_Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as Remarkable a Chapter as
Any in the Work_.
WRETCHED as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected;
Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln’s Inn by ten o’clock the
next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about to
cross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of
the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window.
He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person to
whom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was not
a single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached the
equipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerable
agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was,
however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair.
‘You wicked man,’ said her little ladyship, in a great rage. ‘Oh! how I
hate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I have
been giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been in
town, and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife? Oh!
you are not married. You should marry; I hate a _ci-devant jeune homme_.
However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your
name, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have a
great deal to say to you.’ And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely
necessary to comply.
‘Now, where shall we go?’ said her ladyship; ‘I have got till two
o’clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, to
receive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come every
day if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards.
I never see them; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear people who
leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere? You do not!
Why do not you? How is your worthy father, Sir Peter? Is his name Sir
Peter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And your
charming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite one
of my favourites. And were not you to marry? Tell me, why have you not?
Miss--Miss--you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son’s friend.
In town, are they? Where do they live? Brook-street! I will go and call
upon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live.’
And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair’s carriage stopped opposite the
house of Miss Grandison.
‘Are they early risers?’ said her ladyship; ‘I get up every morning at
six. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, and
then they cannot refuse.’
In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected an
entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered into
the morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine.
‘My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are so
bright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite love
you, that I do. Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends.
And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time? Here have I been
giving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends;
telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longing
to see you; and you have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over;
I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three evenings
yet; to-night, you must come to me to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday;
you must come on all three nights. Oh! why did you not call upon me?
I should have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you to meet Lord
Colonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they would
have tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dine
with you some day. Now, when will you have me? Let me see, when am I.
free?’ So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was her
inseparable companion in London. ‘All this week I am ticketed; Monday,
the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with
Bonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday,
where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, the
Maxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famous
house for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, for
he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at one
o’clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. So
it cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell you
to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am always
at home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come every
day, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny little
grandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked Lady
Grandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got the
estate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of my
greatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked her
to dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where she
lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.’
So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyship
took Ferdinand’s arm and retired.
Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour with
them, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, he
observed Lady Bellair’s little red book, which she had left behind.
‘Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?’ said Miss Grandison; ‘we must
take it to her immediately.’
‘I will leave it,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I shall pass her house.’
Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a long
building, in the Italian style, situate in the midst of gardens, which,
though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste,
that it was very difficult to believe that you were in a great city.
The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which Lady
Bellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the ground
floor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair’s
injunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing
what to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was
ushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases of
brilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, and
Etruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in
that classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hope
first rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far into
the gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory of
considerable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a
long building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, and
screened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls
of this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, and
prints of the country seats of Lady Bellair’s friends, all of which
she took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a
sweeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel.
Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higher
than her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials,
on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, with
which her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, loitered in
the hall.
‘You have brought me my book!’ she exclaimed, as Ferdinand entered with
the mystical volume. ‘Give it me, give it me. Here I cannot tell Mrs.
Fancourt what day I can dine with her. I am engaged all this week and
all next, and I am to dine with your dear family when I like. But Mrs.
Fancourt must choose her day, because they will keep. You do not know
this gentleman,’ she said, turning to Mrs. Fan-court. ‘Well, I shall not
introduce you; he will not suit you; he is a fine gentleman, and only
dines, with dukes.’
Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an introduction.
‘General Faneville,’ Lady Bellair continued, to a gentleman on her left,
‘what day do I dine with you? Wednesday. Is our party full? You must
make room for him; he is my greatest favourite. All the ladies are in
love with him.’
General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high honour; Ferdinand
protested he was engaged on Wednesday; Mrs. Fancourt looked very
disappointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning the
name of so distinguished a personage.
There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. Lady Maxbury, and her
daughter, Lady Selina, were announced.
‘Have you got him?’ asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her new
visitors entered.
‘He has promised most positively,’ answered Lady Maxbury.
‘Dear, good creature!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘you are the dearest
creature that I know. And you are charming,’ she continued, addressing
herself to Lady Selina; ‘if I were a man, I would marry you directly.
There now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is
married already; but he should, if he were not. And how will he come?’
enquired Lady Bellair.
‘He will find his way,’ said Lady Maxbury.
‘And I am not to pay anything?’ enquired Lady Bellair.
‘Not anything,’ said Lady Maxbury.
‘I cannot bear paying,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘But will he dance, and
will he bring his bows and arrows? Lord Dorfield protests ‘tis nothing
without the bows and arrows.’
‘What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair?’ enquired the general.
‘Have you seen him?’ enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly.
‘Not yet,’ replied the gentleman.
‘Well, then, you will see him to-night,’ said Lady Bellair, with an air
of triumph. ‘He is coming to me to-night.’
Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart.
‘You must not go without seeing my squirrel,’ said her ladyship, ‘that
my dear funny grandson gave me: he is such a funny boy. You must see it,
you must see it,’ added her ladyship, in a peremptory tone. ‘There,
go out of that door, and you will find your way to my summer-room, and
there you will find my squirrel.’
The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with the
stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon,
entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length found
himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was
seated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep she
raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple.
He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought
and motion alike deserted him.
There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion
less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand with
an expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her
features. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed
the first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: he
moved to retire.
He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it
were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced his
name.
‘Captain Armine!’ said the voice.
How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he
still proceeded to the door.
‘Ferdinand!’ said the voice.
He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her
arm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table
at which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet she
neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear
voice, ‘I am here.’
‘I have seen Mr. Glastonbury,’ she muttered.
‘I know it,’ he replied.
‘Your illness has distressed me,’ she said, after a slight pause, her
face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made no
reply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke.
‘I would that we were at least friends,’ she said. The tears came into
Ferdinand’s eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now
sweet. It touched his heart.
‘Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,’ he replied.
She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, ‘Farewell, Miss
Temple.’
She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart.
He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he in
his turn averted his eyes.
‘Our misery is--has been great,’ she said in a firmer tone, ‘but was it
of my making?’
‘The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation,
however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly,’ said Ferdinand;
‘I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake,’
he added, in a tone of great bitterness.
Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, ‘I cannot recall the
past: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you the
interest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes!
you can be happy, Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy.’
‘O Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call you, this is worse than
that death I curse myself for having escaped.’
‘No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only exert yourself,
bear up against irresistible fate. Your cousin, everyone says she is so
amiable; surely------’
‘Farewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel.’
‘No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go in anger. Pardon me,
pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke for the best.’
‘I, at least, will never be false,’ said Ferdinand with energy. ‘It
shall not be said of me that I broke vows consecrated by the finest
emotions of our nature. No, no, I have had my dream; it was but a dream:
but while I live, I will live upon its sweet memory.’
‘Ah! Ferdinand, why were you not frank; why did you conceal your
situation from me?’
‘No explanation of mine can change our respective situations,’ said
Ferdinand; ‘I content myself therefore by saying that it was not Miss
Temple who had occasion to criticise my conduct.’
‘You are bitter.’
‘The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, the
most amiable of her sex; if only in gratitude for all her surpassing
goodness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never can
be hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almost
unparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection that
I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirable
person. Alas! alas! that in all my misery the only woman who sympathises
with my wretchedness is the woman I have injured. And so delicate
as well as so generous! She would not even enquire the name of the
individual who had occasioned our mutual desolation.’
‘Would that she knew all,’ murmured Henrietta; ‘would that I knew her.’
‘Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very affection for my
cousin, the complete appreciation which I now possess of her character,
before so little estimated and so feebly comprehended by me, is the very
circumstance that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may,
I am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her so. Our
engagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements than
of any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yet
she is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I
believe, that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, will
not ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm and
virtue and accident of fortune to attract the admiration and attention
of the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could have
been but mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style such
sentiments love. But,’ added he sarcastically, ‘this is too delicate a
subject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.’
‘For God’s sake, do not be so bitter!’ she exclaimed; and then she
added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, ‘Let me never be
taunted by those lips! O Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends?’
‘Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips is
mere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little did
I suppose that we ever should have met again. I go nowhere, I enter
no single house; my visit here this morning was one of those whimsical
vagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady indeed seems, somehow
or other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to
her.’
The page entered the room. ‘Miss Temple,’ said the lad, ‘my lady bid me
say the duchess and Lord Montfort were here.’
Ferdinand started, and darting, almost unconsciously, a glance of fierce
reproach at the miserable Henrietta, he rushed out of the room and made
his escape from Bellair House without re-entering the library.