IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June? Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine horses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of such agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bowery glades of Kensington.

It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among the glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steed beneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listless cavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning he had won his pigeon match.

‘Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington,’ said the Count. ‘I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?’

‘I do, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘He has gone to Richmond with Blandford and the two little Furzlers.’

‘That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed.’

‘Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?’ said Mr. de Stockville.

‘Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene.’

‘I say, Mirabel,’ drawled out a young man, ‘I saw you yesterday driving a man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?’

‘No one you know, or will know. ‘Tis the best fellow that ever lived; but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he is introduced.’

‘Lord! I wonder who he can be!’ said the young man.

‘I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don’t take care, I can tell you that.’

‘Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will take them.’

‘No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time–’

‘You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for certainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it.’

‘Well, I must say, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘I think the same about Goshawk.’

‘Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and take all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! mon cher Catch?’

‘But do you really think Goshawk will win?’ asked Lord Cathimwhocan, earnestly.

‘Certain!’

‘Well, damned if I don’t go and take the odds,’ said his lordship.

‘Mirabel,’ said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, and speaking in a low voice, ‘shall you be at home to-morrow morning?’

‘Certainly. But what do you want?’

‘I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you to advise me.’

‘The Count moved aside with this cavalier. ‘And what is it?’ said he. ‘Have you been losing?’

‘No, no,’ said the young man, shaking his head. ‘Much worse. It is the most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall cut my throat.’

‘BÃªtise! It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.’

‘Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.’

‘Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,’ said the Count, in a kind voice. ‘I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it until to-morrow at one o’clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am at your service at present.’

‘No, no, not here: there are letters.’

‘Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any nonsense.’

At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and bowed to the Count Mirabel.

‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘who is that girl? I want to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine creature!’

‘Do not you know Miss Temple?’ said the Count. ‘Fancy a man not knowing Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.’

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode away, and was soon by the very lady’s side.

‘What a charming voyage yesterday,’ said the Count to Miss Temple. ‘You were amused?’

‘Very.’

‘And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.’

‘You know him intimately?’ said Miss Temple.

‘He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! chÃ¨re Miss Temple, there is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so spirituel.’

‘You have known him long, Count?’

‘Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will not live.’

‘Indeed!’

‘No, I am never wrong. That cher Armine will not live.’

‘You are his friend, surely–’

‘Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I contrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance; but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When you first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?’

‘He was indeed very different,’ said Miss Temple, turning away her face.

‘You have known that dear Armine a long time?’

‘It seems a long time,’ said Miss Temple.

‘If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very good spirits again,’ said the Count. ‘It is the only thing that would quite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our cher Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?’

‘I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him.’

‘He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him very well?’

‘They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed their acquaintance only recently.’

‘We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must assist in our endeavours to bring him out a little.’

‘Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested in Captain Armine’s welfare.’

‘I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,’ said Count Mirabel. ‘After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate sympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the cher Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother.’

‘He is fortunate in such a friend.’

‘Ah! he does not think so any longer,’ said the Count; ‘he avoids me, he will not tell me anything. ChÃ¨re Miss Temple, this business haunts me; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows him like me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings. Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of committing suicide.’

‘God forbid!’ said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis.

‘I rise every morning with apprehension,’ said the Count. ‘When I call upon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel.’

‘Are you indeed serious?’

‘Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc de Crillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were at college together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like this dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine yesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married; but there was a contretemps. He sent for me; I was in Spain; she married the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself.’

‘No, no!’ exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation.

‘Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because I feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is not so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What are his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business. I am going to him. How I tremble!’ ‘How good you are!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, with streaming eyes. ‘I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we all must. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy.’

‘It is the song I ever sing,’ said the Count. ‘I wish some of you would come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.’

‘He will not care for it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it.’ Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off with his prize.

It was about eight o’clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine in Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel’s fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count, full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him.

‘Cher ami! I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you should be happy.’

‘Nonsense, my dear Count’

‘It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last night; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. If we go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall in love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrow morning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boy coming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, cher, cher Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower; and rest assured that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort in a very fine ditch.’

CHAPTER XVI

In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping.

THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means or other he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduous court to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression from the first; in St. James’-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to the society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with Count Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her his confidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. He established his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received him accordingly as one of their son’s oldest and most cherished friends. But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even in business never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, became great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended and appreciated that good man’s character.

All Count Mirabel’s efforts were directed to restore the influence of Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted no opportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady’s susceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, his sacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end which the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her in a light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. She could not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All her feelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her old plan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret it? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet it seemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another’s. But, then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was he indeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did she ever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved to be firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty even if she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live, and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! And those long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all his truth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. She was not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet she was the person who alone punished him. How different was the generous conduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him, she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unite him to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, how selfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now that she had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believe that she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! could he believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown fortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What a return had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death–. The picture was too terrible, too harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was seated, and wept bitterly.

She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was her father.

‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are agitated.’

‘Yes; yes, I am agitated,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘You are unwell.’

‘Worse than unwell.’

‘Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.’

‘Grief for which there is no cure.’

‘Indeed! I am greatly astonished.’

His daughter only sighed.

‘Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.’

‘I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say.’

‘To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘if only for my sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion.’

‘It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you have seen.’

‘A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta, speak.’

‘Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.’

‘Is it so bitter?’

‘Ah! that I should live!’ said Miss Temple.

‘Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all. Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive such strong feelings. Has—has– I know not what to say, but so much happens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seen one who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown in unexpected contact with him; he has not—he has not dared–’

‘Say nothing harshly of him,’ said Miss Temple wildly; ‘I will not bear it, even from you.’

‘My daughter!’

‘Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? Have I urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. My conduct is yours, but my feelings are my own.’

‘Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of your happiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strange return.’

‘Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But let this subject drop for ever.’

‘It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?’ continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry.

‘What if he did? He has a right to do so.’

‘As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful.’

‘O Ferdinand!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes to heaven, ‘and you must endure even this!’

‘Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as he seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever engrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessary how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first calculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, and betray your heart.’

‘’Tis false,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; ‘he is as true and pure as I am; more, much more,’ she added, in a voice of anguish.

‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing sneer. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of Lord Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world; the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which, even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughter of mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I know well I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart, and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that ever descended on a daughter’s head.’

‘My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself at his feet. ‘Oh! do not say so; oh! recall those words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God’s sake, pity me.’

‘I would do more than pity you; I would save you.’

‘It is not as you think,’ she continued, with streaming eyes: ‘indeed it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My friends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us. He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from his home, that we might not meet.’

‘You must marry Lord Montfort at once.’

‘Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not of such terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me; say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can I recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows all; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle. Oh! my father!’

‘My Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple, moved; ‘my child!’

‘Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you have spoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done him great injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, you would not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Once you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you meet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you would pity him.’