Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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.
CHAPTER III
In Which Glastonbury Meets the Very Last Person in the World He Expected, and the Strange Consequences.
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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BOOK VI. [CONTINUED]
CHAPTER IV
In Which Mr. Glastonbury Informs Captain Armine of His Meeting with Miss Temple.
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.
CHAPTER V
Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as Remarkable a Chapter as Any in the Work.
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.’
