Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

‘A superbly pretty place,’ simpered the magnificent Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple, ‘and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met, I assure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. Such a favourite too with Lady Bellair! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite,’ added the lady, with a playful smile.

The ladies were ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, for the hour of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxiety not to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might have been matter of marvel how she could have effected such a complete transformation in so short a period. Except a train, she was splendid enough for a birthday at St. James’s, and wore so many brilliants that she glittered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair loved a contrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; for certainly her ladyship, in her simple costume which had only been altered by the substitution of a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her sumptuous fellow-traveller.

‘Your dinner is very good,’ said Lady Bellair to Mr. Temple. ‘I eat very little and very plainly, but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfies everybody else, and they are all dull. The best dinners now are a new man’s; I forget his name; the man who is so very rich. You never heard of him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) knows nobody. What is his name? Gregory, what is the name of the gentleman I dine with so often? the gentleman I send to when I have no other engagement, and he always gives me a dinner, but who never dines with me. He is only rich, and I hate people who are only rich; but I must ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, mind; I don’t care about them; but I will not have stupid people, who are only rich, at my dinners. Gregory, what is his name?’

‘Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady.’

‘Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have no deer, have you?’ enquired her ladyship of Mr. Temple. ‘I thought not. I wish you had deer. You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. Million de Stockville, and that would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, the duke, had received me, I should have sent it from thence. I will tell you what I will do; I will write a note from this place to the duke, and get him to do it for me. He will do anything for me. He loves me, the duke, and I love him; but his wife hates me.’

‘And you have had a gay season in town this year, Lady Bellair?’ enquired Miss Temple. ‘My dear, I always have a gay season.’ ‘What happiness!’ softly exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. ‘I think nothing is more delightful than gaiety.’

‘And how is our friend Mr. Bonmot this year?’ said Mr. Temple.

‘My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the same stories over again, and therefore I never see him. I cannot bear wits that have run to seed: I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and I told him the reason why; but I said I was at home every morning from two till six, and that he might come then, for he does not go out to evening parties, and he is huffy, and so we have quarrelled.’

‘Poor Mr. Bonmot,’ said Miss Temple.

‘My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, I forget his name, but everybody is mad to have him. He is quite the fashion. I have him to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody has Bonmot; but my man is new, and I love something new. Lady Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you know Lady Frederick Berrington? Oh! I forgot, poor dear, you are buried alive in the country; I must introduce you to Lady Frederick. She is charming, she will taste you, she will be your friend; and you cannot have a better friend, my dear, for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got blood in her veins. I won’t introduce you to Lady Frederick,’ continued Lady Bellair to. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; ‘she is not in your way. I shall introduce you to Lady Splash and Dashaway; she is to be your friend.’

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid future of being the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, and easily to endure, with such a compensation, the somewhat annoying remarks of her noble patroness.

‘But as for Bonmot,’ continued Lady Bellair, ‘I will have nothing to do with him. General Faneville, he is a dear good man, and gives me dinners. I love dinners: I never dine at home, except when I have company. General Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets me always choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, “Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day, and name your party.” I said directly, “General, anybody but Bonmot.” You know Bonmot is his particular friend.’

‘But surely that is cruel,’ said Henrietta Temple, smiling.

‘I am cruel,’ said Lady Bellair, ‘when I hate a person I am very cruel, and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and called me “cruel fair;” but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox; and I love you, and I love your father. The first party your father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you think of that? And I love my grandchildren; I call them all my grand-children. I think great-grandchildren sounds silly; I am so happy that they have married so well. My dear Selina is a countess; you shall be a countess, too,’ added Lady Bellair, laughing. ‘I must see you a countess before I die. Mrs. Grenville is not a countess, and is rather poor; but they will be rich some day; and Grenville is a good name: it sounds well. That is a great thing. I hate a name that does not sound well.’

CHAPTER VI

Containing a Conversation Not Quite so Amusing as the Last.

IN THE evening Henrietta amused her guests with music. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enthusiastically fond of music, and very proud of her intimate friendship with Pasta. ‘Oh! you know her, do you?’ ‘Very well; you shall bring her to my house. She shall sing at all my parties; I love music at my evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will not come in the evening, I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like singers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fashionable, and young men like her; and what I want at my dinners are young men, young men of very great fashion. I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some; Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is very fine, you know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but he always comes to me.’ Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and seated herself by Mr. Temple. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious to obtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bellair had assured her was of the first ton. Her ladyship herself beckoned Henrietta Temple to join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very affectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended to bring-about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear grandson, Lord Bellair, was married; for he, after all, was the only person worthy of her. ‘He would taste you, my dear; he would understand you. Dear Bellair! he is so very handsome, and so very witty. Why did he go and marry? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her? Oh! she is charming: so very pretty, so very witty, and such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why were you not in England? If you had only come to England a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How provoking!’

‘But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very happy. What more can you wish?’

‘Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get him, my child. There is nobody so difficult as Lord Fitzwarrene. That is quite right. Men should always be difficult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with you when you want them.’

‘What a charming place is Ducie!’ sighed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. ‘The country is so delightful.’

‘But you would not like to live in the country only,’ said Mr. Temple.

‘Ah! you do not know me!’ sighed the sentimental Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. ‘If you only knew how I love flowers! I wish you could but see my conservatory in Park-lane!’

‘And how did you find Bath this year, Lady Bellair?’ enquired Miss Temple.

‘Oh! my dear, I met a charming man there, I forget his name, but the most distinguished person I ever met; so very handsome, so very witty, and with blood in his veins, only I forget his name, and it is a very good name, too. My dear,’ addressing herself to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, ‘tell me the name of my favourite.’

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled: ‘My great favourite!’ exclaimed the irritated Lady Bellair, rapping her fan against the sofa. ‘Oh! why do you not remember names! I love people who remember names. My favourite, my Bath favourite. What is his name? He is to dine with me in town. What is the name of my Bath favourite who is certainly to dine with me in town?’

‘Do you mean Captain Armine?’ enquired Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. Miss Temple turned pale. ‘That is the man,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘Oh! such a charming man. You shall marry him, my dear; you shall not marry Lord Fitzwarrene.’

‘But you forget he is going to be married,’ said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.

Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. She held down her head. She felt the fever in her cheek. ‘Is our engagement, then, so notorious?’ she thought to herself.

‘Ah! yes, I forgot he was going to be married,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘Well, then, it must be Lord Fitzwarrene. Besides, Captain Armine is not rich, but he has got a very fine place though, and I will go and stop there some day. And, besides, he is over head-and-ears in debt, so they say. However, he is going to marry a very rich woman, and so all will be right. I like old families in decay to get round again.’

Henrietta dreaded that her father should observe her confusion; she had recourse to every art to prevent it. ‘Dear Ferdinand,’ she thought to herself, ‘thy very rich wife will bring thee, I fear, but a poor dower. Ah! would he were here!’

‘Whom is Captain Armine going to marry?’ enquired Mr. Temple.

‘Oh! a very proper person,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I forget her name. Miss Twoshoes, or something. What is her name, my dear?’

‘You mean Miss Grandison, madam?’ responded Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.

‘To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. The only one left of the Grandisons. I knew her grandfather. He was my son’s schoolfellow.’

‘Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours,’ said Mr. Temple.

‘Oh! you know him,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘Is not he charming?’

‘Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Grandison?’ enquired Mr. Temple.

‘Oh! there is no doubt in the world,’ said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. ‘Everything is quite settled. My most particular friend, Lady Julia Harteville, is to be one of the bridesmaids. I have seen all the presents. Both the families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the happy pair together every day. They are related, you know. It is an excellent match, for the Armines have great estates, mortgaged to the very last acre. I have heard that Sir Ratcliffe Armine has not a thousand a year he can call his own. We are all so pleased,’ added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite one of the family. ‘Is it not delightful?’

‘They are to be married next month,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I did not quite make the match, but I did something. I love the Grandisons, because Lord Grandison was my son’s friend fifty years ago.’

‘I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Armine is,’ continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. ‘The truth is, Captain Armine has been wild, very wild indeed; a little of a roue; but then such a fine young man, so very handsome, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could you expect? But he has sown his wild oats now. They have been engaged these six months; ever since he came from abroad. He has been at Bath all the time, except for a fortnight or so, when he went to his Place to make the necessary preparations. We all so missed him. Captain Armine was quite the life of Bath I am almost ashamed to repeat what was said of him,’ added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, blushing through her rouge; ‘but they said every woman was in love with him.’

‘Fortunate man!’ said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a grave expression.

‘And he says, he is only going to marry because he is wearied of conquests,’ continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; ‘how impertinent, is it not? But Captain Armine says such things! He is quite a privileged person at Bath!’

Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of general retirement had arrived, she had not returned. Her maid brought a message that her mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses for not again descending.

CHAPTER VII

In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter’s Chamber.

HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gained her own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealed sufficient.

She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapable of thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked when, on turning round, she beheld her mistress.

This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity of some exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewed interruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with an effort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to her father which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she wished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form and shape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she might remain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy for her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lost its tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet, as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come her heart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless; there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an end of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rare accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! And he had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be, could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, had adored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections, worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring upon its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It was not life; it was frenzy!

Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feigned sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut and her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step approached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she had herself deceived. She knew it was her father.

Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressed his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved her. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand without opening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his.

‘Henrietta,’ he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness.

‘Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause to reproach me. Spare me; spare your child.’

‘I came to console, not to reproach,’ said Mr. Temple. ‘But if it please you, I will not speak; let me, however, remain.’

‘Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion, my fatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I know not, I feel that you know all!’

‘I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all.’

‘And if you knew all, you would not hate me?’

‘Hate you, my Henrietta! These are strange words to use to a father; to a father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your father loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me as your earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend.’

She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not.

‘Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question.’

‘I tremble, sir.’

‘Then we will speak to-morrow.’

‘Oh! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me; I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak; I will answer any questions. My conscience is quite clear except to you; no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my father.’

‘He never will. But, dearest, tell me; summon up your courage to meet my question. Are you engaged to this person?’

‘I was.’

‘Positively engaged?’

‘Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. He left me only to speak to his father.’

‘This may be the idle tattle of women?’

‘No, no,’ said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; ‘my fears had foreseen this dark reality. This week has been a week of terror to me; and yet I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Oh! what a fool have I been.’

‘I know this person was your constant companion in my absence; that you have corresponded with him. Has he written very recently?’

‘Within two days.’

‘And his letters?’

‘Have been of late most vague. Oh! my father, indeed, indeed I have not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from this secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, this clandestine correspondence; but it was only for a week, a single week; and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas! alas! all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexed in his views and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with contempt,—all is now too clear.’

‘Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.’

‘Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if you only wish to spare me.’

‘Cling to my heart, my child. A father’s love has comfort. Is it not so?’

‘I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I never can be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I have a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear father,’ she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple’s neck and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful voice, ‘henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgrace you; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour to atone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.’

‘My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to stem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you, my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you. Try to sleep; try to compose yourself.’

‘These people—to-morrow—what shall I do?’

‘Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You need appear no more.’

‘Oh! that no human being might again see me!’

‘Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy. To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my own Henrietta.’

Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in as calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; and then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adorned with her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance in his hands. He sobbed convulsively.

CHAPTER VIII

In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished.

IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every now and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissing rain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts seemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell into fits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of anxiety than study.

The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, and heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closed his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet an ancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his Redeemer.

Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for the soul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent from his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of his outer chamber.

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing a well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdinand Armine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him. Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat.

‘You are wet; I fear thoroughly?’

‘It matters not,’ said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice.

‘From Bath?’ enquired Glastonbury.

But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter wretchedness, ‘Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of human beings.’

The good father started.

‘Yes!’ continued Ferdinand; ‘this is the end of all your care, all your affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house is fated; my life draws to an end.’

‘Speak, my Ferdinand,’ said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have relapsed into moody silence, ‘speak to your friend and father. Disburden your mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope, and, while this remains,’ pointing to the crucifix, ‘never without consolation.’

‘I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under the effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelings with which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. O Glastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace.’

‘Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priest of our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the falling and make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; nor shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I can sympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them.’

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, and shot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance of Glastonbury was placid, though serious.

‘You remember,’ Ferdinand at length murmured, ‘that we met, we met unexpectedly, some six weeks back.’

‘I have not forgotten it,’ replied Glastonbury.

‘There was a lady,’ Ferdinand continued in a hesitating tone.

‘Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison,’ observed Glastonbury, ‘but who, it turned out, bore another name.’

‘You know it?’

‘I know all; for her father has been here.’

‘Where are they?’ exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, starting from his seat and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. ‘Only tell me where they are, only tell me where Henrietta is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will restore me to life, to hope, to heaven.’

‘I cannot,’ said Glastonbury, shaking his head. ‘It is more than ten days ago that I saw this lady’s father for a few brief and painful moments; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From the unexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not so unprepared for this interview with him as I otherwise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistent with my duty to my God and to my neighbour.’