Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
very sad. She could not believe that he was false at Ducie; oh, no! she
never could believe it! He must have been sincere, and if sincere, oh!
what a heart was lost there! What would she not have given to have
been the means of saving him from all his sorrows! She recalled his
occasional melancholy, his desponding words, and how the gloom left his
brow and his eye brightened when she fondly prophesied that she would
restore the house. She might restore it now; and now he was another’s,
and she, what was she? A slave like him. No longer her own mistress, at
the only moment she had the power to save him. Say what they like, there
is a pang in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place,
watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. Ah! the
heart, the heart!
CHAPTER II.
_In Which the Reader Is Again Introduced to Captain
Armine, during His Visit to London_.
MISS GRANDISON had resolved upon taking a house in London for the
season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to be
her guests. Lady Armine’s sister was to join them from Bath. As for
Ferdinand, the spring had gradually restored him to health, but not to
his former frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incapable of
exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours; circumstances, however,
occurred which rendered some energy on his part absolutely necessary.
His creditors grew importunate, and the arrangement of his affairs or
departure from his native land was an alternative now inevitable. The
month of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples and Lord
Montfort in England, welcomed also to London Miss Grandison and her
guests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, who had evaded the journey with
his family, and who would not on any account become a guest of his
cousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of
Grosvenor-square; but not quite alone, for almost at the last hour
Glastonbury had requested permission to accompany him, and Ferdinand,
who duly valued the society of the only person with whom he could
converse about his broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without
reserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satisfaction.
A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of rural
seclusion, has without doubt a very peculiar effect upon the mind. The
immense population, the multiplicity of objects, the important interests
hourly impressed upon the intelligence, the continually occurring
events, the noise, the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement,
all combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual insignificance;
and those absorbing passions that in our solitude, fed by our
imagination, have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes,
rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, into less colossal
proportions, and seem invested, as it were, with a more shadowy aspect.
As Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded streets of
London, urged on by his own harassing and inexorable affairs, and
conscious of the impending peril of his career, while power and wealth
dazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to look back upon the
passionate past with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore,
and almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul had
entailed upon him so much anxiety, and prompted him to reject the
glittering cup of fortune that had been proffered to him so opportunely.
He sighed for enjoyment and repose; the memory of his recent sufferings
made him shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of which
the consequences had been so severe.
It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, that he
stepped into a military club and took up a newspaper. Caring little for
politics, his eye wandered over, uninterested, its pugnacious leading
articles and tedious parliamentary reports; and he was about to throw
it down when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly engrossed all
his attention. It was in the ‘Morning Post’ that he thus read:
‘The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke of------, whose
return to England we recently noticed, has resided for several years in
Italy. His lordship is considered one of the most accomplished noblemen
of the day, and was celebrated at Rome for his patronage of the arts.
Lord Montfort will shortly be united to the beautiful Miss Temple, the
only daughter of the Right Honourable Pelham Temple. Miss Temple is
esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England, as she will doubtless
inherit the whole of the immense fortune to which her father so
unexpectedly acceded. Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr.
Temple was formerly our minister at several of the German Courts,
where he was distinguished by his abilities and his hospitality to his
travelling countrymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the Yorkshire
estates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15,000L. per
annum. The personal property is also very considerable. We understand
that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the Duke of -----, in
Grosvenor-square. Lord Montfort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiable
daughter to this country.’
What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand Armine when he
read this paragraph. The wonders it revealed succeeded each other
with such rapidity that for some time he was deprived of the power of
reflection. Henrietta Temple in England! Henrietta Temple one of
the greatest heiresses in the country! Henrietta Temple about to be
immediately married to another! His Henrietta Temple, the Henrietta
Temple whom he adored, and by whom he had been worshipped! The Henrietta
Temple whose beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on his
heart! The Henrietta Temple for whom he had forfeited fortune, family,
power, almost life!
O Woman, Woman! Put not thy trust in woman! And yet, could he reproach
her? Did she not believe herself trifled with by him, outraged,
deceived, deluded, deserted? And did she, could she love another? Was
there another to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and all
that beautiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion? Was there
another to whom she had pledged her pure and passionate soul? Ah, no!
he would not, he could not believe it. Light and false Henrietta could
never be. She had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved:
who that saw her would not admire and love? and he was the victim of her
pique, perhaps of her despair.
But she was not yet married. They were, according to these lines, to be
soon united. It appeared they had travelled together; that thought gave
him a pang. Could he not see her? Could he not explain all? Could he not
prove that his heart had ever been true and fond? Could he not tell her
all that had happened, all that he had suffered, all the madness of his
misery; and could she resist that voice whose accents had once been her
joy, that glance which had once filled her heart with rapture? And when
she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had indeed never deceived
her, was worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even at this
moment for her sweet sake, what were all the cold-blooded ties in which
she had since involved herself? She was his by an older and more ardent
bond. Should he not claim his right? Could she deny it?
Claim what? The hand of an heiress. Should it be said that an Armine
came crouching for lucre, where he ought to have commanded for love?
Never! Whatever she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her.
It was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the victim, if one
indeed there might chance to be. He had loved her, she had returned his
passion; for her sake he had made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited
a splendid inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he had
thought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign solitude, he
had never ceased reproaching himself for his conduct, and had accused
himself of deception and cruelty; but now, in this moment of her flush
prosperity, ‘esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England’ (he
ground his teeth as he recalled that phrase), and the affianced bride
of a great noble (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too; what a strange
thing is life!), proud, smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone,
with a broken heart and worse than desperate fortunes, and all for her
sake, his soul became bitter: he reproached her with want of feeling;
he pictured her as void of genuine sensibility; he dilated on her
indifference since they had parted; her silence, so strange, now no
longer inexplicable; the total want of interest she had exhibited as to
his career; he sneered at the lightness of her temperament; he cursed
her caprice; he denounced her infernal treachery; in the distorted
phantom of his agonised imagination she became to him even an object of
hatred.
Poor Ferdinand Armine! it was the first time he had experienced the
maddening pangs of jealousy.
Yet how he had loved this woman! How he had doated on her! And now they
might have been so happy! There is nothing that depresses a man so much
as the conviction of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return,
great wealth, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such a
combination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, of vexatious
circumstances; it would appear that he had been so near perfect
happiness and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, and
seriously meditated depriving himself of it.
It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at his cousin’s;
for Glastonbury, who was usually his companion, had accepted an
invitation this day to dine with the noble widow of his old patron.
Ferdinand, however, found himself quite incapable of entering into
any society, and he hurried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to
Brook-street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about to step into a
hackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no opportunity of communicating his
sorrows to his friend, even had he been inclined.
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