Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

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.

CHAPTER VI

Containing an Evening Assembly at Bellair House.

SEATED on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionally throwing a glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fan almost as long as herself, to a distant guest, Lady Bellair received the world on the evening of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontre between Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who stood at the library-door in a new fancy dress, received the announcement of the company from the other servants, and himself communicated the information to his mistress.

‘Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady,’ said the page.

‘Hem!’ said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very amiable expression of countenance, she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to a rather common-looking personage in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat.

‘Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady.’ Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod on this fair and classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of her fan, that she might take a seat on her ottoman.

‘Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss Grandison.’

‘Dear, good people!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘how late you are! and where is your wicked son? There, go into the next room, go, go, and see the wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you must know Lady Armine; she is like you; she is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you go together. I will not have anybody stay here except my niece. This is my niece,’ Lady Bellair added, pointing to a young lady seated by her side; ‘I give this party for her.’ ‘General Faneville, my lady.’ ‘You are very late,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I dined at Lord Rochfort’s,’ said the general bowing.

‘Rochfort’s! Oh! where are they? where are the Rochforts? they ought to be here. I must, I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants a nursery governess? Because I have a charming person who would just suit her. Go and find her out, General, and enquire; and if she do not want one, find out some one who does. Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go, go.’

‘Mr. and Miss Temple, my lady.’

‘Oh, my darling!’ said Lady Bellair, ‘my real darling! sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, because I determined to keep this place for you. I give this party entirely in your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are a good man,’ she continued, addressing Mr. Temple; ‘but I can’t love you so well as your daughter.’

‘I should be too fortunate,’ said Mr. Temple, smiling.

‘I knew you when you ate pap,’ said Lady Bellair, laughing.

‘Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady.’

Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. Mrs. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous than ever. The splendour of her sweeping train almost required a page to support it; she held a bouquet which might have served for the centre-piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose person distilled odours whose essence might have exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side.

‘May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord Catchimwhocan?’ breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps in her conquest.

Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs. Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. ‘There, go, go,’ said Lady Bellair, interrupting her, ‘nobody must stop here; go and see the wonderful man in the next room.’

‘Lady Bellair is so strange,’ whimpered Mrs. Montgomery, in an apologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she moved away, covering her retreat by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘Some Irish guardsman, I suppose,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I never heard of him; I hate guardsmen.’

‘Rather a distinguished-looking man, I think,’ said Mr. Temple.

‘Do you think so?’ said Lady Bellair, who was always influenced by the last word. ‘I will ask him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I must have known his grandfather. I must tell him not to go about with that horrid woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk; she puts me in mind of the Queen of Sheba,’ said the little lady, laughing, ‘all precious stones and frankincense. I quite hate her.’

‘I thought she was quite one of your favourites, Lady Bellair?’ said Henrietta Temple rather maliciously.

‘A Bath favourite, my dear; a Bath favourite. I wear my old bonnets at Bath, and use my new friends; but in town I have old friends and new dresses.’

‘Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady.’ ‘Oh! my dear Lady Frederick, now I will give you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, whom I am always talking to you of. You deserve to know her; you will taste her; there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and make love to her.’

‘Lady Womandeville, my lady.’

‘Ah! she will do for the lord; she loves a lord. My dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am always so glad to see you. I have such a charming friend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, witty person, quite captivating, and his grandfather was one of my dearest friends. What is his name? what is his name? Lord Catchimwhocan. Mind, I introduce you to him, and ask him to your house very often.’

Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her delight, and moved on.

Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Temples, approached the ottoman.

‘Is the duchess here?’ enquired Henrietta, as she shook hands with him.

‘And Isabella,’ he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair.

‘God bless you,’ said her ladyship, with great emphasis. ‘I will not have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind.’

When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in discovering the duchess, she was in the conservatory, which was gaily illuminated with coloured lamps among the shrubs. Her Grace was conversing with cordiality with a lady of very prepossessing appearance, in whom the traces of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still considerable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort and Henrietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as Lady Armine and Miss Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was not easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equanimity; after that shock, no incident connected with the Armine family could be surprising; she was even desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and she congratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so speedily offered itself to gratify her wishes. The duchess was perfectly delighted with Lady Armine, whose manners were fascinating; between the families there was some connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always retained a lively sense of the old duke’s services to her son. Henrietta had even to listen to enquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learnt that he was slowly recovering from an almost fatal illness, that he could not endure the fatigues of society, and that he was even living at an hotel for the sake of quiet. Henrietta watched the countenance of Katherine, as Lady Armine gave this information. It was serious, but not disturbed. Her Grace did not separate from her new friends the whole of the evening, and they parted with a mutually expressed wish that they might speedily and often meet. The duchess pronounced Lady Armine the most charming person she had ever met; while, on the other hand, Miss Grandison was warm in her admiration of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, whom she thought quite worthy even of so rare a prize.

CHAPTER VII

Containing a Very Important Communication.

BETWEEN the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in the morning and the evening assembly at Bellair House, a communication had been made by Miss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence and depression had not escaped him. Soon after their arrival they were left alone, and then Henrietta said, ‘Digby, I wish to speak to you!’

‘My own!’ said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by her on the sofa, and took her hand.

Miss Temple was calm; but he would have been a light observer who had not detected her suppressed agitation.

‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, ‘you are so generous and so kind, that I ought to feel no reluctance in speaking to you upon this subject; and yet it pains me very much.’ She hesitated.

‘I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of yours, Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Speak to me as you always do, with that frankness which so much delights me.’

‘Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of my life, then,’ said Henrietta.

‘If you require it,’ said Lord Montfort, in a serious tone.

‘It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single circumstance connected with that unhappy event should be unknown to you. I wished originally that you should know all. I have a thousand times since regretted that your consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned an imperfect confidence between us; and something has occurred to-day which makes me lament it bitterly.’

‘No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Indeed, Digby, it is so,’ said Henrietta very mournfully.

‘Speak, then, dearest Henrietta.’

‘It is necessary that you should know the name of that person who once exercised an influence over my feelings, which I never affected to disguise to you.’

‘Is it indeed necessary?’ enquired Lord Montfort.

‘It is for my happiness,’ replied Henrietta.

‘Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it.’

‘He is in this country,’ said Henrietta, ‘he is in this town; he may be in the same room with you to-morrow; he has been in the same room with me even this day.’

‘Indeed!’ said Lord Montfort.

‘He bears a name not unknown to you,’ said Henrietta, ‘a name, too, that I must teach myself to mention, and yet–’

Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from the table, ‘Write it,’ he said in a kind tone.

Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote,

‘Armine.’

‘The son of Sir Ratcliffe?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘The same,’ replied Henrietta.

‘You heard then of him last night?’ enquired her companion.

‘Even so; of that, too, I was about to speak.’

‘I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with the Armine family,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly.

There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, ‘Is there anything you wish me to do?’

‘Much,’ said Henrietta. ‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘do not misinterpret me; my heart, if such a heart be worth possessing, is yours. I can never forget who solaced me in my misery; I can never forget all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that I could make a return to you more worthy of all your goodness; but if the grateful devotion of my life can repay you, you shall be satisfied.’

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘It is of you, and of your happiness that I can alone think,’ he murmured.

‘Now let me tell you all,’ said Henrietta, with desperate firmness. ‘I have done this person great injustice.’

‘Hah!’ said Lord Montfort.

‘It cuts me to the heart,’ said Henrietta.

‘You have then misconceived his conduct?’ enquired Lord Montfort.

‘Utterly.’

‘It is indeed a terrible situation for you,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘for all of us,’ he added, in a lower tone.

‘No, Digby; not for all of us; not even for myself; for if you are happy I will be. But for him, yes! I will not conceal it from you, I feel for him.’

‘Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta.’

‘No, no, Digby; do not say so,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, very earnestly; ‘do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice; there shall be none. I will not, I do not falter. Be you firm. Do not desert me in this moment of trial. It is for support I speak; it is for consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. Who shall sever them? No! Digby, we will be happy; but I am interested in the destiny of this unhappy person. You, you can assist me in rendering it more serene; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than ourselves.’

‘I would spare no labour,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Oh, that you would not!’ exclaimed Miss Temple. ‘You are so good, so noble! You would sympathise even with him. What other man in your situation would?’

‘What can be done?’

‘Listen: he was engaged to his cousin even on that fatal day when we first met; a lady with every charm and advantage that one would think could make a man happy; young, noble, and beautiful; of a most amiable and generous disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved; and of great wealth.’

‘Miss Grandison?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Yes: his parents looked forward to their union with delight, not altogether unmixed with anxiety.

The Armines, with all their princely possessions, are greatly embarrassed from the conduct of the last head of their house. Ferdinand himself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of his grandfather’s imprudent spirit; his affairs, I fear, are terribly involved. When I knew him, papa was, as you are aware, a poor man. This marriage would have cured all; my Digby, I wish it to take place.’

‘How can we effect it?’ asked Lord Montfort.

‘Become his friend, dear Digby. I always think you can do anything. Yes! my only trust is in you. Oh! my Digby, make us all happy.’

Lord Montfort rose and walked up and down the room, apparently in profound meditation. At length he said, ‘Rest assured, Henrietta, that to secure your happiness nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. I will see Mr. Glastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let us think of lighter things.’

CHAPTER VIII

Which Is Rather Strange.

IT WAS on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House that Ferdinand was roused from his welcome slumbers, for he had passed an almost sleepless night, by his servant bringing him a note, and telling him that it had been left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read as follows:—

‘Silly, silly Captain Armine! why did you not come to my Vauxhall last night? I wanted to present you to the fairest damsel in the world, who has a great fortune too; but that you don’t care about. When are you going to be married? Miss Grandison looked charming, but disconsolate without her knight. Your mother is an angel, and the Duchess of–is quite in love with her. Your father, too, is a worthy man. I love your family very much. Come and call upon poor old doting bedridden H. B., who is at home every day from two to six to receive her friends. Has charming Lady Armine got a page? I have one that would just suit her. He teases my poor squirrel so that I am obliged to turn him away; but he is a real treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, would give her ears for him; but I love your mother much more, and so she shall have him. He shall come to her to-night. All the world takes tea with H. B. on Thursday and Saturday.’

‘One o’clock!’ said Ferdinand. ‘I may as well get up and call in Brook-street, and save my mother from this threatened infliction. Heigho! Day after day, and each more miserable than the other. How will this end?’

When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-street, he went up stairs without being announced, and found in the drawing-room, besides his mother and Katherine, the duchess, Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple.

The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Henrietta appeared before him, the same Henrietta whom he had met, for the first time, in the pleasaunce at Armine. Retreat was impossible. Her Grace received Ferdinand cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, but she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, looking at some work. Her occupation covered her confusion. Lord Montfort came forward with extended hand.