Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
‘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