SEATED on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionally throwing a glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fan almost as long as herself, to a distant guest, Lady Bellair received the world on the evening of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontre between Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who stood at the library-door in a new fancy dress, received the announcement of the company from the other servants, and himself communicated the information to his mistress.

‘Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady,’ said the page.

‘Hem!’ said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very amiable expression of countenance, she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to a rather common-looking personage in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat.

‘Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady.’ Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod on this fair and classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of her fan, that she might take a seat on her ottoman.

‘Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss Grandison.’

‘Dear, good people!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘how late you are! and where is your wicked son? There, go into the next room, go, go, and see the wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you must know Lady Armine; she is like you; she is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you go together. I will not have anybody stay here except my niece. This is my niece,’ Lady Bellair added, pointing to a young lady seated by her side; ‘I give this party for her.’ ‘General Faneville, my lady.’ ‘You are very late,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I dined at Lord Rochfort’s,’ said the general bowing.

‘Rochfort’s! Oh! where are they? where are the Rochforts? they ought to be here. I must, I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants a nursery governess? Because I have a charming person who would just suit her. Go and find her out, General, and enquire; and if she do not want one, find out some one who does. Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go, go.’

‘Mr. and Miss Temple, my lady.’

‘Oh, my darling!’ said Lady Bellair, ‘my real darling! sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, because I determined to keep this place for you. I give this party entirely in your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are a good man,’ she continued, addressing Mr. Temple; ‘but I can’t love you so well as your daughter.’

‘I should be too fortunate,’ said Mr. Temple, smiling.

‘I knew you when you ate pap,’ said Lady Bellair, laughing.

‘Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady.’

Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. Mrs. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous than ever. The splendour of her sweeping train almost required a page to support it; she held a bouquet which might have served for the centre-piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose person distilled odours whose essence might have exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side.

‘May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord Catchimwhocan?’ breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps in her conquest.

Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs. Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. ‘There, go, go,’ said Lady Bellair, interrupting her, ‘nobody must stop here; go and see the wonderful man in the next room.’

‘Lady Bellair is so strange,’ whimpered Mrs. Montgomery, in an apologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she moved away, covering her retreat by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘Some Irish guardsman, I suppose,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I never heard of him; I hate guardsmen.’

‘Rather a distinguished-looking man, I think,’ said Mr. Temple.

‘Do you think so?’ said Lady Bellair, who was always influenced by the last word. ‘I will ask him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I must have known his grandfather. I must tell him not to go about with that horrid woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk; she puts me in mind of the Queen of Sheba,’ said the little lady, laughing, ‘all precious stones and frankincense. I quite hate her.’

‘I thought she was quite one of your favourites, Lady Bellair?’ said Henrietta Temple rather maliciously.

‘A Bath favourite, my dear; a Bath favourite. I wear my old bonnets at Bath, and use my new friends; but in town I have old friends and new dresses.’

‘Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady.’ ‘Oh! my dear Lady Frederick, now I will give you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, whom I am always talking to you of. You deserve to know her; you will taste her; there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and make love to her.’

‘Lady Womandeville, my lady.’

‘Ah! she will do for the lord; she loves a lord. My dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am always so glad to see you. I have such a charming friend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, witty person, quite captivating, and his grandfather was one of my dearest friends. What is his name? what is his name? Lord Catchimwhocan. Mind, I introduce you to him, and ask him to your house very often.’

Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her delight, and moved on.

Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Temples, approached the ottoman.

‘Is the duchess here?’ enquired Henrietta, as she shook hands with him.

‘And Isabella,’ he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair.

‘God bless you,’ said her ladyship, with great emphasis. ‘I will not have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind.’

When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in discovering the duchess, she was in the conservatory, which was gaily illuminated with coloured lamps among the shrubs. Her Grace was conversing with cordiality with a lady of very prepossessing appearance, in whom the traces of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still considerable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort and Henrietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as Lady Armine and Miss Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was not easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equanimity; after that shock, no incident connected with the Armine family could be surprising; she was even desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and she congratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so speedily offered itself to gratify her wishes. The duchess was perfectly delighted with Lady Armine, whose manners were fascinating; between the families there was some connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always retained a lively sense of the old duke’s services to her son. Henrietta had even to listen to enquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learnt that he was slowly recovering from an almost fatal illness, that he could not endure the fatigues of society, and that he was even living at an hotel for the sake of quiet. Henrietta watched the countenance of Katherine, as Lady Armine gave this information. It was serious, but not disturbed. Her Grace did not separate from her new friends the whole of the evening, and they parted with a mutually expressed wish that they might speedily and often meet. The duchess pronounced Lady Armine the most charming person she had ever met; while, on the other hand, Miss Grandison was warm in her admiration of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, whom she thought quite worthy even of so rare a prize.

CHAPTER VII

Containing a Very Important Communication.

BETWEEN the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in the morning and the evening assembly at Bellair House, a communication had been made by Miss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence and depression had not escaped him. Soon after their arrival they were left alone, and then Henrietta said, ‘Digby, I wish to speak to you!’

‘My own!’ said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by her on the sofa, and took her hand.

Miss Temple was calm; but he would have been a light observer who had not detected her suppressed agitation.

‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, ‘you are so generous and so kind, that I ought to feel no reluctance in speaking to you upon this subject; and yet it pains me very much.’ She hesitated.

‘I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of yours, Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Speak to me as you always do, with that frankness which so much delights me.’

‘Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of my life, then,’ said Henrietta.

‘If you require it,’ said Lord Montfort, in a serious tone.

‘It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single circumstance connected with that unhappy event should be unknown to you. I wished originally that you should know all. I have a thousand times since regretted that your consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned an imperfect confidence between us; and something has occurred to-day which makes me lament it bitterly.’

‘No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Indeed, Digby, it is so,’ said Henrietta very mournfully.

‘Speak, then, dearest Henrietta.’

‘It is necessary that you should know the name of that person who once exercised an influence over my feelings, which I never affected to disguise to you.’

‘Is it indeed necessary?’ enquired Lord Montfort.

‘It is for my happiness,’ replied Henrietta.

‘Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it.’

‘He is in this country,’ said Henrietta, ‘he is in this town; he may be in the same room with you to-morrow; he has been in the same room with me even this day.’

‘Indeed!’ said Lord Montfort.

‘He bears a name not unknown to you,’ said Henrietta, ‘a name, too, that I must teach myself to mention, and yet–’

Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from the table, ‘Write it,’ he said in a kind tone.

Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote,

‘Armine.’

‘The son of Sir Ratcliffe?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘The same,’ replied Henrietta.

‘You heard then of him last night?’ enquired her companion.

‘Even so; of that, too, I was about to speak.’

‘I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with the Armine family,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly.

There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, ‘Is there anything you wish me to do?’

‘Much,’ said Henrietta. ‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘do not misinterpret me; my heart, if such a heart be worth possessing, is yours. I can never forget who solaced me in my misery; I can never forget all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that I could make a return to you more worthy of all your goodness; but if the grateful devotion of my life can repay you, you shall be satisfied.’

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘It is of you, and of your happiness that I can alone think,’ he murmured.

‘Now let me tell you all,’ said Henrietta, with desperate firmness. ‘I have done this person great injustice.’

‘Hah!’ said Lord Montfort.

‘It cuts me to the heart,’ said Henrietta.

‘You have then misconceived his conduct?’ enquired Lord Montfort.

‘Utterly.’

‘It is indeed a terrible situation for you,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘for all of us,’ he added, in a lower tone.

‘No, Digby; not for all of us; not even for myself; for if you are happy I will be. But for him, yes! I will not conceal it from you, I feel for him.’

‘Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta.’

‘No, no, Digby; do not say so,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, very earnestly; ‘do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice; there shall be none. I will not, I do not falter. Be you firm. Do not desert me in this moment of trial. It is for support I speak; it is for consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. Who shall sever them? No! Digby, we will be happy; but I am interested in the destiny of this unhappy person. You, you can assist me in rendering it more serene; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than ourselves.’

‘I would spare no labour,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Oh, that you would not!’ exclaimed Miss Temple. ‘You are so good, so noble! You would sympathise even with him. What other man in your situation would?’

‘What can be done?’

‘Listen: he was engaged to his cousin even on that fatal day when we first met; a lady with every charm and advantage that one would think could make a man happy; young, noble, and beautiful; of a most amiable and generous disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved; and of great wealth.’

‘Miss Grandison?’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Yes: his parents looked forward to their union with delight, not altogether unmixed with anxiety.

The Armines, with all their princely possessions, are greatly embarrassed from the conduct of the last head of their house. Ferdinand himself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of his grandfather’s imprudent spirit; his affairs, I fear, are terribly involved. When I knew him, papa was, as you are aware, a poor man. This marriage would have cured all; my Digby, I wish it to take place.’

‘How can we effect it?’ asked Lord Montfort.

‘Become his friend, dear Digby. I always think you can do anything. Yes! my only trust is in you. Oh! my Digby, make us all happy.’

Lord Montfort rose and walked up and down the room, apparently in profound meditation. At length he said, ‘Rest assured, Henrietta, that to secure your happiness nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. I will see Mr. Glastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let us think of lighter things.’

CHAPTER VIII

Which Is Rather Strange.

IT WAS on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House that Ferdinand was roused from his welcome slumbers, for he had passed an almost sleepless night, by his servant bringing him a note, and telling him that it had been left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read as follows:—

‘Silly, silly Captain Armine! why did you not come to my Vauxhall last night? I wanted to present you to the fairest damsel in the world, who has a great fortune too; but that you don’t care about. When are you going to be married? Miss Grandison looked charming, but disconsolate without her knight. Your mother is an angel, and the Duchess of–is quite in love with her. Your father, too, is a worthy man. I love your family very much. Come and call upon poor old doting bedridden H. B., who is at home every day from two to six to receive her friends. Has charming Lady Armine got a page? I have one that would just suit her. He teases my poor squirrel so that I am obliged to turn him away; but he is a real treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, would give her ears for him; but I love your mother much more, and so she shall have him. He shall come to her to-night. All the world takes tea with H. B. on Thursday and Saturday.’

‘One o’clock!’ said Ferdinand. ‘I may as well get up and call in Brook-street, and save my mother from this threatened infliction. Heigho! Day after day, and each more miserable than the other. How will this end?’

When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-street, he went up stairs without being announced, and found in the drawing-room, besides his mother and Katherine, the duchess, Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple.

The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Henrietta appeared before him, the same Henrietta whom he had met, for the first time, in the pleasaunce at Armine. Retreat was impossible. Her Grace received Ferdinand cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, but she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, looking at some work. Her occupation covered her confusion. Lord Montfort came forward with extended hand.

‘I have the pleasure of meeting an old friend,’ said his lordship.

Ferdinand just touched his lordship’s finger, and bowed rather stiffly; then, turning to his mother, he gave her Lady Bellair’s note. ‘It concerns you more than myself,’ he observed.

‘You were not at Lady Bellair’s last night, Captain Armine,’ said her Grace.

‘I never go anywhere,’ was the answer.

‘He has been a great invalid,’ said Lady Armine.

‘Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand?’ said Lady Armine. ‘He never comes near us.’

‘He goes every day to the British Museum.’

‘I wish he would take me,’ said Katherine. ‘I have never been there. Have you?’ she enquired, turning to Henrietta.

‘I am ashamed to say never,’ replied Henrietta. ‘It seems to me that London is the only city of which I know nothing.’

‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘I wish you would go with us to the Museum some day. Miss Temple would like to go. You know Miss Temple,’ she added, as if she of course supposed he had not that pleasure.

Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forward, and turned the conversation to Egyptian antiquities. When a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand thought that he might now withdraw.

‘Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day?’ he enquired.

Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; the young ladies whispered.

‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘what are you going to do?’

‘Nothing particular.’

‘We are going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you would come with us.’

‘I should be very happy, but I have some business to attend to.’

‘Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You really appear to me to be the most busy person in the world.’

‘Pray come, Captain Armine,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Thank you; it is really not in my power.’ His hat was in his hand; he was begging her Grace to bear his compliments to the duke, when Henrietta rose from her seat, and, coming up to him, said, ‘Do, Captain Armine, come with us; I ask you as a favour.’

That voice! Oh! it came o’er his ear ‘like the sweet south;’ it unmanned him quite. He scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from head to foot. His colour deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the floor; and yet she stood before him, awaiting his reply, calm, quite calm, serious, apparently a little anxious. The duchess was in earnest conversation with his mother. Lord Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and was engaged in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henrietta were quite unobserved. He looked up; he caught her eye; and then he whispered, ‘This is hardly fair.’

She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it on the table; then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a tone which seemed to admit no doubt, ‘Captain Armine will ride with us;’ and she seated herself by Lady Armine.

The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having to send for his horse; the others had, in the meantime, arrived. Yet this half-hour, by some contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Montfort continued talking to Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady Armine. Ferdinand revolved a great question in, his mind, and it was this: Was Lord Montfort aware of the intimate acquaintance between himself and Miss Temple? And what was the moving principle of her present conduct? He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied him. His curiosity was excited, and, instead of regretting his extracted promise to join the cavalcade, he rejoiced that an opportunity was thus afforded him of perhaps solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to feel extremely interested.

And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really mounted, and riding by the side of Henrietta Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was very impartial in his attentions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand continually found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to think the world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether he was or was not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his companion too was so complete: Henrietta Temple in her riding-habit was the very image most keenly impressed upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her with a face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, speak much; the conversation was always general, and chiefly maintained by Lord Montfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, made on this occasion successful efforts to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was remarkable; it was impossible to resist such genuine and unaffected kindness. It smote Ferdinand’s heart that he had received his lordship’s first advances so ungraciously. Compunction rendered him now doubly courteous; he was even once or twice almost gay.

The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a western breeze could render it. Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was long. It was late, much later than they expected, when they returned home by the green lanes of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when they emerged from the Edgware-road into Oxford-street.

‘Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. James’-square,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘It is ten minutes past eight. We shall just be in time, and then we can send messages to Grosvenor-square and Brook-street. What say you, Armine? You will come, of course?’

‘Thank you, if you would excuse me.’

‘No, no; why excuse you?’ said Lord Montfort: ‘I think it shabby to desert us now, after all our adventures.’

‘Really you are very kind, but I never dine out.’

‘Dine out! What a phrase! You will not meet a human being; perhaps not even my father. If you will not come, it will spoil everything.’

‘I cannot dine in a frock,’ said Ferdinand.

‘I shall,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and these ladies must dine in their habits, I suspect.’

‘Oh! certainly, certainly,’ said the ladies.

‘Do come, Ferdinand,’ said Katherine.

‘I ask you as a favour,’ said Henrietta, turning to him and speaking in a low voice.

‘Well,’ said Ferdinand, with a sigh.

‘That is well,’ said Montfort; ‘now let us trot through the Park, and the groom can call in Grosvenor-square and Brook-street, and gallop after us. This is amusing, is it not?’