THE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the secret object of Ferdinand’s unhappy passion, was a secret which Miss Grandison prized like a true woman. Not only had she made this discovery, but from her previous knowledge and her observation during her late interview with Miss Temple, Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her cousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Henrietta; she was interested in her cousin’s welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. All her thoughts and all her energies were engaged in counteracting, if possible, the consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which had placed them all in this painful position.
It was on the next day that she had promised to accompany the duchess and Henrietta on a water excursion. Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. In the morning she found herself alone with his lordship in St. James’-square.
‘What a charming day!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I anticipate so much pleasure! Who is our party?’
‘Ourselves alone,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Lady Armine cannot come, and Captain Armine is engaged. I fear you will find it very dull, Miss Grandison.’
‘Oh! not at all. By-the-bye, do you know I was surprised yesterday at finding that Ferdinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances.’
‘Were you?’ said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone.
‘It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. I think it is very bad taste.’
‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘I should have thought that Henrietta was the very person he would have admired; that he would have been quite glad to be with us. I can easily understand his being wearied to death with a cousin,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘but Henrietta,—it is so strange that he should not avail himself of the delight of being with her.’
‘Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandison can drive him away?’
‘Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Ferdinand is placed in a very awkward position with me. You are our friend, and so I speak to you in confidence. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine both expect that Ferdinand and myself are going to be married. Now, neither of us has the slightest intention of anything of the sort.’
‘Very strange, indeed,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘The world will be much astonished, more so than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion on the subject.’
‘Yes, I was aware of that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘or I should not have spoken with so much frankness. For my own part, I think we are very wise to insist upon having our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must be a most melancholy business.’ Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost of levity, which was rather unusual with her.
‘An ill-assorted marriage,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘And what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison?’
‘Why, many circumstances might constitute such an union,’ said Katherine; ‘but I think if one of the parties were in love with another person, that would be quite sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion of wretchedness.’
‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘an union, under such circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Grandison is not in that situation?’ he added with a faint smile.
‘That is scarcely a fair question,’ said Katherine, with gaiety, ‘but there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes; he is in love, desperately in love; that I have long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be!’
‘I wonder!’ said Lord Montfort.
‘Do you?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Well, I have sometimes thought that you might have a latent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you were his confidant.’
‘I!’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I, of all men in the world?’
‘And why not you of all men in the world?’ said Miss Grandison.
‘Our intimacy is so slight,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘Hum!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And now I think of it, it does appear to me very strange how we have all become suddenly such intimate friends. The Armines and your family not previously acquainted: Miss Temple, too, unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each other’s sight. I am sure I am grateful for it; I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it does appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what the reason can be?’
‘It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘A compliment from you!’
‘Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort, drawing near her. ‘Favoured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of so admirable a friend.’
‘Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord?’
‘All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her,’ said Lord Montfort, seriously.
‘Indeed, I think so,’ said Katherine, in a more subdued voice. ‘I love her; her career fills me with a strange and singular interest. May she be happy, for happiness she indeed deserves!’
‘I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘by any means,’ he added.
‘She is so interesting!’ said Katherine. ‘When you first knew her she was very ill?’
‘Very.’
‘She seems quite recovered.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder what was the matter with her?’
Lord Montfort was silent.
‘I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken,’ continued Miss Grandison. ‘There was Ferdinand. Oh! if you had but known my cousin before he was unhappy. Oh! that was a spirit! He was the most brilliant being that ever lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It was so terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each other. It is very strange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta was ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacing her. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny in our lots, does there not?’
‘A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort.
At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready; and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where a beautiful boat awaited them.
In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrences of yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In the first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressing difficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, he had made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed Count Mirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his friends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, the Count Mirabel was announced.
Mon cher Armine,’ said the Count, ‘you see I kept my promise, and would find you at home.’
The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with bonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bed which always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knew nothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.
Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something in Count Mirabel’s very presence which put everybody in good spirits. His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in amusing conversation.
‘You were a stranger among us yesterday,’ said Count Mirabel; ‘I think you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?’
Ferdinand smiled.
‘It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?’
‘’Tis a fine question,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and yet I confess I should like to be callous.’
‘Ah! but you cannot be,’ said the Count, ‘you have a soul of great sensibility; I see that in a moment.’
‘You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,’ said Ferdinand, with a little reserve.
‘Yes; in a minute,’ said the Count, ‘in a minute I read a person’s character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.’
Ferdinand changed countenance again. ‘You are a very extraordinary man, Count,’ he at length observed.
‘Of course; but, mon cher Armine, what a fine day this is! What are you going to do with yourself?’
‘Nothing; I never do anything,’ said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful tone.
‘A melancholy man! Quelle bêtise! I will cure you. I will be your friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!’ Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.
Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The effervescence produced by yesterday’s fortunate adventure had not quite subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively chorus of Vive la bagatelle! So, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.
The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object he passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up with the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking over the valley.
Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealed themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a bêtise. This word bêtise settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declared that anything was a bêtise, he would hear no more.
It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he knew him—though none could after—and who was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous rencontre that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. The Count was at her Grace’s side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple’s arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned to dinner.
‘We have only availed ourselves of your Grace’s permission to join our dinners,’ said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord Montfort.
The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who was silent.
‘How amusing he is!’ said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and speaking in an undertone.
‘Yes; I envy him his gaiety.’
‘Be gay.’
‘I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel’s philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.’
Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand.
They returned by water. To Ferdinand’s great annoyance, the Count did not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess’s proposal that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape.
It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank; but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon.
‘I wish we had brought a guitar,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us?’ ‘And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will you not?’ said the Count, smiling.
‘Henrietta, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘With you.’
‘Of course; now you must,’ said the Count: so they did.
This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present—there is something very ravishing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel.
‘And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,’ said the duchess.
‘Without a guitar?’ said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm for an accompaniment. ‘Well, when I was with the Duc d’Angoulême in Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one.’
‘I hope the lady came,’ said Miss Temple, ‘after such a pretty song.’
‘Of course,’ said the Count, ‘they always come.’
‘Ferdinand, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison.
‘I cannot, Katherine.’
‘Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘he makes it a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have more influence.’
Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. ‘Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine,’ said his lordship; and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front the habitual exactitude of his statements.
‘How very strange!’ thought Ferdinand; ‘her callousness or her candour baffles me. I will try to sing,’ he continued aloud, ‘but it is a year, really, since I have sung.’
In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression which increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to control his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:—
Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold. Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was turned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing to notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody’s attention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunate that Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent.
The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St. James’-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone.
‘Cher Armine,’ said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross, ‘Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two young ladies is your cousin?’
‘The fair girl; Miss Grandison.’
‘So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry her, are you?’
‘No; I am not.’
‘And who is Miss Temple?’
‘She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.’
‘Diable! But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?’
‘I think of her as all, I suppose, must.’
‘She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She marries for money, I suppose?’
‘She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than my cousin.’
‘C’est drôle. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.’
‘By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?’
‘Mon cher Armine, I like you more than anybody. I wish to be, I am, your friend. Here is some cursed contretemps. There is a mystery, and both of you are victims of it. Tell me everything. I will put you right.’
‘Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I could never speak on these things to human being, but I am attracted to you by the same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want a confidant, I need a friend; I am most wretched.’
‘Eh! bien! we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny Vertpré, we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk over everything. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are an idiot if you do not have her.’
So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house in Berkeley-square.
‘Now, mon cher,’ said the Count, ‘coffee and confidence.’
IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June? Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine horses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of such agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bowery glades of Kensington.
It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among the glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steed beneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listless cavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning he had won his pigeon match.
‘Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington,’ said the Count. ‘I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?’
‘I do, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘He has gone to Richmond with Blandford and the two little Furzlers.’
‘That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed.’
‘Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?’ said Mr. de Stockville.
‘Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene.’
‘I say, Mirabel,’ drawled out a young man, ‘I saw you yesterday driving a man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?’
‘No one you know, or will know. ‘Tis the best fellow that ever lived; but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he is introduced.’
‘Lord! I wonder who he can be!’ said the young man.
‘I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don’t take care, I can tell you that.’
‘Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will take them.’
‘No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time———’
‘You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for certainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it.’
‘Well, I must say, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘I think the same about Goshawk.’
‘Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and take all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! mon cher Catch?’
‘But do you really think Goshawk will win?’ asked Lord Cathimwhocan, earnestly.
‘Certain!’
‘Well, damned if I don’t go and take the odds,’ said his lordship.
‘Mirabel,’ said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, and speaking in a low voice, ‘shall you be at home to-morrow morning?’
‘Certainly. But what do you want?’
‘I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you to advise me.’
‘The Count moved aside with this cavalier. ‘And what is it?’ said he. ‘Have you been losing?’
‘No, no,’ said the young man, shaking his head. ‘Much worse. It is the most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall cut my throat.’
‘Bêtise! It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.’
‘Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.’
‘Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,’ said the Count, in a kind voice. ‘I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it until to-morrow at one o’clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am at your service at present.’
‘No, no, not here: there are letters.’
‘Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any nonsense.’
At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and bowed to the Count Mirabel.
‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘who is that girl? I want to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine creature!’
‘Do not you know Miss Temple?’ said the Count. ‘Fancy a man not knowing Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.’
Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode away, and was soon by the very lady’s side.
‘What a charming voyage yesterday,’ said the Count to Miss Temple. ‘You were amused?’
‘Very.’
‘And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.’
‘You know him intimately?’ said Miss Temple.
‘He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! chère Miss Temple, there is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so spirituel.’
‘You have known him long, Count?’
‘Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will not live.’
‘Indeed!’
‘No, I am never wrong. That cher Armine will not live.’
‘You are his friend, surely———’
‘Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I contrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance; but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When you first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?’
‘He was indeed very different,’ said Miss Temple, turning away her face.
‘You have known that dear Armine a long time?’
‘It seems a long time,’ said Miss Temple.
‘If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very good spirits again,’ said the Count. ‘It is the only thing that would quite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our cher Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?’
‘I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him.’
‘He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him very well?’
‘They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed their acquaintance only recently.’
‘We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must assist in our endeavours to bring him out a little.’
‘Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested in Captain Armine’s welfare.’
‘I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,’ said Count Mirabel. ‘After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate sympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the cher Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother.’
‘He is fortunate in such a friend.’
‘Ah! he does not think so any longer,’ said the Count; ‘he avoids me, he will not tell me anything. Chère Miss Temple, this business haunts me; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows him like me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings. Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of committing suicide.’
‘God forbid!’ said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis.
‘I rise every morning with apprehension,’ said the Count. ‘When I call upon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel.’
‘Are you indeed serious?’
‘Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc de Crillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were at college together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like this dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine yesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married; but there was a contretemps. He sent for me; I was in Spain; she married the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself.’
‘No, no!’ exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation.
‘Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because I feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is not so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What are his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business. I am going to him. How I tremble!’ ‘How good you are!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, with streaming eyes. ‘I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we all must. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy.’
‘It is the song I ever sing,’ said the Count. ‘I wish some of you would come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.’
‘He will not care for it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it.’ Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off with his prize.
It was about eight o’clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine in Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel’s fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count, full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him.
‘Cher ami! I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you should be happy.’
‘Nonsense, my dear Count’
‘It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last night; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. If we go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall in love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrow morning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boy coming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, cher, cher Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower; and rest assured that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort in a very fine ditch.’
THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means or other he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduous court to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression from the first; in St. James’-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to the society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with Count Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her his confidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. He established his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received him accordingly as one of their son’s oldest and most cherished friends. But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even in business never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, became great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended and appreciated that good man’s character.
All Count Mirabel’s efforts were directed to restore the influence of Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted no opportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady’s susceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, his sacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end which the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her in a light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. She could not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All her feelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her old plan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret it? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet it seemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another’s. But, then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was he indeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did she ever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved to be firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty even if she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live, and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! And those long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all his truth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. She was not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet she was the person who alone punished him. How different was the generous conduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him, she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unite him to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, how selfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now that she had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believe that she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! could he believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown fortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What a return had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death———. The picture was too terrible, too harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was seated, and wept bitterly.
She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was her father.
‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are agitated.’
‘Yes; yes, I am agitated,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘You are unwell.’
‘Worse than unwell.’
‘Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.’
‘Grief for which there is no cure.’
‘Indeed! I am greatly astonished.’
His daughter only sighed.
‘Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.’
‘I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say.’
‘To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘if only for my sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion.’
‘It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you have seen.’
‘A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta, speak.’
‘Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.’
‘Is it so bitter?’
‘Ah! that I should live!’ said Miss Temple.
‘Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all. Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive such strong feelings. Has—has——— I know not what to say, but so much happens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seen one who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown in unexpected contact with him; he has not—he has not dared——-’
‘Say nothing harshly of him,’ said Miss Temple wildly; ‘I will not bear it, even from you.’
‘My daughter!’
‘Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? Have I urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. My conduct is yours, but my feelings are my own.’
‘Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of your happiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strange return.’
‘Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But let this subject drop for ever.’
‘It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?’ continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry.
‘What if he did? He has a right to do so.’
‘As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful.’
‘O Ferdinand!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes to heaven, ‘and you must endure even this!’
‘Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as he seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever engrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessary how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first calculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, and betray your heart.’
‘’Tis false,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; ‘he is as true and pure as I am; more, much more,’ she added, in a voice of anguish.
‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing sneer. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of Lord Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world; the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which, even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughter of mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I know well I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart, and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that ever descended on a daughter’s head.’
‘My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself at his feet. ‘Oh! do not say so; oh! recall those words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God’s sake, pity me.’
‘I would do more than pity you; I would save you.’
‘It is not as you think,’ she continued, with streaming eyes: ‘indeed it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My friends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us. He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from his home, that we might not meet.’
‘You must marry Lord Montfort at once.’
‘Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not of such terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me; say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can I recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows all; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle. Oh! my father!’
‘My Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple, moved; ‘my child!’
‘Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you have spoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done him great injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, you would not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Once you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you meet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you would pity him.’