Miss Grandison Piques the Curiosity of Lord Montfort, and Count Mirabel Drives Ferdinand Down to Richmond, Which Drive Ends in an Agreeable Adventure and an Unexpected Confidence.

THE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the secret object of Ferdinand’s unhappy passion, was a secret which Miss Grandison prized like a true woman. Not only had she made this discovery, but from her previous knowledge and her observation during her late interview with Miss Temple, Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her cousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Henrietta; she was interested in her cousin’s welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. All her thoughts and all her energies were engaged in counteracting, if possible, the consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which had placed them all in this painful position.

It was on the next day that she had promised to accompany the duchess and Henrietta on a water excursion. Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. In the morning she found herself alone with his lordship in St. James’-square.

‘What a charming day!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I anticipate so much pleasure! Who is our party?’

‘Ourselves alone,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Lady Armine cannot come, and Captain Armine is engaged. I fear you will find it very dull, Miss Grandison.’

‘Oh! not at all. By-the-bye, do you know I was surprised yesterday at finding that Ferdinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances.’

‘Were you?’ said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone.

‘It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. I think it is very bad taste.’

‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘I should have thought that Henrietta was the very person he would have admired; that he would have been quite glad to be with us. I can easily understand his being wearied to death with a cousin,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘but Henrietta,—it is so strange that he should not avail himself of the delight of being with her.’

‘Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandison can drive him away?’

‘Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Ferdinand is placed in a very awkward position with me. You are our friend, and so I speak to you in confidence. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine both expect that Ferdinand and myself are going to be married. Now, neither of us has the slightest intention of anything of the sort.’

‘Very strange, indeed,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘The world will be much astonished, more so than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion on the subject.’

‘Yes, I was aware of that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘or I should not have spoken with so much frankness. For my own part, I think we are very wise to insist upon having our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must be a most melancholy business.’ Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost of levity, which was rather unusual with her.

‘An ill-assorted marriage,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘And what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison?’

‘Why, many circumstances might constitute such an union,’ said Katherine; ‘but I think if one of the parties were in love with another person, that would be quite sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion of wretchedness.’

‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘an union, under such circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Grandison is not in that situation?’ he added with a faint smile.

‘That is scarcely a fair question,’ said Katherine, with gaiety, ‘but there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yes; he is in love, desperately in love; that I have long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be!’

‘I wonder!’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Do you?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Well, I have sometimes thought that you might have a latent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you were his confidant.’

‘I!’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I, of all men in the world?’

‘And why not you of all men in the world?’ said Miss Grandison.

‘Our intimacy is so slight,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘Hum!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And now I think of it, it does appear to me very strange how we have all become suddenly such intimate friends. The Armines and your family not previously acquainted: Miss Temple, too, unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each other’s sight. I am sure I am grateful for it; I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it does appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what the reason can be?’

‘It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘A compliment from you!’

‘Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort, drawing near her. ‘Favoured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of so admirable a friend.’

‘Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord?’

‘All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her,’ said Lord Montfort, seriously.

‘Indeed, I think so,’ said Katherine, in a more subdued voice. ‘I love her; her career fills me with a strange and singular interest. May she be happy, for happiness she indeed deserves!’

‘I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘by any means,’ he added.

‘She is so interesting!’ said Katherine. ‘When you first knew her she was very ill?’

‘Very.’

‘She seems quite recovered.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder what was the matter with her?’

Lord Montfort was silent.

‘I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken,’ continued Miss Grandison. ‘There was Ferdinand. Oh! if you had but known my cousin before he was unhappy. Oh! that was a spirit! He was the most brilliant being that ever lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It was so terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each other. It is very strange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta was ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacing her. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny in our lots, does there not?’

‘A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort.

At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready; and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where a beautiful boat awaited them.

In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrences of yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In the first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressing difficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, he had made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed Count Mirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his friends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, the Count Mirabel was announced.

Mon cher Armine,’ said the Count, ‘you see I kept my promise, and would find you at home.’

The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with bonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bed which always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knew nothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.

Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something in Count Mirabel’s very presence which put everybody in good spirits. His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in amusing conversation.

‘You were a stranger among us yesterday,’ said Count Mirabel; ‘I think you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?’

Ferdinand smiled.

‘It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?’

‘’Tis a fine question,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and yet I confess I should like to be callous.’

‘Ah! but you cannot be,’ said the Count, ‘you have a soul of great sensibility; I see that in a moment.’

‘You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,’ said Ferdinand, with a little reserve.

‘Yes; in a minute,’ said the Count, ‘in a minute I read a person’s character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.’

Ferdinand changed countenance again. ‘You are a very extraordinary man, Count,’ he at length observed.

‘Of course; but, mon cher Armine, what a fine day this is! What are you going to do with yourself?’

‘Nothing; I never do anything,’ said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful tone.

‘A melancholy man! Quelle bÃªtise! I will cure you. I will be your friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny VertprÃ©. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave!’ Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.

Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The effervescence produced by yesterday’s fortunate adventure had not quite subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively chorus of Vive la bagatelle! So, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object he passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up with the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking over the valley.

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealed themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a bÃªtise. This word bÃªtise settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declared that anything was a bÃªtise, he would hear no more.

It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he knew him—though none could after—and who was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous rencontre that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. The Count was at her Grace’s side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple’s arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned to dinner.

‘We have only availed ourselves of your Grace’s permission to join our dinners,’ said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord Montfort.

The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who was silent.

‘How amusing he is!’ said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and speaking in an undertone.

‘Yes; I envy him his gaiety.’

‘Be gay.’

‘I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel’s philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.’

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand.

They returned by water. To Ferdinand’s great annoyance, the Count did not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess’s proposal that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape.

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank; but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon.

‘I wish we had brought a guitar,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us?’ ‘And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will you not?’ said the Count, smiling.

‘Henrietta, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘With you.’

‘Of course; now you must,’ said the Count: so they did.

This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present—there is something very ravishing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel.

‘And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,’ said the duchess.

‘Without a guitar?’ said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm for an accompaniment. ‘Well, when I was with the Duc d’AngoulÃªme in Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one.’

A SERENADE OF SEVILLE

I

     Come forth, come   forth, the star we love
     Is high o’er Guadalquivir’s grove,
     And tints each tree with golden light;
     Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright.

II

     Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear
     To blossom in the sun’s career
     The moonlight with their odours greet;
     Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet!

III

     Come forth, come forth, one hour of night,
     When flowers are fresh and stars are bright,
     Were worth an age of gaudy day;
     Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay!

‘I hope the lady came,’ said Miss Temple, ‘after such a pretty song.’

‘Of course,’ said the Count, ‘they always come.’

‘Ferdinand, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison.

‘I cannot, Katherine.’

‘Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘he makes it a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have more influence.’

Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. ‘Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine,’ said his lordship; and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front the habitual exactitude of his statements.

‘How very strange!’ thought Ferdinand; ‘her callousness or her candour baffles me. I will try to sing,’ he continued aloud, ‘but it is a year, really, since I have sung.’

In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression which increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to control his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:—

CAPTAIN ARMINE’S SONG

I

     My heart is like a silent lute
     Some faithless hand has thrown aside;
     Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute,
     That once sent forth a voice of pride!
     Yet even o’er the lute neglected
     The wind of heaven will sometimes fly,
     And even thus the heart dejected,
     Will sometimes answer to a sigh!

II

     And yet to feel another’s power
     May grasp the prize for which I pine,
     And others now may pluck the flower
     I cherished for this heart of mine!
     No more, no more! The hand forsaking,
     The lute must fall, and shivered lie
     In silence: and my heart thus breaking,
     Responds not even to a sigh.

Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold. Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was turned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing to notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody’s attention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunate that Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent.

The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St. James’-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone.

‘Cher Armine,’ said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross, ‘Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two young ladies is your cousin?’

‘The fair girl; Miss Grandison.’

‘So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry her, are you?’

‘No; I am not.’

‘And who is Miss Temple?’

‘She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.’

‘Diable! But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?’

‘I think of her as all, I suppose, must.’

‘She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She marries for money, I suppose?’

‘She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than my cousin.’

‘C’est drÃ´le. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.’

‘By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?’

‘Mon cher Armine, I like you more than anybody. I wish to be, I am, your friend. Here is some cursed contretemps. There is a mystery, and both of you are victims of it. Tell me everything. I will put you right.’

‘Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I could never speak on these things to human being, but I am attracted to you by the same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want a confidant, I need a friend; I am most wretched.’

‘Eh! bien! we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny VertprÃ©, we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk over everything. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are an idiot if you do not have her.’

So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house in Berkeley-square.

‘Now, mon cher,’ said the Count, ‘coffee and confidence.’