Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
‘I wish he would take me,’ said Katherine. ‘I have never been there.
Have you?’ she enquired, turning to Henrietta.
‘I am ashamed to say never,’ replied Henrietta. ‘It seems to me that
London is the only city of which I know nothing.’
‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘I wish you would go with us to the Museum
some day. Miss Temple would like to go. You know Miss Temple,’ she
added, as if she of course supposed he had not that pleasure.
Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forward, and turned the conversation
to Egyptian antiquities. When a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand
thought that he might now withdraw.
‘Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day?’ he enquired.
Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; the young ladies whispered.
‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘what are you going to do?’
‘Nothing particular.’
‘We are going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you would come with us.’
‘I should be very happy, but I have some business to attend to.’
‘Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You really appear to me to
be the most busy person in the world.’
‘Pray come, Captain Armine,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘Thank you; it is really not in my power.’ His hat was in his hand;
he was begging her Grace to bear his compliments to the duke, when
Henrietta rose from her seat, and, coming up to him, said, ‘Do, Captain
Armine, come with us; I ask you as a favour.’
That voice! Oh! it came o’er his ear ‘like the sweet south;’ it unmanned
him quite. He scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from head to foot.
His colour deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the floor; and yet
she stood before him, awaiting his reply, calm, quite calm, serious,
apparently a little anxious. The duchess was in earnest conversation
with his mother. Lord Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and was
engaged in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henrietta
were quite unobserved. He looked up; he caught her eye; and then he
whispered, ‘This is hardly fair.’
She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it on the table;
then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a tone which seemed to admit
no doubt, ‘Captain Armine will ride with us;’ and she seated herself by
Lady Armine.
The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having to send for his
horse; the others had, in the meantime, arrived. Yet this half-hour,
by some contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Montfort continued
talking to Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady Armine.
Ferdinand revolved a great question in, his mind, and it was this: Was
Lord Montfort aware of the intimate acquaintance between himself and
Miss Temple? And what was the moving principle of her present conduct?
He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied him. His curiosity
was excited, and, instead of regretting his extracted promise to join
the cavalcade, he rejoiced that an opportunity was thus afforded him of
perhaps solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to feel
extremely interested.
And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really mounted, and riding
by the side of Henrietta Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was very
impartial in his attentions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand
continually found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to think
the world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether he was or was
not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his companion too was so complete:
Henrietta Temple in her riding-habit was the very image most keenly
impressed upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her with
a face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, speak much; the
conversation was always general, and chiefly maintained by Lord
Montfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, made on this occasion
successful efforts to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was
remarkable; it was impossible to resist such genuine and unaffected
kindness. It smote Ferdinand’s heart that he had received his lordship’s
first advances so ungraciously. Compunction rendered him now doubly
courteous; he was even once or twice almost gay.
The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a western breeze
could render it. Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was long. It
was late, much later than they expected, when they returned home by the
green lanes of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when they
emerged from the Edgware-road into Oxford-street.
‘Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. James’-square,’ said
Lord Montfort. ‘It is ten minutes past eight. We shall just be in time,
and then we can send messages to Grosvenor-square and Brook-street. What
say you, Armine? You will come, of course?’
‘Thank you, if you would excuse me.’
‘No, no; why excuse you?’ said Lord Montfort: ‘I think it shabby to
desert us now, after all our adventures.’
‘Really you are very kind, but I never dine out.’
‘Dine out! What a phrase! You will not meet a human being; perhaps not
even my father. If you will not come, it will spoil everything.’
‘I cannot dine in a frock,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I shall,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and these ladies must dine in their
habits, I suspect.’
‘Oh! certainly, certainly,’ said the ladies.
‘Do come, Ferdinand,’ said Katherine.
‘I ask you as a favour,’ said Henrietta, turning to him and speaking in
a low voice.
‘Well,’ said Ferdinand, with a sigh.
‘That is well,’ said Montfort; ‘now let us trot through the Park, and
the groom can call in Grosvenor-square and Brook-street, and gallop
after us. This is amusing, is it not?’
CHAPTER IX.
_Which Is on the Whole Almost as Perplexing as the Preceding
One_.
WHEN Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James’-square, in the very
same room where he had passed so many gay hours during that boyish month
of glee which preceded his first joining his regiment, and then looked
opposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by some
magical process or other, his life was acting over again, and the order
of the scenes and characters had, by some strange mismanagement, got
confused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excitement which had so
unexpectedly influenced him; he was inflamed by a species of wild
delight which he could not understand, nor stop to analyse; and when the
duchess retired with the young ladies to their secret conclave in the
drawing-room, she said, ‘I like Captain Armine very much; he is so full
of spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, do you know,
I thought him rather stiff and fine. I regretted the bright boyish flow
that I so well recollected, but I see I was mistaken.’
‘Ferdinand is much changed,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘He was once the
most brilliant person, I think, that ever lived: almost too brilliant;
everybody by him seemed so tame. But since his illness he has quite
changed. I have scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these six
months. There is not in the whole world a person so wretchedly altered.
He is quite a wreck. I do not know what is the matter with him to-day.
He seemed once almost himself.’
‘He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps,’ said Henrietta; ‘he lived,
perhaps, too much alone, after so severe an illness.’
‘Oh, no! it is not that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘it is not exactly
that. Poor Ferdinand! he is to be pitied. I fear he will never be happy
again.’
‘Miss Grandison should hardly say that,’ said the duchess, ‘if report
speaks truly.’
Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself.
Henrietta rose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked Katherine to
touch the piano.
The duchess took up the ‘Morning Post.’
‘Poor Ferdinand! he used to sing once so beautifully, too!’ said
Katherine to Miss Temple, in a hushed voice. ‘He never sings now.’
‘You must make him,’ said Henrietta.
Miss Grandison shook her head.
‘You have influence with him; you should exert it,’ said Henrietta.
‘I neither have, nor desire to have, influence with him,’ said Miss
Grandison. ‘Dearest Miss Temple, the world is in error with respect to
myself and my cousin; and yet I ought not to say to you what I have not
thought proper to confess even to my aunt.’
Henrietta leant over and kissed her forehead. ‘Say what you like,
dearest Miss Grandison; you speak to a friend, who loves you, and will
respect your secret.’
The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and interrupted this
interesting conversation.
‘You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort,
seating himself by her side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with the
duchess; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim of his Grace’s passion
for écarté.
‘Captain Armine is a most agreeable person,’ said Lord Montfort.
Miss Grandison rather stared. ‘We were just speaking of Ferdinand,’ she
replied, ‘and I was lamenting his sad change.’
‘Severe illness, illness so severe as his, must for the moment change
anyone; we shall soon see him himself again.’
‘Never,’ said Miss Grandison mournfully.
‘You must inspire him,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I perceive you have great
influence with him.’
‘I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter perception than that,’ said
Miss Grandison.
Their eyes met: even Lord Montfort’s dark vision shrank before the
searching glance of Miss Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purpose
was not undiscovered.
‘But you can exert influence, if you please,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘But it may not please me,’ said Miss Grandison.
At this moment Mr. Glastonbury was announced. He had a general
invitation, and was frequently in the habit of paying an evening visit
when the family were disengaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta,
and Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, his
perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease, too, with which
Miss Temple addressed him, completed his confusion. He began to suspect
that some critical explanation had taken place. He looked around for
information.
‘We have all been riding,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘So I perceive,’ said Glastonbury.
‘And as we were too late for dinner, took refuge here,’ continued his
lordship.
‘I observe it,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir.’
‘She is an admirable lady in every respect,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette; I am so stupid as not to
be able to sing. I wish I could induce Captain Armine.’
‘He has left off singing,’ said Glastonbury, mournfully. ‘But Miss
Temple?’ added Glastonbury, bowing to that lady.
‘Miss Temple has left off singing, too,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly.
‘Come, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the duchess, ‘time was when you and I have
sung together. Let us try to shame these young folks.’ So saying,
her Grace seated herself at the piano, and the gratified Glastonbury
summoned all his energies to accompany her.
Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. ‘You have been severely ill,
I am sorry to hear.’
‘Yes; I have been rather shaken.’
‘This spring will bring you round.’
‘So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial influence.’
‘You should,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘At our age we ought to rally
quickly.’
‘Yes! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I have much more faith
in him than in the spring.’
‘Well, then, there is Hope; what think you of that?’
‘I have no great faith,’ said Ferdinand, affecting to smile.
‘Believe, then, in optimism,’ said Henrietta Temple, without taking her
eyes off the cards. ‘Whatever is, is best.’
‘That is not my creed, Miss Temple,’ said Ferdinand, and he rose and was
about to retire.
‘Must you go? Let us all do something to-morrow!’ said Lord Montfort,
interchanging a glance with Henrietta. ‘The British Museum; Miss