Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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.’
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.