady bid me say the duchess and Lord Montfort were here.’
Ferdinand started, and darting, almost unconsciously, a glance of fierce reproach at the miserable Henrietta, he rushed out of the room and made his escape from Bellair House without re-entering the library.