_Which Is on the Whole Almost as Perplexing as the Preceding
One_.
WHEN Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James’-square, in the very
same room where he had passed so many gay hours during that boyish month
of glee which preceded his first joining his regiment, and then looked
opposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by some
magical process or other, his life was acting over again, and the order
of the scenes and characters had, by some strange mismanagement, got
confused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excitement which had so
unexpectedly influenced him; he was inflamed by a species of wild
delight which he could not understand, nor stop to analyse; and when the
duchess retired with the young ladies to their secret conclave in the
drawing-room, she said, ‘I like Captain Armine very much; he is so full
of spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, do you know,
I thought him rather stiff and fine. I regretted the bright boyish flow
that I so well recollected, but I see I was mistaken.’
‘Ferdinand is much changed,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘He was once the
most brilliant person, I think, that ever lived: almost too brilliant;
everybody by him seemed so tame. But since his illness he has quite
changed. I have scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these six
months. There is not in the whole world a person so wretchedly altered.
He is quite a wreck. I do not know what is the matter with him to-day.
He seemed once almost himself.’
‘He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps,’ said Henrietta; ‘he lived,
perhaps, too much alone, after so severe an illness.’
‘Oh, no! it is not that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘it is not exactly
that. Poor Ferdinand! he is to be pitied. I fear he will never be happy
again.’
‘Miss Grandison should hardly say that,’ said the duchess, ‘if report
speaks truly.’
Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself.
Henrietta rose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked Katherine to
touch the piano.
The duchess took up the ‘Morning Post.’
‘Poor Ferdinand! he used to sing once so beautifully, too!’ said
Katherine to Miss Temple, in a hushed voice. ‘He never sings now.’
‘You must make him,’ said Henrietta.
Miss Grandison shook her head.
‘You have influence with him; you should exert it,’ said Henrietta.
‘I neither have, nor desire to have, influence with him,’ said Miss
Grandison. ‘Dearest Miss Temple, the world is in error with respect to
myself and my cousin; and yet I ought not to say to you what I have not
thought proper to confess even to my aunt.’
Henrietta leant over and kissed her forehead. ‘Say what you like,
dearest Miss Grandison; you speak to a friend, who loves you, and will
respect your secret.’
The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and interrupted this
interesting conversation.
‘You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort,
seating himself by her side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with the
duchess; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim of his Grace’s passion
for écarté.
‘Captain Armine is a most agreeable person,’ said Lord Montfort.
Miss Grandison rather stared. ‘We were just speaking of Ferdinand,’ she
replied, ‘and I was lamenting his sad change.’
‘Severe illness, illness so severe as his, must for the moment change
anyone; we shall soon see him himself again.’
‘Never,’ said Miss Grandison mournfully.
‘You must inspire him,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I perceive you have great
influence with him.’
‘I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter perception than that,’ said
Miss Grandison.
Their eyes met: even Lord Montfort’s dark vision shrank before the
searching glance of Miss Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purpose
was not undiscovered.
‘But you can exert influence, if you please,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘But it may not please me,’ said Miss Grandison.
At this moment Mr. Glastonbury was announced. He had a general
invitation, and was frequently in the habit of paying an evening visit
when the family were disengaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta,
and Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, his
perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease, too, with which
Miss Temple addressed him, completed his confusion. He began to suspect
that some critical explanation had taken place. He looked around for
information.
‘We have all been riding,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘So I perceive,’ said Glastonbury.
‘And as we were too late for dinner, took refuge here,’ continued his
lordship.
‘I observe it,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir.’
‘She is an admirable lady in every respect,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette; I am so stupid as not to
be able to sing. I wish I could induce Captain Armine.’
‘He has left off singing,’ said Glastonbury, mournfully. ‘But Miss
Temple?’ added Glastonbury, bowing to that lady.
‘Miss Temple has left off singing, too,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly.
‘Come, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the duchess, ‘time was when you and I have
sung together. Let us try to shame these young folks.’ So saying,
her Grace seated herself at the piano, and the gratified Glastonbury
summoned all his energies to accompany her.
Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. ‘You have been severely ill,
I am sorry to hear.’
‘Yes; I have been rather shaken.’
‘This spring will bring you round.’
‘So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial influence.’
‘You should,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘At our age we ought to rally
quickly.’
‘Yes! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I have much more faith
in him than in the spring.’
‘Well, then, there is Hope; what think you of that?’
‘I have no great faith,’ said Ferdinand, affecting to smile.
‘Believe, then, in optimism,’ said Henrietta Temple, without taking her
eyes off the cards. ‘Whatever is, is best.’
‘That is not my creed, Miss Temple,’ said Ferdinand, and he rose and was
about to retire.
‘Must you go? Let us all do something to-morrow!’ said Lord Montfort,
interchanging a glance with Henrietta. ‘The British Museum; Miss
Grandison wishes to go to the British Museum. Pray come with us.’
‘You are very good, but------’
‘Well! I will write you a little note in the morning and tell you our
plans,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I hope you will not desert us.’
Ferdinand bowed and retired: he avoided catching the eye of Henrietta.
The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandison were soon announced,
and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, these ladies did not long
remain.
‘To-day has been a day of trial,’ said Henrietta, as she was about to
bid Lord Montfort farewell. ‘What do you think of affairs? I saw you
speaking to Katherine. What do you think?’
‘I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival. Do you know, I am
rather jealous?’
‘Digby! can you be ungenerous?’
‘My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the merest
playfulness. Nay,’ he continued, for she seemed really hurt, ‘say good
night very sweetly.’
‘Is there any hope?’ said Henrietta.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Lord Montfort, smiling; ‘God bless
you.’
Glastonbury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort returned and asked
him to come up to his lordship’s own apartments, as he wished to show
him a curious antique carving.
‘You seemed rather surprised at the guests you found here to-night,’
said Lord Montfort when they were alone.
Glastonbury looked a little confused. ‘It was certainly a curious
meeting, all things considered,’ continued Lord Montfort: ‘Henrietta has
never concealed anything of the past from me, but I have always wished
to spare her details. I told her this morning I should speak to you upon
the subject, and that is the reason why I have asked you here.’
‘It is a painful history,’ said Glastonbury.
‘As painful to me as anyone,’ said his lordship; ‘nevertheless, it must
be told. When did you first meet Miss Temple?’
‘I shall never forget it,’ said Glastonbury, sighing and moving very
uneasily in his chair. ‘I took her for Miss Grandison.’ And Glastonbury
now entered into a complete history of everything that had occurred.
‘It is a strange, a wonderful story,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and you
communicated everything to Miss Grandison?’
‘Everything but the name of her rival. To that she would not listen. It
was not just, she said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy.’
‘She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison,’ said Lord
Montfort.
‘She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can be,’ said
Glastonbury.
‘Then it is still a secret to the parents?’
‘Thus she would have it,’ said Glastonbury. ‘She clings to them, who
love her indeed as a daughter; and she shrank from the desolation that
was preparing for them.’
‘Poor girl!’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and poor Armine! By heavens, I pity
him from the bottom of my heart.’
‘If you had seen him as I have,’ said Glastonbury, ‘wilder than the
wildest Bedlamite! It was an awful sight.’
‘Ah! the heart, the heart,’ said Lord Montfort: ‘it is a delicate organ,
Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his father and mother suspect nothing?’
‘I know not what they think,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but they must soon know
all.’ And he seemed to shudder at the thought.
‘Why must they?’ asked Lord Montfort.
Glastonbury stared.
‘Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their sorrows?’ said
Lord Montfort; ‘cannot we again bring together these young and parted
spirits?’
‘It is my only hope,’ said Glastonbury, ‘and yet I sometimes deem it a
forlorn one.’
‘It is the sole desire of Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘cannot you
assist us? Will you enter into this conspiracy of affection with us?’
‘I want no spur to such a righteous work,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but I
cannot conceal from myself the extreme difficulty. Ferdinand is the most
impetuous of human beings. His passions are a whirlwind; his volition
more violent than becomes a suffering mortal.’
‘You think, then, there is no difficulty but with him?’
‘I know not what to say,’ said Glastonbury; ‘calm as appears the
temperament of Miss Grandison, she has heroic qualities. Oh! what have I
not seen that admirable young lady endure! Alas! my Digby, my dear
lord, few passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory more
deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal secret. Yet, and
chiefly for her sake, it was my duty.’
‘It was at Armine?’
‘At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were alone together, and
without fear of being disturbed. We had gone to view an old abbey in the
neighbourhood. We were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand and
endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence, “All is not right
with Ferdinand,” she immediately said; “there is some mystery. I have
long suspected it.” She listened to my recital, softened as much as I
could for her sake, in silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. She
looked like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered me to
leave her for some short time, and I walked away, out of sight indeed,
but so near that she might easily summon me. I stood alone until it was
twilight, in a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now with
anguish. At last I heard my name sounded, in a low yet distinct voice,
and I looked round and she was there. She had been weeping. I took her
hand and pressed it, and led her to the carriage. When I approached our
unhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, and for
two or three days we saw her no more. At length she sent for me, and
told me she had been revolving all these sad circumstances in her mind,
and she felt for others more even than for herself; that she forgave
Ferdinand, and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister; that
her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the unhappy young lady,
whose name she would never know, but that if by her assistance I could
effect their union, means should not be wanting, though their source
must be concealed; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is indeed
passionately attached, she would keep the secret, until it could no
longer be maintained; and that in the meantime it was to be hoped that
health might be restored to her cousin, and Providence in some way
interfere in favour of this unhappy family.’
‘Angelic creature!’ said Lord Montfort. ‘So young, too; I think so
beautiful. Good God! with such a heart what could Armine desire?’
‘Alas!’ said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. ‘You know not the
love of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and fearful
thing; it passeth human comprehension.’
Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his face with his
hands. After some minutes he looked up, and said in his usual placid
tone, and with an’ unruffled brow, ‘Will you take anything before you
go, Mr. Glastonbury?’