Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
affection of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souled
Mont-fort, and the generosity of the accomplished Mirabel, passed before
him, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter himself that
he indeed merited such singular blessings; and yet with all his faults,
which with him were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand
had been faithful, to Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded.
As for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them.’
Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of a
meditative mind; schooled by adversity, there was little doubt that his
coming career would justify his favourable destiny.
It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, but what an
eventful twelvemonth! Everything that had occurred previously seemed
of another life; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderful
drama that had commenced at Bath, the last scene of which was now
approaching; the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Katherine,
Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, himself, and Mr. Temple!
Ah! that was a name that a little disturbed him; and yet he felt
confidence now in Mirabel’s prescience; he could not but believe that
with time even Mr. Temple might be reconciled! It was at this moment
that the sound of military music fell upon his ear; it recalled old
days; parades and guards at Malta; times when he did not know Henrietta
Temple; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had never paused to
think or moralise. That was a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was his
career then! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And now all had ended
so happily! Oh! could it indeed be true? Was it not all a dream of his
own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that bright
and flowing river? But then there was Henrietta’s letter. He might be
enchanted, but that was the talisman.
In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinand
would not go home. He was resolved to avoid any explanations until
he heard from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing Glastonbury or his
cousin. As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could have
heart to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel was the
only person to whom he could abandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was
still in his first sleep.
So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich glades
and stately avenues. It seems to the writer of this history that the
inhabitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty
of its environs. On every side the most charming retreats open to them,
nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so many rural
villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos. With the exception
of Constantinople, there is no city in the world that can for a
moment enter into competition with it. For himself, though in his time
something of a rambler, he is not ashamed in this respect to confess to
a legitimate Cockney taste; and for his part he does not know where life
can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington Gardens, viewing
the silver Thames winding by the bowers of Rosebank, or inhaling from
its terraces the refined air of graceful Richmond.
In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to free himself
from all the tumult of the world; the pangs of love, the throbs of
ambition, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating boudoir, the
conspiring club, the rattling hell; and find himself in a sublime sylvan
solitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent
to the chestnut forests of Anatolia. Kensington Gardens is almost the
only place that has realised his idea of the forests of Spenser and
Ariosto. What a pity, that instead of a princess in distress we meet
only a nurserymaid! But here is the fitting and convenient locality to
brood over our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve the
happy. It is here that we should get our speeches by heart, invent our
impromptus; muse over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabinet,
and save a nation.
About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from these green
retreats towards Berkeley-Square, a servant summoned Miss Temple to her
father.
‘Is papa alone?’ enquired Miss Temple.
‘Only my lord with him,’ was the reply.
‘Is Lord Montfort here!’ said Miss Temple, a little surprised.
‘My lord has been with master these three hours,’ said the servant.
CHAPTER XXIII.
_Ferdinand Receives the Most Interesting Invitation to
Dinner Ever Offered to Him_.
IS NOT it wonderful?’ said Ferdinand, when he had finished his history
to Count Mirabel.
‘Not the least,’ said the Count, ‘I never knew anything less surprising.
‘Tis exactly what I said, ‘tis the most natural termination in the
world.’
‘Ah, my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet! What a lucky fellow I am to
have such a friend as you!’
‘To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What are you going to do
with yourself?’
‘I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not like to go
anywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I think I shall go to my
hotel’ ‘I will drive you. It is now three o’clock.’ But just at this
moment, Mr. Bevil called on the Count, and another hour disappeared.
When they were fairly in the cabriolet, there were so many places to
call at, and so many persons to see, that it was nearly six o’clock when
they reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if there were any
letter from Lord Montfort. He found his lordship’s card, and also Mr.
Temple’s; they had called about half an hour ago; there was also a note.
These were its contents:--
‘Grosvenor-square, Thursday.
‘My Dear Captain Armine,
‘I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall hardly be so
fortunate as to find you at home. It is only very recently that I have
learnt from Henrietta that you were in London, and I much regret to hear
that you have been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met that
I hope you will dine with us to-day; and indeed I am so anxious to see
you, that I trust, if you have unfortunately made any other engagement,
you may yet contrive to gratify my request. It is merely a family party;
you will only meet our friends from St. James’-square, and your own
circle in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, save old Lady Bellair,
and your friend Count Mirabel; and Henrietta is so anxious to secure
his presence, that I shall be greatly obliged by your exerting your
influence to induce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hope
of finding him free.
‘Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards; and I beg you to believe
me,
‘My dear Captain Armine,
‘Most cordially yours,
‘Pelham Temple.’
‘Well, what is the matter?’ said the Count, when Ferdinand returned to
the cabriolet, with the note in his hand, and looking very agitated.
‘The strangest note!’ said Ferdinand.
‘Give it me,’ said the Count. ‘Do you call that strange? Tis the most
regular epistle I ever read; I expected it. ‘Tis an excellent fellow,
that Mr. Temple; I will certainly dine with him, and send an excuse to
that old Castlefyshe. A family party, all right; and he asks me, that
is proper. I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, or
your executor, or your first child’s godfather. Ah, that good Temple
is a sensible man. I told you I would settle this business for you.
You should hear me talk to that good Temple. I open his mind. A family
party; it will be amusing! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds.
Besides, I must go to take care of you, for you will be committing all
sorts of _bêtises_. I will give you one turn in the park. Jump in, _mon
enfant_. Good Armine, excellent fellow, jump in! You see, I was right;
I am always right. But I will confess to you a secret: I never was so
right as I have been in the present case. ‘Tis the best business that
ever was!’
CHAPTER XXIV.
_Some Account of the Party, and Its Result_.
IN SPITE of the Count Mirabel’s inspiring companionship, it must be
confessed that Ferdinand’s heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple’s
house. Indeed, had it not been for the encouragement and jolly raillery
of his light-hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have
succeeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came over his vision as
he entered the room; various forms, indeed, glanced before him, but he
could distinguish none. He felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely
miserable. It was Mr. Temple’s hand that he found he had hold of; the
calm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman somewhat reassured him.
Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and
covered his confusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother;
they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted them. He dared
not look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bellair was talking to
his father. At last he heard his name called by the Count. ‘Armine,
_mon cher_, see this beautiful work!’ and Ferdinand advanced, or rather
staggered, to a window where stood the Count before a group, and in
a minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak.
Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind her
chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, and with so much art and
tact, that in a few moments he had succeeded in producing comparative
ease on all sides.
‘I am so glad that you have come to-day,’ said Henrietta. Her eyes
sparkled with a strange meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew her
gaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was a
moment of great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it.
Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for Mirabel and Ferdinand
had purposely arrived at the last moment. As the duke advanced to offer
his arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as
if to console him for the separation. It was a round table; the duchess
and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, the duke on the right
hand of Miss Temple; where there were so many members of the same
family, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back,
when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned to
Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit next to her,
pushed Ferdinand, as he himself walked away, into the vacated seat.
Henrietta caught the Count’s eye as he moved off; it was a laughing eye.
‘I am glad you sit next to me,’ said Lady Bellair to the Count, ‘because
you are famous. I love famous people, and you are very famous. Why don’t
you come and see me? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come
and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month; I have dinner
parties every day. You shall dine with me on the 8th, for then Lady
Frederick dines with me, and she will taste you. You shall sit next
to Lady Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as
amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a minuet with him at
Versailles seventy years ago.’
‘It is well recollected in the family,’ said the Count.
‘Ah! you rogue!’ said the little lady, chuckling, ‘you lie! I like a lie
sometimes,’ she resumed, ‘but then it must be a good one. Do you know,
I only say it to you, but I am half afraid lies are more amusing than
truth.’
‘Naturally,’ said the Count, ‘because truth must in general be
commonplace, or it would not be true.’
In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta Temple. He might
be excused for feeling a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful events
of the last four-and-twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of a
complete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that he nearly