Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

‘If you are happy, you were wise,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Yes, I am pretty happy: as happy as I can well be when all my best friends are miserable.’

‘Are they?’

‘I think so: my aunt is in tears; my uncle in despair; Ferdinand meditates suicide; Henrietta is pining away; and you, who are the philosopher of the society, you look rather grave. I fancy I think we are a most miserable set.’

‘I wish we could be all happy,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘And so we might, I think,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘at least, some of us.’

‘Make us, then,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘I cannot make you.’

‘I think you could, Miss Grandison.’

At this moment Henrietta entered, and the conversation assumed a different turn.

‘Will you go with us to Lady Bellair’s, Kate?’ said Miss Temple. ‘The duchess has asked me to call there this morning.’

Miss Grandison expressed her willingness: the carriage was waiting, and Lord Montfort offered to attend them. At this moment the servant entered with a note for Miss Grandison.

‘From Glastonbury,’ she said; ‘dear Henrietta, he wishes to see me immediately. What can it be? Go to Lady Bellair’s, and call for me on your return. You must, indeed; and then we can all go out together.’

And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accompanied by Lord Montfort, proceeded to Bellair House.

‘Don’t come near me,’ said the old lady when she saw them; ‘don’t come near me; I am in despair; I do not know what I shall do; I think I shall sell all my china. Do you know anybody who wants to buy old china? They shall have it a bargain. But I must have ready money; ready money I must have. Do not sit down in that chair; it is only made to look at. Oh! if I were rich, like you! I wonder if my china is worth three hundred pounds. I could cry my eyes out, that I could. The wicked men; I should like to tear them to pieces. Why is not he in Parliament? and then they could not take him up. They never could arrest Charles Fox. I have known him in as much trouble as anyone. Once he sent all his furniture to my house from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury-street. I always look at the house when I pass by. Don’t fiddle the pens; I hate people who fiddle. Where is Gregory? where is my bell’ Where is the page? Naughty boy! why do not you come? There, I do not want anything; I do not know what to do. The wicked men! The greatest favourite I had: he was so charming! Charming people are never rich; he always looked melancholy. I think I will send to the rich man I dine with; but I forget his name. Why do not you tell me his name?’

‘My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter?’

‘Don’t ask me; don’t speak to me. I tell you I am in despair. Oh! if I were rich, how I would punish those wicked men!’

‘Can I do anything?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘I do not know what you can do. I have got the tic. I always have the tic when my friends are in trouble.’

‘Who is in trouble, Lady Bellair?’

‘My dearest friend; the only friend I care about. How can you be so hard-hearted? I called upon him this morning, and his servant was crying. I must get him a place; he is such a good man, and loves his master. Now, do you want a servant? You never want anything. Ask everybody you know whether they want a servant, an honest man, who loves his master. There he is crying down stairs, in Gregory’s room. Poor, good creature! I could cry myself, only it is of no use.’

‘Who is his master?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Nobody you know; yes! you know him very well. It is my dear, dear friend; you know him very well. The bailiffs went to his hotel yesterday, and dragged him out of bed, and took him to prison. Oh! I shall go quite distracted. I want to sell my china to pay his debts. Where is Miss Twoshoes?’ continued her ladyship; ‘why don’t you answer? You do everything to plague me.’

‘Miss Grandison, Lady Bellair?’

‘To be sure; it is her lover.’

‘Captain Armine?’

‘Have I not been telling you all this time? They have taken him to prison.’

Miss Temple rose and left the room.

‘Poor creature! she is quite shocked. She knows him, too,’ said her ladyship. ‘I am afraid he is quite ruined. There is a knock. I will make a subscription for him. I dare say it is my grandson. He is very rich, and very good-natured.’

‘My dear Lady Bellair,’ said Lord Montfort, rising, ‘favour me by not saying a word to anybody at present. I will just go in the next room to Henrietta. She is intimate with the family, and much affected. Now, my dear lady, I entreat you,’ continued his lordship, ‘do not say a word. 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 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.’