Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
a most melancholy business.’ Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost of
levity, which was rather unusual with her.
‘An ill-assorted marriage,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘And what do you call an
ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison?’
‘Why, many circumstances might constitute such an union,’ said
Katherine; ‘but I think if one of the parties were in love with another
person, that would be quite sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion of
wretchedness.’
‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘an union, under such
circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Grandison is not in that
situation?’ he added with a faint smile.
‘That is scarcely a fair question,’ said Katherine, with gaiety, ‘but
there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes; he is in love, desperately in love; that I have long discovered. I
wonder with whom it can be!’
‘I wonder!’ said Lord Montfort.
‘Do you?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Well, I have sometimes thought that you
might have a latent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you were
his confidant.’
‘I!’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I, of all men in the world?’
‘And why not you of all men in the world?’ said Miss Grandison.
‘Our intimacy is so slight,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘Hum!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And now I think of it, it does appear to me
very strange how we have all become suddenly such intimate friends. The
Armines and your family not previously acquainted: Miss Temple, too,
unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each
other’s sight. I am sure I am grateful for it; I am sure it is very
agreeable, but still it does appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what
the reason can be?’
‘It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘A compliment from you!’
‘Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort,
drawing near her. ‘Favoured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in
none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of so
admirable a friend.’
‘Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord?’
‘All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her,’ said Lord
Montfort, seriously.
‘Indeed, I think so,’ said Katherine, in a more subdued voice. ‘I love
her; her career fills me with a strange and singular interest. May she
be happy, for happiness she indeed deserves!’
‘I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, Miss Grandison,’
said Lord Montfort; ‘by any means,’ he added.
‘She is so interesting!’ said Katherine. ‘When you first knew her she
was very ill?’
‘Very.’
‘She seems quite recovered.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder what
was the matter with her?’
Lord Montfort was silent.
‘I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken,’ continued Miss Grandison.
‘There was Ferdinand. Oh! if you had but known my cousin before he was
unhappy. Oh! that was a spirit! He was the most brilliant being that
ever lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It was
so terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each other. It is very
strange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta
was ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacing
her. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny
in our lots, does there not?’
‘A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison,’ said
Lord Montfort.
At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready;
and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where a
beautiful boat awaited them.
In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrences
of yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In
the first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressing
difficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, he
had made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed Count
Mirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast,
he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning
in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his
friends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, the
Count Mirabel was announced.
_Mon cher_ Armine,’ said the Count, ‘you see I kept my promise, and
would find you at home.’
The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and
gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye
bright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last
to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, the
dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bed
which always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the
adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the
Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moralise
over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knew
nothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He
had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.
Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something in
Count Mirabel’s very presence which put everybody in good spirits.
His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the
presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes
that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present
moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny,
and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in
amusing conversation.
‘You were a stranger among us yesterday,’ said Count Mirabel; ‘I think
you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond
Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he
was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?’
Ferdinand smiled.
‘It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither.
As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the
rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?’
‘’Tis a fine question,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and yet I confess I should like
to be callous.’
‘Ah! but you cannot be,’ said the Count, ‘you have a soul of great
sensibility; I see that in a moment.’
‘You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,’ said Ferdinand,
with a little reserve.
‘Yes; in a minute,’ said the Count, ‘in a minute I read a person’s
character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed
countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.’
Ferdinand changed countenance again. ‘You are a very extraordinary man,
Count,’ he at length observed.
‘Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What are
you going to do with yourself?’
‘Nothing; I never do anything,’ said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful
tone.
‘A melancholy man! _Quelle bêtise!_ I will cure you. I will be your
friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond;
we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of
champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you
to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper.
_Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_’ Ceremony was a
farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.
Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The
effervescence produced by yesterday’s fortunate adventure had not quite
subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for
a day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in a
few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet
in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud
consciousness of its master.
The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been
to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object
he passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation.
He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his
light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and
poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and
Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the
Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up
with the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking
over the valley.
Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that was
impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was
difficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly.
Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so
celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel,
who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all,
was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment
to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted
at these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealed
themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together,
and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine
with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel
had accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together so
agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a _bêtise_.
This word _bêtise_ settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he
declared that anything was a _bêtise_, he would hear no more.
It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more
engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled
upon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who
might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he
knew him--though none could after--and who was prepared for something
rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected,
quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine
and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all
agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous
_rencontre_ that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand.
The Count was at her Grace’s side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple’s
arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their
party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his
cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss
Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they
returned to dinner.
‘We have only availed ourselves of your Grace’s permission to join our
dinners,’ said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placed
himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To
the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was
quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinand
was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord
Montfort.
The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who
was silent.
‘How amusing he is!’ said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and
speaking in an undertone.
‘Yes; I envy him his gaiety.’
‘Be gay.’
‘I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced
all Count Mirabel’s philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself
for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which
I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.’
Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand.
They returned by water. To Ferdinand’s great annoyance, the Count did
not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess’s proposal
that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave