Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
‘You have cause to be happy, and Ferdinand has not,’ said Miss
Grandison, calmly.
‘I should have thought that he had very great cause,’ said Lord
Montfort, enquiringly.
‘No person in the world is so unhappy as Ferdinand,’ said Katherine.
‘But cannot we cure his unhappiness?’ said his lordship. ‘We are his
friends; it seems to me, with such friends as Miss Grandison and Miss
Temple one ought never to be unhappy.’
‘Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend of Ferdinand,’ said
Katherine.
‘Indeed, a very warm one, I assure you.’
‘Ah, that is your influence.’
‘Nay, it is her own impulse.’
‘But she only met him yesterday for the first time.’
‘I assure you Miss Temple is an older friend of Captain Armine than I
am,’ said his lordship.
‘Indeed!’ said Miss Grandison, with an air of considerable astonishment.
‘You know they were neighbours in the country.’
‘In the country!’ repeated Miss Grandison.
‘Yes; Mr. Temple, you know, resided not far from Armine.’
‘Not far from Armine!’ still repeated Miss Grandison.
‘Digby,’ said Miss Temple, turning to him at this moment, ‘tell Mr.
Glastonbury about your sphinx at Rome. It was granite, was it not?’
‘And most delicately carved. I never remember having observed an
expression of such beautiful serenity. The discovery that, after all,
they are male countenances is quite mortifying. I loved their mysterious
beauty.’
What Lord Montfort had mentioned of the previous acquaintance of
Henrietta and her cousin made Miss Grandison muse. Miss Temple’s
address to Ferdinand yesterday had struck her at the moment as somewhat
singular; but the impression had not dwelt upon her mind. But now it
occurred to her as very strange, that Henrietta should have become so
intimate with the Armine family and herself, and never have mentioned
that she was previously acquainted with their nearest relative. Lady
Armine was not acquainted with Miss Temple until they met at Bellair
House. That was certain. Miss Grandison had witnessed their mutual
introduction. Nor Sir Ratcliffe. And yet Henrietta and Ferdinand were
friends, warm friends, old friends, intimately acquainted: so said Lord
Montfort, and Lord Montfort never coloured, never exaggerated. All
this was very mysterious. And if they were friends, old friends, warm
friends, and Lord Montfort said they were, and, therefore, there could
be no doubt of the truth of the statement, their recognition of each
other yesterday was singularly frigid.
It was not indicative of a very intimate acquaintance. Katherine had
ascribed it to the natural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introduced
to anyone. And yet they were friends, old friends, warm friends.
Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine! Miss Grandison was so perplexed
that she scarcely looked at another object in the galleries.
The ladies were rather tired when they returned from the Museum. Lord
Montfort walked to the Travellers, and Henrietta agreed to remain and
dine in Brook-street. Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grandison’s
boudoir, a pretty chamber, where they were sure of being alone.
Henrietta threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last new novel;
Miss Grandison seated herself on an ottoman by her side, and worked at a
purse which she was making for Mr. Temple.
‘Do you like that book?’ said Katherine.
‘I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones,’ replied Miss
Temple; ‘the author has observed but he has not felt.’
‘It is satirical,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘I wonder why all this class of
writers aim now at the sarcastic. I do not find life the constant sneer
they make it.’
‘It is because they do not understand life,’ said Henrietta, ‘but
have some little experience of society. Therefore their works give a
perverted impression of human conduct; for they accept as a principal,
that which is only an insignificant accessory; and they make existence
a succession of frivolities, when even the career of the most frivolous
has its profounder moments.’
‘How vivid is the writer’s description of a ball or a dinner,’ said Miss
Grandison; ‘everything lives and moves. And yet, when the hero makes
love, nothing can be more unnatural. His feelings are neither deep, nor
ardent, nor tender. All is stilted, and yet ludicrous.’
‘I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a dinner and a
ball,’ said Miss Temple. ‘As far as it goes it is very amusing, but
it should be combined with higher materials. In a fine novel, manners
should be observed, and morals should be sustained; we require thought
and passion, as well as costume and the lively representation of
conventional arrangements; and the thought and passion will be the
better for these accessories, for they will be relieved in the novel as
they are relieved in life, and the whole will be more true.’
‘But have you read that love scene, Henrietta? It appeared to me so
ridiculous!’
‘I never read love scenes,’ said Henrietta Temple.
‘Oh, I love a love story,’ said Miss Grandison, smiling, ‘if it be
natural and tender, and touch my heart. When I read such scenes, I
weep.’
‘Ah, my sweet Katherine, you are soft-hearted.’
‘And you, Henrietta, what are you?’
‘Hard-hearted. The most callous of mortals.’
‘Oh, what would Lord Montfort say?’
‘Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love scenes.’
‘And yet you love him?’
‘Dearly; I love and esteem him.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I may be wrong, but if I were a man I do
not think I should like the lady of my love to esteem me.’
‘And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of happiness, believe me,
Kate. Love is a dream.’
‘And how do you know, dear Henrietta?’
‘All writers agree it is.’
‘The writers you were just ridiculing?’
‘A fair retort; and yet, though your words are the more witty, believe
me, mine are the more wise.’
‘I wish my cousin would wake from his dream,’ said Katherine. ‘To tell
you a secret, love is the cause of his unhappiness. Don’t move, dear
Henrietta,’ added Miss Grandison; ‘we are so happy here;’ for Miss
Temple, in truth, seemed not a little discomposed.
‘You should marry your cousin,’ said Miss Temple.
‘You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give that advice,’ said
Katherine. ‘We shall never marry; nothing is more certain than that.
In the first place, to be frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothing
would induce him; and in the second place, I would not marry him,
nothing would induce me.’
‘Why not?’ said Henrietta, in a low tone, holding her book very near to
her face.
‘Because I am sure that we should not be happy,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I
love Ferdinand, and once could have married him. He is so brilliant that
I could not refuse his proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me that
we have not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, for I
love him very dearly. He is indeed my brother.’
‘But why should you not be happy?’ enquired Miss Temple.
‘Because we are not suited to each other. Ferdinand must marry some one
whom he looks up to, somebody brilliant like himself, some one who can
sympathise with all his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. You
would suit him much better, Henrietta.’
‘You are his cousin; it is a misfortune; if you were not, he would adore
you, and you would sympathise with him.’
‘I think not: I should like to marry a very clever man,’ said Katherine.
‘I could not endure marrying a fool, or a commonplace person; I should
like to marry a person very superior in talent to myself, some one whose
opinion would guide me on all points, one from whom I could not differ.
But not Ferdinand; he is too imaginative, too impetuous; he would
neither guide me, nor be guided by me.’
Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of her book.
‘Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yesterday at our house?’
enquired Miss Grandison, very innocently.
‘Yes!’ said Miss Temple.
‘I thought you did,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I thought there was something
in your manner that indicated you had met before. I do not think you
knew my aunt before you met her at Bellair House?’
‘I did not.’
‘Nor Sir Ratclifle?’
‘Nor Sir Ratclifle.’
‘But you did know Mr. Glastonbury?’
‘I did know Mr. Glastonbury.’
‘How very odd!’ said Miss Grandison.
‘What is odd?’ enquired Henrietta.
‘That you should have known Ferdinand before.’
‘Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa’s. I remember him
very well.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And did Mr. Glastonbury come over to shoot?’
‘I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning that I went to see the picture
gallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever saw him.’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Grandison again, ‘Armine is a beautiful place, is it
not?’
‘Most interesting.’
‘You know the pleasaunce.’
‘Yes.’
‘I did not see you when I was at Armine.’
‘No; we had just gone to Italy.’
‘How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Who
could believe that you ever were so ill!’
‘I am grateful that I have recovered,’ said Henrietta. ‘And yet I never
thought that I should return to England.’
‘You must have been so very ill in Italy, about the same time as poor
Ferdinand was at Armine. Only think, how odd you should both have been
so ill about the same time, and now that we should all be so intimate!’
Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. ‘Is it so odd?’ she at length
said in a low tone.
‘Henrietta Temple,’ said Miss Grandison, with great earnestness, ‘I have
discovered a secret; you are the lady with whom my cousin is in love.’
CHAPTER XIII.
_In Which Ferdinand Has the Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond
Sharpe_.
WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s he was welcomed by his host
in a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests
who had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middle
age, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord
Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury and
play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew
who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had the
reputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected.
He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a day
older than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, was
unmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived to
identify himself with the first men in London, was a member of every
club of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort of
authority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet,
and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success than
to merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influential
aggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person,
and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular
splendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparently
dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeeded
in planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything
not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But
Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and
there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which
Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed
its truth.
‘Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?’ enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his
host, who nodded assent.
‘You won’t wait for him, I hope?’ said his lordship. ‘By-the-bye,
Blandford, you shirked last night.’
‘I promised to look in at the poor duke’s before he went off,’ said Mr.
Blandford.
‘Oh! he has gone, has he?’ said Lord Castlefyshe. ‘Does he take his cook
with him?’