Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

drawing-room directly; green-pea-soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck and boiled chicken, everything that is good, champagne in ice; two regular nobs!’ The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated themselves. ‘Potage admirable!’ said Count Mirabel. ‘The best champagne I ever drank in my life. _Mon brave_, your health. This must be Charley’s man, by the wine. I think we will have him up; he will lend us some money. Finest turbot I ever ate! I will give you some of the fins. Ah! you are glad to see me, my Armine, you are glad to see your friend. _Encore_ champagne! Good Armine, excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage these fellows. You must take some bifteac. The most tender bifteac I ever tasted! This is a fine dinner. _Encore un verre!_ Man, you may go; don’t wait.’ ‘By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. Now, you are a friend; I feel quite in spirits.’ ‘To be sure! always be in spirits. _C’est une bêtise_ not to be in spirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will see how I will manage these fellows, and I will come and dine with you every day until you are out: you shall not be here eight-and-forty hours. As I go home I will stop at Mitchell’s and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have you ever read Paul de Kock’s books?’ ‘Never,’ said Ferdinand. ‘What a fortunate man to be arrested! Now you can read Paul de Kock! By Jove, you are the most lucky fellow I know. You see, you thought yourself very miserable in being arrested. ‘Tis the finest thing in the world, for now you will read _Mon Voisin Raymond_. There are always two sides to a case.’ ‘I am content to believe myself very lucky in having such a friend as you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but now as these things are cleared away, let us talk over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta?’ ‘Of course, I see her every day.’ ‘I hope she will not know of my crash until she has married.’ ‘She will not, unless you tell her.’ ‘And when do you think she will be married?’ ‘When you please.’ ‘_Cher ami! point de moquerie!_’ ‘By Jove, I am quite serious,’ exclaimed the Count. ‘I am as certain that you will marry her as that we are in this damned spunging-house.’ ‘Nonsense!’ ‘The very finest sense in the world. If you will not marry her, I will myself, for I am resolved that good Montfort shall not. It shall never be said that I interfered without a result. Why, if she were to marry Montfort now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort after all my trouble: dining with that good Temple, and opening the mind of that little Grandison, and talking fine things to that good duchess; it would be a failure.’ ‘What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel!’ ‘Of course! Would you have me like other people and not odd? We will drink _la belle Henriette!_ Fill up! You will be my friend when you are married, eh? _Mon Armine, excellent garçon!_ How we shall laugh some day; and then this dinner, this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had!’ ‘But why do you think there is the slightest hope of Henrietta not marrying Montfort?’ ‘Because my knowledge of human nature assures me that a young woman, very beautiful, very rich, with a very high spirit, and an only daughter, will never go and marry one man when she is in love with another, and that other one, my dear fellow, like you. You are more sure of getting her because she is engaged.’ What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human nature! thought Ferdinand to himself. The Count’s knowledge of human nature is like my friend the waiter’s experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a woman because she is engaged to another person, and the other, that it is quite clear my debts will be paid because they are so large! The Count remained with his friend until eleven o’clock, when everybody was locked up. He invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised that he should have a whole collection of French novels before he awoke. And assuring him over and over again that he looked upon him as the most fortunate of all his friends, and that if he broke the bank at Crocky’s to-night, which he fancied he should, he would send him two or three thousand pounds; at the same time he shook him heartily by the hand, and descended the staircase of the spunging-house, humming _Vive la Bagatelle_. CHAPTER XXI. _The Crisis_. ALTHOUGH, when Ferdinand was once more left alone to his reflections, it did not appear to him that anything had occurred which should change his opinion of his forlorn lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiring in the visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his difficulties than before; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed them from his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine spirit, and yet his gloom, by some process difficult to analyse, had in great measure departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a remedy he had previously tried; it was in some degree doubtless the magic sympathy of a joyous temperament: but chiefly it might, perhaps, be ascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed the hearty friendship of a man whose good-will was, in every view of the case, a very enviable possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could not deem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this instance, he might be so in others. A vague presentiment that he had seen the worst of life came over him. It was equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction or to resist it; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging-house, fell asleep in better humour with his destiny than he had been for the last eight months. His dreams were charming: he fancied that he was at Armine, standing by the Barbary rose-tree. It was moonlight; it was, perhaps, a slight recollection of the night he had looked upon the garden from the window of his chamber, the night after he had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly, Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her hand to him with a smiling face. He immediately plucked for her a flower, and stood with his offering beneath her window. She was in a riding-habit, and she told him that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to descend, and she disappeared; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from the old Place-----the duchess, who immediately enquired whether he had seen his cousin; and then her Grace, by some confused process common in dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose-tree, where, to his surprise, Katherine was walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called out for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he entered the Place, where he found Count Mirabel dining by himself, and just drinking a glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Henrietta had disappeared, but his friend laughed at him, and said that, after such a long ride, leaving Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to see her. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Count at his banquet, and was awakened from his sleep, and his dream apparently, by Mirabel drawing a cork. Ah! why did he ever wake? It was so real; he had seen her so plainly; it was life; it was the very smile she wore at Ducie; that sunny glance, so full of joy, beauty, and love, which he could live to gaze on! And now he was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. Oh! there are things in this world that may well break hearts! The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a substantial sound, a gentle tap at his door: he answered it, and the waiter entered his chamber. ‘Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you; only eight o’clock.’ ‘Then why the deuce do you disturb me?’ ‘There has been another nob, sir. I said as how you were not up, and he sent his compliments, and said as how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see you particular.’ ‘Was it the Count?’ ‘No, sir; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a coronet on his cab. But he would not leave his name.’ ‘Catch, of course,’ thought Ferdinand to himself. ‘And sent by Mirabel. I should not wonder, if after all, they have broken the bank at Crocky’s. Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat.’ However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived to descend to the best drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after the appointed time. To his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort. ‘My dear friend,’ said Lord Montfort, looking a little confused; ‘I am afraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I could not contrive to find you yesterday until it was so late that I was ashamed to knock them up here, and I thought, therefore, you would excuse this early call, as, as, as, I wished to see you very much indeed.’ ‘You are extremely kind,’ said Captain Armine. ‘But really I much regret that your lordship should have had all this trouble.’ ‘Oh! what is trouble under such circumstances!’ replied his lordship. ‘I cannot pardon myself for being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday. I never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you have experienced.’ Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he could not say a word. ‘I hope, my dear Armine,’ said his lordship, advancing rather slowly, putting his arm within that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and down the room together, ‘I hope you will act at this moment towards me as I would towards you, were our respective situations changed.’ Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. ‘Money, you know, my good fellow,’ continued Lord Montfort, ‘is a disagreeable thing to talk about; but there are circumstances which should deprive such conversation between us of any awkwardness which otherwise might arise.’ ‘I am not aware of them, my lord,’ said Ferdinand, ‘though your good feelings command my gratitude.’ ‘I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem those good feelings, and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen into sincere and intimate friendship, as sufficient authority for my placing your affairs in general in that state that they may in future never deprive your family and friends of society necessary to their happiness.’ ‘My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a graceful hue with me, for it has confirmed my most amiable views of human nature. I shall not attempt to express what I feel towards your lordship for this generous goodness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it; not the less, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest degree of your offer.’ ‘You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my dear Armine, to be offended by my frankness. I shall, therefore, speak without fear of misconception. It does appear to me that the offer which I have made you is worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear friend, that you have placed yourself in such a situation that however you may act the result cannot be one completely satisfactory. The course you should pursue, therefore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is a matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the consequences of your rushing upon ruin? In the first place, your family will receive a blow from which even future prosperity may not recover them. Your family estate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost; the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are very considerable; whatever career you pursue, so long as you visibly possess Armine, you rank always among the aristocracy of the land, and a family that maintains such a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. I hardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of all men, that