Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
Captain Armine has good friends, but do not speak to strangers. It will
do harm; it will indeed.’
‘You are a good creature; you are a good creature. Go away.’
‘Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady,’ announced the page.
‘She is very witty, but very poor. It is no use speaking to her. I won’t
say a word. Go to Miss Thingabob: go, go.’ And Lord Montfort escaped
into the saloon as Lady Frederick entered.
Henrietta was lying on the sofa, her countenance was hid, she was
sobbing convulsively.
‘Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort, but she did not answer. ‘Henrietta, he
again said, ‘dear Henrietta! I will do whatever you wish.’
‘Save him, save him!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh! you cannot save him! And I
have brought him to this! Ferdinand! dearest Ferdinand! oh! I shall
die!’
‘For God’s sake, be calm,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘there is nothing I will
not do for you, for him.’
‘Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, own Ferdinand, oh! why did we ever part?
Why was I so unjust, so wicked? And he was true! I cannot survive his
disgrace and misery. I wish to die!’
‘There shall be no disgrace, no misery,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘only for
God’s sake, be calm. There is a chattering woman in the next room. Hush!
hush! I tell you I will do everything.’
‘You cannot; you must not; you ought not! Kind, generous Digby! Pardon
what I have said; forget it; but indeed I am so wretched, I can bear
this life no longer.’
‘But you shall not be wretched, Henrietta; you shall be happy; everybody
shall be happy. I am Armine’s friend, I am indeed. I will prove it. On
my honour, I will prove that I am his best friend.’
‘You must not. You are the last person, you are indeed. He is so proud!
Anything from us will be death to him. Yes! I know him, he will die
sooner than be under an obligation to either of us.’
‘You shall place him under still greater obligations than this,’ said
Lord Montfort. ‘Yes! Henrietta, if he has been true to you, you shall
not be false to him.’
‘Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. I am myself again. I left
you that I might be alone. Best and most generous of men, I have never
deceived you; pardon the emotions that even you were not to witness.’
‘Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the garden. I wish to speak
to you. Do not tremble. I have nothing to say that is not for your
happiness; at all times, and under all circumstances, the great object
of my thoughts.’
He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and they walked away far
from the observation of Lady Bellair, or the auricular powers, though
they were not inconsiderable, of her lively guest.
CHAPTER XX.
_In Which Ferdinand Receives More than One Visit, and Finds
That Adversity Has Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends_.
IN THE mean time morning broke upon the unfortunate Ferdinand. He
had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he woke, it was with some
difficulty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yesterday, and
could satisfy himself that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his
bedroom window left him not very long in pleasing doubt.
His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. ‘Slept pretty
well, sir? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir? Tongue and ham, sir?
Perhaps you would like a kidney instead of a devil? It will be a
change.’
‘I have no appetite.’
‘It will come, sir. You an’t used to it. Nothing else to do here but to
eat. Better try the kidney, sir. Is there anything you fancy?’
‘I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day.’ ‘Lord! sir, don’t think
of it. Something will turn up, sir, take my word.’
And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. For bringing
in the breakfast, followed by an underling with a great pomp of plated
covers, he informed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gentleman was
enquiring for him. ‘Told you your friends would come, sir.’
The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld Mr. Glastonbury.
‘My dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, scarcely daring to meet his
glance, ‘this is very kind, and yet I wished to have saved you this.’
‘My poor child,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Oh! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter moment for
you even than for me, kind friend. This is a terrible termination of all
your zeal and labours.’
‘Nay!’ said Glastonbury; ‘let us not think of anything but the present.
For what are you held in durance?’
‘My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could not permit you
to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This must have happened sooner
or later. It has come, and come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like
all other calamities.’
‘But you have friends, my Ferdinand.’
‘Would that I had not! All that I wish now is that I were alone in
the world. If I could hope that my parents would leave me to myself, I
should be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, and the injury I
must do them, it is hell, it is hell.’
‘I wish you would tell me your exact situation,’ said Mr. Glastonbury.
‘Do not let us talk of it; does my father know of this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘’Tis well; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell Armine.’
Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. ‘Is it so bad?’ he said.
‘My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I am here for
nearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at least ten more.’
‘And they will not take bail?’
‘Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, the only one.’
‘And they gave you no notice?’
‘None: they must have heard somehow or other that my infernal marriage
was off. They have all waited for that. And now that you see that
affairs are past remedy; let us talk of other topics, if you will be
so kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it
directly; I shall go to gaol at once.’
Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was a most
melancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, except
on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand’s affairs, seemed quite a
mockery. At last, Ferdinand said, ‘Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here;
it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me,
and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Upon
reflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay as
long. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him;
but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend.’
Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. ‘This
affair should be kept quiet,’ he said. ‘I told Louis to say I was out of
town in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it,
at least until after her marriage.’
Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the
hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host’s
portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year
that he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had
grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury
had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A
spunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such
a character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and
all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened
by the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close
dungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in that
fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a
man mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present not
to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeming
himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves
unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent.
A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are great
blessings; and whatever may be one’s scrapes in life, either of these
may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once,
and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all
these calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he
had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human
nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were the
services he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollection
of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all, Count Mirabel,
fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glastonbury
was indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own
age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of
comprehending all his secret feelings; a friend who could even whisper
hope, and smile in a spunging-house.
The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; Ferdinand became
every moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the
waiter, rushed into the room. ‘My eye, sir, here is a regular nob
enquiring for you. I told you it would be all right.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Here he is coming up.’
Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on the staircase.
‘Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, _mon ami! mon cher!_
Is this your friendship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for
me! _C’est une mauvaise plaisanterie_ to pretend we are friends! How are
you, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were not here
I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man.’ The waiter disappeared,
and Count Mirabel seated himself on the hard sofa.
‘My dear fellow,’ continued the Count, twirling the prettiest cane in
the world, ‘this is a _bêtise_ of you to be here and not send for me.
Who has put you here?’
‘My dear Mirabel, it is all up.’
‘Pah! How much is it?’
‘I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off,
and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed
annuities.’
‘But how much?’
‘Between two and three thousand.’
The Count Mirabel gave a whistle.
‘I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow or
other.’
‘My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world; but I
have troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sou
from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at this
moment is some 1,500L., which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day for
nothing, through Catch.’
‘Pah! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us this
money. I will ask Bevil.’
‘I would sooner die.’
‘I will ask him for myself.’
‘It is impossible.’
‘We will arrange it: I tell you who will do it for us. He is a good
fellow, and immensely rich: it is Fitzwarrene; he owes me great
favours.’
‘Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good and kind. I am so
damned dull here. It quite gladdens me to see you; but do not talk about
money.’
‘Here is 500L.; four other fellows at 500L. we can manage it.’
‘No more, no more! I beseech you.’
‘But you cannot stop here. _Quel drôle appartement!_ Before Charley
Doricourt was in Parliament he was always in this sort of houses, but I
got him out somehow or other; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow
five hundred dozen of champagne.’
‘A new way to pay old debts, certainly,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I tell you--have you dined?’
‘I was going to; merely to have something to do.’
‘I will stop and dine with you,’ said the Count, ringing the bell, ‘and
we will talk over affairs. Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine: this is
only a scene. This is life. What can we have for dinner, man? I shall
dine here.’
‘Gentleman’s dinner is ordered, my lord; quite ready,’ said the waiter.
‘Champagne in ice, my lord?’
‘To be sure; everything that is good. _Mon cher_ Armine, we shall have
some fun.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the waiter, running down stairs. ‘Dinner for best