Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
Grandison wishes to go to the British Museum. Pray come with us.’
‘You are very good, but------’
‘Well! I will write you a little note in the morning and tell you our
plans,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I hope you will not desert us.’
Ferdinand bowed and retired: he avoided catching the eye of Henrietta.
The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandison were soon announced,
and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, these ladies did not long
remain.
‘To-day has been a day of trial,’ said Henrietta, as she was about to
bid Lord Montfort farewell. ‘What do you think of affairs? I saw you
speaking to Katherine. What do you think?’
‘I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival. Do you know, I am
rather jealous?’
‘Digby! can you be ungenerous?’
‘My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the merest
playfulness. Nay,’ he continued, for she seemed really hurt, ‘say good
night very sweetly.’
‘Is there any hope?’ said Henrietta.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Lord Montfort, smiling; ‘God bless
you.’
Glastonbury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort returned and asked
him to come up to his lordship’s own apartments, as he wished to show
him a curious antique carving.
‘You seemed rather surprised at the guests you found here to-night,’
said Lord Montfort when they were alone.
Glastonbury looked a little confused. ‘It was certainly a curious
meeting, all things considered,’ continued Lord Montfort: ‘Henrietta has
never concealed anything of the past from me, but I have always wished
to spare her details. I told her this morning I should speak to you upon
the subject, and that is the reason why I have asked you here.’
‘It is a painful history,’ said Glastonbury.
‘As painful to me as anyone,’ said his lordship; ‘nevertheless, it must
be told. When did you first meet Miss Temple?’
‘I shall never forget it,’ said Glastonbury, sighing and moving very
uneasily in his chair. ‘I took her for Miss Grandison.’ And Glastonbury
now entered into a complete history of everything that had occurred.
‘It is a strange, a wonderful story,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and you
communicated everything to Miss Grandison?’
‘Everything but the name of her rival. To that she would not listen. It
was not just, she said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy.’
‘She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison,’ said Lord
Montfort.
‘She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can be,’ said
Glastonbury.
‘Then it is still a secret to the parents?’
‘Thus she would have it,’ said Glastonbury. ‘She clings to them, who
love her indeed as a daughter; and she shrank from the desolation that
was preparing for them.’
‘Poor girl!’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and poor Armine! By heavens, I pity
him from the bottom of my heart.’
‘If you had seen him as I have,’ said Glastonbury, ‘wilder than the
wildest Bedlamite! It was an awful sight.’
‘Ah! the heart, the heart,’ said Lord Montfort: ‘it is a delicate organ,
Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his father and mother suspect nothing?’
‘I know not what they think,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but they must soon know
all.’ And he seemed to shudder at the thought.
‘Why must they?’ asked Lord Montfort.
Glastonbury stared.
‘Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their sorrows?’ said
Lord Montfort; ‘cannot we again bring together these young and parted
spirits?’
‘It is my only hope,’ said Glastonbury, ‘and yet I sometimes deem it a
forlorn one.’
‘It is the sole desire of Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘cannot you
assist us? Will you enter into this conspiracy of affection with us?’
‘I want no spur to such a righteous work,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but I
cannot conceal from myself the extreme difficulty. Ferdinand is the most
impetuous of human beings. His passions are a whirlwind; his volition
more violent than becomes a suffering mortal.’
‘You think, then, there is no difficulty but with him?’
‘I know not what to say,’ said Glastonbury; ‘calm as appears the
temperament of Miss Grandison, she has heroic qualities. Oh! what have I
not seen that admirable young lady endure! Alas! my Digby, my dear
lord, few passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory more
deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal secret. Yet, and
chiefly for her sake, it was my duty.’
‘It was at Armine?’
‘At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were alone together, and
without fear of being disturbed. We had gone to view an old abbey in the
neighbourhood. We were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand and
endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence, “All is not right
with Ferdinand,” she immediately said; “there is some mystery. I have
long suspected it.” She listened to my recital, softened as much as I
could for her sake, in silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. She
looked like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered me to
leave her for some short time, and I walked away, out of sight indeed,
but so near that she might easily summon me. I stood alone until it was
twilight, in a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now with
anguish. At last I heard my name sounded, in a low yet distinct voice,
and I looked round and she was there. She had been weeping. I took her
hand and pressed it, and led her to the carriage. When I approached our
unhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, and for
two or three days we saw her no more. At length she sent for me, and
told me she had been revolving all these sad circumstances in her mind,
and she felt for others more even than for herself; that she forgave
Ferdinand, and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister; that
her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the unhappy young lady,
whose name she would never know, but that if by her assistance I could
effect their union, means should not be wanting, though their source
must be concealed; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is indeed
passionately attached, she would keep the secret, until it could no
longer be maintained; and that in the meantime it was to be hoped that
health might be restored to her cousin, and Providence in some way
interfere in favour of this unhappy family.’
‘Angelic creature!’ said Lord Montfort. ‘So young, too; I think so
beautiful. Good God! with such a heart what could Armine desire?’
‘Alas!’ said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. ‘You know not the
love of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and fearful
thing; it passeth human comprehension.’
Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his face with his
hands. After some minutes he looked up, and said in his usual placid
tone, and with an’ unruffled brow, ‘Will you take anything before you
go, Mr. Glastonbury?’
CHAPTER X.
_In Which Captain Armine Increases His Knowledge of the
Value of Money, and Also Becomes Aware of the Advantage of
an Acquaintance Who Burns Coals_.
FERDINAND returned to his hotel in no very good humour, revolving in his
mind Miss Temple’s advice about optimism. What could she mean? Was there
really a conspiracy to make him marry his cousin, and was Miss Temple
one of the conspirators? He could scarcely believe this, and yet it was
the most probable, deduction from all that had been said and done. He
had lived to witness such strange occurrences, that no event ought now
to astonish him. Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in
a drawing-room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to be
married to another person, who was present; and that he, Ferdinand
Armine, should be the selected companion of their morning ride, and
be calmly invited to contribute to their daily amusement by his social
presence! What next? If this were not an insult, a gross, flagrant, and
unendurable outrage, he was totally at a loss to comprehend what was
meant by offended pride. Optimism, indeed! He felt far more inclined
to embrace the faith of the Manichee! And what a fool was he to have
submitted to such a despicable, such a degrading situation! What
infinite weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the influence
of a woman who had betrayed him! Yes! betrayed him. He had for some
period reconciled his mind to entertain the idea of Henrietta’s
treachery to him. Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering,
extenuated by the constant sincerity of his purpose, his original
imprudence, to use his own phrase in describing his misconduct, had
gradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient cause for her
behaviour to him. When he recollected how he had loved this woman,
what he had sacrificed for her, and what misery he had in consequence
entailed upon himself and all those dear to him; when he contrasted
his present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, and
remembered that while he had devoted himself to a love which proved
false, she who had deserted him was, by a caprice of fortune, absolutely
rewarded for her fickleness; he was enraged, he was disgusted, he
despised himself for having been her slave; he began even to hate her.
Terrible moment when we first dare to view with feelings of repugnance
the being that our soul has long idolised! It is the most awful of
revelations. We start back in horror, as if in the act of profanation.
Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal character, awaited our
hero on his return to his hotel. There he found a letter from his
lawyer, informing him that he could no longer parry the determination of
one of Captain Armine’s principal creditors to arrest him instantly for
a considerable sum. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with his
heart and spirit alike broken, could scarcely refrain from a groan.
However, some step must be taken. He drove Henrietta from his thoughts,
and, endeavouring to rally some of his old energy, revolved in his mind
what desperate expedient yet remained.
His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague idea of
Henrietta Temple triumphing in his misery; but he rose early, wrote a
diplomatic note to his menacing creditor, which he felt confident must
gain him time, and then, making a careful toilet, for when a man is
going to try to borrow money it is wise to look prosperous, he took his
way to a quarter of the town where lived a gentleman with whose brother
he had had some previous dealings at Malta, and whose acquaintance he
had made in England in reference to them.
It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden-square, the murky repose of
which strikes so mysteriously on the senses after the glittering bustle
of the adjoining Regent-street, that Captain Armine stopped before a
noble yet now dingy mansion, that in old and happier days might probably
have been inhabited by his grandfather, or some of his gay friends. A
brass plate on the door informed the world that here resided Messrs.
Morris and Levison, following the not very ambitious calling of coal
merchants. But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade could
manage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as Messrs. Morris and
Levison, what very great coal merchants they would be!
The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and apparently
opened without any human means; and Captain Armine, proceeding down
a dark yet capacious passage, opened a door, which invited him by
an inscription on ground glass that assured him he was entering the
counting-house. Here several clerks, ensconced within lofty walls of the
darkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed; yet one advanced
to an aperture in this fortification and accepted the card which the
visitor offered him. The clerk surveyed the ticket with a peculiar
glance; and then, begging the visitor to be seated, disappeared. He
was not long absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. Captain