Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs,
and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape.
It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of
Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank;
but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles
of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon.
‘I wish we had brought a guitar,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘Count Mirabel,
I am sure, would sing to us?’ ‘And you, you will sing to us without a
guitar, will you not?’ said the Count, smiling.
‘Henrietta, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘With you.’
‘Of course; now you must,’ said the Count: so they did.
This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still,
with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet
sounds, as was the present--there is something very ravishing in the
combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand
listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended
with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly
recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken
care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern
expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel.
‘And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,’ said the duchess.
‘Without a guitar?’ said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm
for an accompaniment. ‘Well, when I was with the Duc d’Angoulême in
Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to
remember one.’
A SERENADE OF SEVILLE.
I.
Come forth, come forth, the star we love
Is high o’er Guadalquivir’s grove,
And tints each tree with golden light;
Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright.
II.
Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear
To blossom in the sun’s career
The moonlight with their odours greet;
Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet!
III.
Come forth, come forth, one hour of night,
When flowers are fresh and stars are bright,
Were worth an age of gaudy day;
Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay!
‘I hope the lady came,’ said Miss Temple, ‘after such a pretty song.’
‘Of course,’ said the Count, ‘they always come.’
‘Ferdinand, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison.
‘I cannot, Katherine.’
‘Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘he makes it
a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have more
influence.’
Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. ‘Miss Temple has spoken
so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine,’ said his lordship;
and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front the
habitual exactitude of his statements.
‘How very strange!’ thought Ferdinand; ‘her callousness or her candour
baffles me. I will try to sing,’ he continued aloud, ‘but it is a year,
really, since I have sung.’
In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression which
increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to
control his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:--
CAPTAIN ARMINE’S SONG.
I.
My heart is like a silent lute
Some faithless hand has thrown aside;
Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute,
That once sent forth a voice of pride!
Yet even o’er the lute neglected
The wind of heaven will sometimes fly,
And even thus the heart dejected,
Will sometimes answer to a sigh!
II.
And yet to feel another’s power
May grasp the prize for which I pine,
And others now may pluck the flower
I cherished for this heart of mine!
No more, no more! The hand forsaking,
The lute must fall, and shivered lie
In silence: and my heart thus breaking,
Responds not even to a sigh.
Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold.
Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was
turned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing
to notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody’s
attention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet
she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was
grateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunate
that Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain
Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent.
The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordial
adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St.
James’-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone.
‘_Cher_ Armine,’ said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross,
‘Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two
young ladies is your cousin?’
‘The fair girl; Miss Grandison.’
‘So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry
her, are you?’
‘No; I am not.’
‘And who is Miss Temple?’
‘She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.’
‘_Diable!_ But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?’
‘I think of her as all, I suppose, must.’
‘She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She
marries for money, I suppose?’
‘She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than my
cousin.’
‘_C’est drôle_. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.’
‘By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?’
‘_Mon cher_ Armine, I like you more than anybody. I wish to be, I am,
your friend. Here is some cursed _contretemps_. There is a mystery,
and both of you are victims of it. Tell me everything. I will put you
right.’
‘Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I could
never speak on these things to human being, but I am attracted to you by
the same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want
a confidant, I need a friend; I am most wretched.’
‘_Eh! bien!_ we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny Vertpré,
we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk over
everything. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are
an idiot if you do not have her.’
So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutes
the cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house in
Berkeley-square.
‘Now, _mon cher,_’ said the Count, ‘coffee and confidence.’
CHAPTER XV.
_In Which the Count Mirabel Commences His Operations with
Great Success_.
IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park,
at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June?
Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine
horses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of
such agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and the
triumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the
bowery glades of Kensington.
It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among
the glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian,
scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steed
beneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listless
cavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning he
had won his pigeon match.
‘Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington,’ said
the Count. ‘I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?’
‘I do, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘He has gone to Richmond with
Blandford and the two little Furzlers.’
‘That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner.
It is a droll way to succeed.’
‘Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?’ said Mr. de
Stockville.
‘Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene.’
‘I say, Mirabel,’ drawled out a young man, ‘I saw you yesterday driving
a man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?’
‘No one you know, or will know. ‘Tis the best fellow that ever lived;
but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he
is introduced.’
‘Lord! I wonder who he can be!’ said the young man.
‘I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don’t take care, I
can tell you that.’
‘Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will take
them.’
‘No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time------’
‘You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for
certainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it.’
‘Well, I must say, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘I think the same
about Goshawk.’
‘Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and take
all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will
tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! _mon cher_ Catch?’
‘But do you really think Goshawk will win?’ asked Lord Cathimwhocan,
earnestly.
‘Certain!’
‘Well, damned if I don’t go and take the odds,’ said his lordship.
‘Mirabel,’ said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, and
speaking in a low voice, ‘shall you be at home to-morrow morning?’
‘Certainly. But what do you want?’
‘I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you to
advise me.’
‘The Count moved aside with this cavalier. ‘And what is it?’ said he.
‘Have you been losing?’
‘No, no,’ said the young man, shaking his head. ‘Much worse. It is the
most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall
cut my throat.’
‘_Bêtise!_ It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.’
‘Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.’
‘_Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,_’ said the Count, in a kind voice.
‘I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it
until to-morrow at one o’clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am
at your service at present.’
‘No, no, not here: there are letters.’
‘Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any
nonsense.’
At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and
bowed to the Count Mirabel.
‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘who is that girl? I want
to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine
creature!’
‘Do not you know Miss Temple?’ said the Count. ‘Fancy a man not knowing
Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.’
Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of
Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least
by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to
present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might
be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode
away, and was soon by the very lady’s side.
‘What a charming voyage yesterday,’ said the Count to Miss Temple. ‘You
were amused?’
‘Very.’
‘And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was
astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.’
‘You know him intimately?’ said Miss Temple.
‘He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so
much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! _chère_ Miss Temple, there
is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so
good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so
_spirituel_.’
‘You have known him long, Count?’
‘Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover
what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will