Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

The ladies were rather tired when they returned from the Museum. Lord Montfort walked to the Travellers, and Henrietta agreed to remain and dine in Brook-street. Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grandison’s boudoir, a pretty chamber, where they were sure of being alone. Henrietta threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last new novel; Miss Grandison seated herself on an ottoman by her side, and worked at a purse which she was making for Mr. Temple.

‘Do you like that book?’ said Katherine.

‘I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones,’ replied Miss Temple; ‘the author has observed but he has not felt.’

‘It is satirical,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘I wonder why all this class of writers aim now at the sarcastic. I do not find life the constant sneer they make it.’

‘It is because they do not understand life,’ said Henrietta, ‘but have some little experience of society. Therefore their works give a perverted impression of human conduct; for they accept as a principal, that which is only an insignificant accessory; and they make existence a succession of frivolities, when even the career of the most frivolous has its profounder moments.’

‘How vivid is the writer’s description of a ball or a dinner,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘everything lives and moves. And yet, when the hero makes love, nothing can be more unnatural. His feelings are neither deep, nor ardent, nor tender. All is stilted, and yet ludicrous.’

‘I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a dinner and a ball,’ said Miss Temple. ‘As far as it goes it is very amusing, but it should be combined with higher materials. In a fine novel, manners should be observed, and morals should be sustained; we require thought and passion, as well as costume and the lively representation of conventional arrangements; and the thought and passion will be the better for these accessories, for they will be relieved in the novel as they are relieved in life, and the whole will be more true.’

‘But have you read that love scene, Henrietta? It appeared to me so ridiculous!’

‘I never read love scenes,’ said Henrietta Temple.

‘Oh, I love a love story,’ said Miss Grandison, smiling, ‘if it be natural and tender, and touch my heart. When I read such scenes, I weep.’

‘Ah, my sweet Katherine, you are soft-hearted.’

‘And you, Henrietta, what are you?’

‘Hard-hearted. The most callous of mortals.’

‘Oh, what would Lord Montfort say?’

‘Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love scenes.’

‘And yet you love him?’

‘Dearly; I love and esteem him.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I may be wrong, but if I were a man I do not think I should like the lady of my love to esteem me.’

‘And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of happiness, believe me, Kate. Love is a dream.’

‘And how do you know, dear Henrietta?’

‘All writers agree it is.’

‘The writers you were just ridiculing?’

‘A fair retort; and yet, though your words are the more witty, believe me, mine are the more wise.’

‘I wish my cousin would wake from his dream,’ said Katherine. ‘To tell you a secret, love is the cause of his unhappiness. Don’t move, dear Henrietta,’ added Miss Grandison; ‘we are so happy here;’ for Miss Temple, in truth, seemed not a little discomposed.

‘You should marry your cousin,’ said Miss Temple.

‘You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give that advice,’ said Katherine. ‘We shall never marry; nothing is more certain than that. In the first place, to be frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothing would induce him; and in the second place, I would not marry him, nothing would induce me.’

‘Why not?’ said Henrietta, in a low tone, holding her book very near to her face.

‘Because I am sure that we should not be happy,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I love Ferdinand, and once could have married him. He is so brilliant that I could not refuse his proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me that we have not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, for I love him very dearly. He is indeed my brother.’

‘But why should you not be happy?’ enquired Miss Temple.

‘Because we are not suited to each other. Ferdinand must marry some one whom he looks up to, somebody brilliant like himself, some one who can sympathise with all his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. You would suit him much better, Henrietta.’

‘You are his cousin; it is a misfortune; if you were not, he would adore you, and you would sympathise with him.’

‘I think not: I should like to marry a very clever man,’ said Katherine. ‘I could not endure marrying a fool, or a commonplace person; I should like to marry a person very superior in talent to myself, some one whose opinion would guide me on all points, one from whom I could not differ. But not Ferdinand; he is too imaginative, too impetuous; he would neither guide me, nor be guided by me.’

Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of her book.

‘Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yesterday at our house?’ enquired Miss Grandison, very innocently.

‘Yes!’ said Miss Temple.

‘I thought you did,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I thought there was something in your manner that indicated you had met before. I do not think you knew my aunt before you met her at Bellair House?’

‘I did not.’

‘Nor Sir Ratclifle?’

‘Nor Sir Ratclifle.’

‘But you did know Mr. Glastonbury?’

‘I did know Mr. Glastonbury.’

‘How very odd!’ said Miss Grandison.

‘What is odd?’ enquired Henrietta.

‘That you should have known Ferdinand before.’

‘Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa’s. I remember him very well.’

‘Oh,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And did Mr. Glastonbury come over to shoot?’

‘I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning that I went to see the picture gallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever saw him.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Grandison again, ‘Armine is a beautiful place, is it not?’

‘Most interesting.’

‘You know the pleasaunce.’

‘Yes.’

‘I did not see you when I was at Armine.’

‘No; we had just gone to Italy.’

‘How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Who could believe that you ever were so ill!’

‘I am grateful that I have recovered,’ said Henrietta. ‘And yet I never thought that I should return to England.’

‘You must have been so very ill in Italy, about the same time as poor Ferdinand was at Armine. Only think, how odd you should both have been so ill about the same time, and now that we should all be so intimate!’

Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. ‘Is it so odd?’ she at length said in a low tone.

‘Henrietta Temple,’ said Miss Grandison, with great earnestness, ‘I have discovered a secret; you are the lady with whom my cousin is in love.’

CHAPTER XIII

In Which Ferdinand Has the Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond Sharpe.

WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s he was welcomed by his host in a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests who had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middle age, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury and play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had the reputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected. He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a day older than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, was unmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived to identify himself with the first men in London, was a member of every club of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort of authority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet, and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success than to merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influential aggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular splendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeeded in planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed its truth.

‘Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?’ enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his host, who nodded assent.

‘You won’t wait for him, I hope?’ said his lordship. ‘By-the-bye, Blandford, you shirked last night.’

‘I promised to look in at the poor duke’s before he went off,’ said Mr. Blandford.

‘Oh! he has gone, has he?’ said Lord Castlefyshe. ‘Does he take his cook with him?’

But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil.

‘Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘Castlefyshe, what bêtises have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester? Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?’

Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a great family and great estate, who passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades de Mirabel. He was always dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride that his cab or his vis-à-vis was constantly mistaken for the equipage of his model; and really now, as the shade stood beside its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looking, with the satin-lined coat thrown open with the same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing a breastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the uninitiated might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wristbands were turned up with not less compact precision, and were fastened by jewelled studs that glittered with not less radiancy. The satin waistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were the same; and if the foot were not quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, unfortunately, Mr. Bevil’s mimetic powers deserted him.

We start, for soul is wanting there!

The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at all times well; Mr. Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act appropriate; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the talent to conceal it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculating, and rather a screw. It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing; it seemed that Mr. Bevil could never have been a child, but that he must have issued to the world ready equipped, like Minerva, with a cane instead of a lance, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. His essence of high breeding was never to be astonished, and he never permitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate friends.

Charles Doricourt was another friend of the Count Mirabel, but not his imitator. His feelings were really worn, but it was a fact he always concealed. He had entered life at a remarkably early age, and had experienced every scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any other man but Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these accumulated disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. Nature had given him an intrepid soul; experience had cased his heart with iron. But he always smiled; and audacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughly despised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised without remorse. But he was polished and amusing, and faithful to his friends. The world admired him, and called him Charley, from which it will be inferred that he was a privileged person, and was applauded for a thousand actions, which in anyone else would have been met with decided reprobation.

‘Who is that young man?’ enquired the Count Mirabel of Mr. Bond Sharpe, taking his host aside, and pretending to look at a picture.

‘He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He has just returned to England after a long absence.’

‘Hum! I like his appearance,’ said the Count. ‘It is very distinguished.’

Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the same moment; Captain Armine found himself seated next to the Count Mirabel. The dinners at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond Sharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated of living artists, a gentleman who, it was said, received a thousand a-year, whose convenience was studied by a chariot, and amusement secured by a box at the French play. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, save criticism on the performances before them, and that chiefly panegyrical; each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and yet, even in these occasional remarks, Ferdinand was pleased with the lively fancy of his neighbour, affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross unction with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed wrapped up in his occupation, occasionally expressed himself.

‘Will you take some wine, Captain Armine?’ said the Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. ‘You have recently returned here?’

‘Very recently,’ said Ferdinand.

‘And you are glad?’

‘As it may be; I hardly know whether to rejoice or not.’

‘Then, by all means rejoice,’ said the Count; ‘for, if you are in doubt, it surely must be best to decide upon being pleased.’

‘I think this is the most infernal country there ever was,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘My dear Catch!’ said the Count Mirabel, ‘you think so, do you? You make a mistake, you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the most infernal? Is it because the women are the handsomest, or because the horses are the best? Is it because it is the only country where you can get a good dinner, or because it is the only country where there are fine wines? Or is it because it is the only place where you can get a coat made, or where you can play without being cheated, or where you can listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed? Now, my dear Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in playing hazard, in eating good dinners, in drinking good wines, in making love, in going to the opera, and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have you to complain?’

‘Oh! the damned climate!’

‘On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In England you can go out every day, and at all hours; and then, to those who love variety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the same sky every morning you rise, which, for my part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of ennui.’

‘You reconcile me to my country, Count,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.

‘Ah! you are a sensible man; but that dear Catch is always repeating nonsense which he hears from somebody else. To-morrow,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘he will be for the climate.’

The conversation of men, when they congregate together, is generally dedicated to one of two subjects: politics or women. In the present instance the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, and particularly the most charming portion of it, in the good metropolis of England, that were subject to the poignant criticism or the profound speculation of these practical philosophers. There was scarcely a celebrated beauty in London, from the proud peeress to the vain opera-dancer, whose charms and conduct were not submitted to their masterly analysis. And yet it would be but fair to admit that their critical ability was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstract reasoning upon this interesting topic; for it was curious to observe that, though everyone present piqued himself upon his profound knowledge of the sex, not two of the sages agreed in the constituent principles of female character. One declared that women were governed by their feelings; another maintained that they had no heart; a third propounded that it was all imagination; a fourth that it was all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered something about their passions; and Charley Doricourt declared that they had no passions whatever. But they all agreed in one thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a moment’s uneasiness about a woman was a fool.

All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose, and chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distinguished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his approbation to Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘The fact is,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘it is only boys and old men who are plagued by women. They take advantage of either state of childhood. Eh! Castlefyshe?’

‘In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,’ replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. ‘For no one can doubt you plagued your father; I was out of my teens, fortunately, before you played écarté.’

‘Come, good old Fyshe,’ said Count Mirabel, ‘take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very well that Charley learned everything of you.’

‘He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an actress,’ said his lordship. ‘I ave spent a fortune, but, thank heaven, it was on myself.’

‘Well, as for that,’ said the Count, ‘I think there is something great in being ruined for one’s friends. If I were as rich as I might have been, I would not spend much on myself. My wants are few; a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, the first cook, and pocket-money; that is all I require. I have these, and I get on pretty well; but if I had a princely fortune I would make every good fellow I know quite happy.’

‘Well,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, and cooks, and I have had a great estate; but pocket-money I never could get. Pocket-money was the thing which always cost me the most to buy of all.’

The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of the stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There was something in the management of a great theatre which pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, and all his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an impression that great results might be obtained with his organising energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident that it could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was right: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of this fact until we are past thirty; and then, by some singular process, which we will not now stop to analyse, one’s capital is in general sensibly diminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this.

‘Are you going to Shropshire’s this autumn, Charley?’ said Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘Yes, I shall go.’

‘I don’t think I shall,’ said his lordship; ‘it is such a bore.’

‘It is rather a bore; but he is a good fellow.’

‘I shall go,’ said Count Mirabel.

‘You are not afraid of being bored,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.

‘Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,’ said the Count. ‘He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused; you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.’

‘But you have such nerves, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘By Jove! I envy you. You are never floored.’

‘Floored! what an idea! What should floor me? I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me. Why should I be floored?’

‘Why, I do not know; but every other man is floored now and then. As for me, my spirits are sometimes something dreadful.’

‘When you have been losing.’

‘Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe? That would not do. But, by Jove! you are always in good humour, Mirabel, when you lose.’

‘Fancy a man ever being in low spirits,’ said the Count Mirabel. ‘Life is too short for such bêtises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well, then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that; and if it is better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all: every man can go to sleep: if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it; enjoy everything. Vive la bagatelle!’

Here the gentlemen rose, took their coffee, and ordered their carriages.

‘Come with us,’ said Count Mirabel to Ferdinand.

Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable acquaintance. There was a great prancing and rushing of cabs and vis-à-vis at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s door, and in a few minutes the whole party were dashing up St. James’-street, where they stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights and illuminated curtains.

‘Come, we will make you an honorary member, mon cher Captain Armine,’ said the Count; ‘and do not say Lasciate ogni speranza when you enter here.’

They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which the entrance of Count Mirabel and his friends made no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping oracular sentences, without condescending to stop to speak to those whom he addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford walked away together, towards a further apartment. Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were soon busied with écarté.

‘Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do?’ said Count Mirabel. ‘Where have you dined to-day? at the Balcombes’? You are a very brave man, mon general! Ah! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock!’ he continued, addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, ‘that Burgundy you sent me is capital. How are you, my dear fellow? Quite well? Fitzwarrene, I did that for you: your business is all right. Ah! my good Massey, mon cher, mon brave, Anderson will let you have that horse. And what is doing here? Is there any fun? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce you to my friend Captain Armine:’ (in a lower tone) ‘excellent garçon! You will like him very much. We have been all dining at Bond’s.’

‘A good dinner?’

‘Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man who would give me a bad dinner: that would be a bêtise,—to ask me to dine, and then give me a bad dinner.’

‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘have you seen Horace Poppington about the match?’

‘It is arranged; ‘tis the day after to-morrow, at nine o’clock.’

‘Well, I bet on you, you know.’

‘Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting on that good Pop, with that gun? Pah! Eh! bien! I shall go in the next room.’ And the Count walked away, followed by Mr. Bevil.

Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord Fitzwarrene. By degrees the great saloon had become somewhat thinner: some had stolen away to the House, where a division was expected; quiet men, who just looked in after dinner, had retired; and the play-men were engaged in the contiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached Ferdinand, and Lord Fitzwarrene took this opportunity of withdrawing.

‘I believe you never play, Captain Armine,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe.

‘Never,’ said Ferdinand.