CHAPTER V.
_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 thenext morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about tocross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle ofthe road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window.He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person towhom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was nota single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached theequipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerableagitation. 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 Ihate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I havebeen giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been intown, 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 yourname, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have agreat deal to say to you.' And Ferdinand found that it was absolutelynecessary to comply.
'Now, where shall we go?' said her ladyship; 'I have got till twoo'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, toreceive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come everyday 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 wholeave 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 SirPeter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And yourcharming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite oneof 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 callupon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live.'
And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair's carriage stopped opposite thehouse of Miss Grandison.
'Are they early risers?' said her ladyship; 'I get up every morning atsix. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, andthen they cannot refuse.'
In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected anentrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered intothe morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine.
'My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are sobright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite loveyou, 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 beengiving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends;telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longingto 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 eveningsyet; 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 LordColonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they wouldhave tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dinewith 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 herinseparable companion in London. 'All this week I am ticketed; Monday,the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine withBonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday,where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, theMaxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famoushouse for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, forhe sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at oneo'clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. Soit cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell youto-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am alwaysat home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come everyday, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny littlegrandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked LadyGrandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got theestate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of mygreatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked herto dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where shelives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.'
So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyshiptook Ferdinand's arm and retired.
Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour withthem, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, heobserved Lady Bellair's little red book, which she had left behind.
'Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?' said Miss Grandison; 'we musttake 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 longbuilding, 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 LadyBellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the groundfloor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair'sinjunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowingwhat to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and wasushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases ofbrilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, andEtruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished inthat classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hopefirst rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far intothe gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory ofconsiderable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was along building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, andscreened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The wallsof this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, andprints of the country seats of Lady Bellair's friends, all of whichshe took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of asweeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel.
Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higherthan her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials,on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, withwhich her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, loitered inthe hall.
'You have brought me my book!' she exclaimed, as Ferdinand entered withthe 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 andall 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 knowthis gentleman,' she said, turning to Mrs. Fan-court. 'Well, I shall notintroduce you; he will not suit you; he is a fine gentleman, and onlydines, 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 mustmake room for him; he is my greatest favourite. All the ladies are inlove with him.'
General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high honour; Ferdinandprotested he was engaged on Wednesday; Mrs. Fancourt looked verydisappointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning thename of so distinguished a personage.
There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. Lady Maxbury, and herdaughter, Lady Selina, were announced.
'Have you got him?' asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her newvisitors entered.
'He has promised most p
ositively,' answered Lady Maxbury.
'Dear, good creature!' exclaimed Lady Bellair, 'you are the dearestcreature that I know. And you are charming,' she continued, addressingherself to Lady Selina; 'if I were a man, I would marry you directly.There now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he ismarried 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, andwill he bring his bows and arrows? Lord Dorfield protests 'tis nothingwithout 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 airof 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, 'thatmy 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, andthere you will find my squirrel.'
The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with thestipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon,entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length foundhimself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady wasseated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep sheraised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple.
He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thoughtand motion alike deserted him.
There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companionless disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand withan expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon herfeatures. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followedthe first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: hemoved to retire.
He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed itwere that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced hisname.
'Captain Armine!' said the voice.
How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, hestill proceeded to the door.
'Ferdinand!' said the voice.
He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning herarm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the tableat which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet sheneither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clearvoice, '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, herface still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made noreply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke.
'I would that we were at least friends,' she said. The tears came intoFerdinand's eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was nowsweet. 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, MissTemple.'
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 inhis turn averted his eyes.
'Our misery is--has been great,' she said in a firmer tone, 'but was itof 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 thepast: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you theinterest 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 thanthat 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 soamiable; 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. 'Itshall not be said of me that I broke vows consecrated by the finestemotions 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 yoursituation from me?'
'No explanation of mine can change our respective situations,' saidFerdinand; 'I content myself therefore by saying that it was not MissTemple who had occasion to criticise my conduct.'
'You are bitter.'
'The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, themost amiable of her sex; if only in gratitude for all her surpassinggoodness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never canbe hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almostunparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection thatI should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirableperson. Alas! alas! that in all my misery the only woman who sympathiseswith my wretchedness is the woman I have injured. And so delicateas well as so generous! She would not even enquire the name of theindividual 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 mycousin, the complete appreciation which I now possess of her character,before so little estimated and so feebly comprehended by me, is the verycircumstance that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may,I am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her so. Ourengagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements thanof any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yetshe is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, Ibelieve, that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, willnot ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm andvirtue and accident of fortune to attract the admiration and attentionof the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could havebeen but mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style suchsentiments love. But,' added he sarcastically, 'this is too delicate asubject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.'
'For God's sake, do not be so bitter!' she exclaimed; and then sheadded, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, 'Let me never betaunted by those lips! O Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends?'
'Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips ismere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little didI suppose that we ever should have met again. I go nowhere, I enterno single house; my visit here this morning was one of those whimsicalvagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady indeed seems, somehowor other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted toher.'
The page entered the room. 'Miss Temple,' said the lad, 'my lady bid mesay the duchess and Lord Montfort were here.'
Ferdinand started, and darting, almost unconsciously, a glance of fiercereproach at the miserable Henrietta, he rushed out of the room and madehis escape from Bellair House without re-entering the library.