CHAPTER XXIII
Ferdinand Receives the Most Interesting Invitation to Dinner Ever Offered to Him.
IS NOT it wonderful?’ said Ferdinand, when he had finished his history to Count Mirabel.
‘Not the least,’ said the Count, ‘I never knew anything less surprising. ‘Tis exactly what I said, ‘tis the most natural termination in the world.’
‘Ah, my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet! What a lucky fellow I am to have such a friend as you!’
‘To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What are you going to do with yourself?’
‘I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not like to go anywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I think I shall go to my hotel’ ‘I will drive you. It is now three o’clock.’ But just at this moment, Mr. Bevil called on the Count, and another hour disappeared. When they were fairly in the cabriolet, there were so many places to call at, and so many persons to see, that it was nearly six o’clock when they reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if there were any letter from Lord Montfort. He found his lordship’s card, and also Mr. Temple’s; they had called about half an hour ago; there was also a note. These were its contents:—
‘Grosvenor-square, Thursday.
‘My Dear Captain Armine,
‘I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall hardly be so fortunate as to find you at home. It is only very recently that I have learnt from Henrietta that you were in London, and I much regret to hear that you have been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met that I hope you will dine with us to-day; and indeed I am so anxious to see you, that I trust, if you have unfortunately made any other engagement, you may yet contrive to gratify my request. It is merely a family party; you will only meet our friends from St. James’-square, and your own circle in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, save old Lady Bellair, and your friend Count Mirabel; and Henrietta is so anxious to secure his presence, that I shall be greatly obliged by your exerting your influence to induce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hope of finding him free.
‘Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards; and I beg you to believe me,
‘My dear Captain Armine,
‘Most cordially yours,
‘Pelham Temple.’
‘Well, what is the matter?’ said the Count, when Ferdinand returned to the cabriolet, with the note in his hand, and looking very agitated.
‘The strangest note!’ said Ferdinand.
‘Give it me,’ said the Count. ‘Do you call that strange? Tis the most regular epistle I ever read; I expected it. ‘Tis an excellent fellow, that Mr. Temple; I will certainly dine with him, and send an excuse to that old Castlefyshe. A family party, all right; and he asks me, that is proper. I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, or your executor, or your first child’s godfather. Ah, that good Temple is a sensible man. I told you I would settle this business for you. You should hear me talk to that good Temple. I open his mind. A family party; it will be amusing! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds. Besides, I must go to take care of you, for you will be committing all sorts of bêtises. I will give you one turn in the park. Jump in, mon enfant. Good Armine, excellent fellow, jump in! You see, I was right; I am always right. But I will confess to you a secret: I never was so right as I have been in the present case. ‘Tis the best business that ever was!’
CHAPTER XXIV
Some Account of the Party, and Its Result.
IN SPITE of the Count Mirabel’s inspiring companionship, it must be confessed that Ferdinand’s heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple’s house. Indeed, had it not been for the encouragement and jolly raillery of his light-hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have succeeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came over his vision as he entered the room; various forms, indeed, glanced before him, but he could distinguish none. He felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely miserable. It was Mr. Temple’s hand that he found he had hold of; the calm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman somewhat reassured him. Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and covered his confusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother; they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted them. He dared not look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bellair was talking to his father. At last he heard his name called by the Count. ‘Armine, mon cher, see this beautiful work!’ and Ferdinand advanced, or rather staggered, to a window where stood the Count before a group, and in a minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind her chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, and with so much art and tact, that in a few moments he had succeeded in producing comparative ease on all sides.
‘I am so glad that you have come to-day,’ said Henrietta. Her eyes sparkled with a strange meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew her gaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was a moment of great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it.
Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for Mirabel and Ferdinand had purposely arrived at the last moment. As the duke advanced to offer his arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as if to console him for the separation. It was a round table; the duchess and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, the duke on the right hand of Miss Temple; where there were so many members of the same family, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned to Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as he himself walked away, into the vacated seat. Henrietta caught the Count’s eye as he moved off; it was a laughing eye.
‘I am glad you sit next to me,’ said Lady Bellair to the Count, ‘because you are famous. I love famous people, and you are very famous. Why don’t you come and see me? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month; I have dinner parties every day. You shall dine with me on the 8th, for then Lady Frederick dines with me, and she will taste you. You shall sit next to Lady Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a minuet with him at Versailles seventy years ago.’
‘It is well recollected in the family,’ said the Count.
‘Ah! you rogue!’ said the little lady, chuckling, ‘you lie! I like a lie sometimes,’ she resumed, ‘but then it must be a good one. Do you know, I only say it to you, but I am half afraid lies are more amusing than truth.’
‘Naturally,’ said the Count, ‘because truth must in general be commonplace, or it would not be true.’
In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta Temple. He might be excused for feeling a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful events of the last four-and-twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of a complete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that he nearly carved his soup, ate his fish with a spoon; and drank water instead of wine! In fact, he was labouring under a degree of nervous excitement which rendered it quite impossible for him to observe the proprieties of life. The presence of all these persons was insupportable to him. Five minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and he would have felt quite reassured. Miss Temple avoided his glance! She was, in truth, as agitated as himself, and talked almost entirely to the duke; yet sometimes she tried to address him, and say kind things. She called him Ferdinand; that was quite sufficient to make him happy, although he felt very awkward. He had been seated some minutes before he observed that Glastonbury was next to him.
‘I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that I do not think I shall be able to remain in the room.’
‘I have heard something,’ said Glastonbury, with a smile, ‘that makes me quite bold.’
‘I cannot help fancying that it is all enchantment,’ said Ferdinand.
‘There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are enchanted,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Ferdinand,’ said Miss Temple in a low voice, ‘papa is taking wine with you.’ Ferdinand looked up and caught Mr. Temple’s kind salute.
‘That was a fine horse you were riding to-day,’ said Count Mirabel, across the table to Miss Grandison.
‘Is it not pretty? It is Lord Montfort’s.’
‘Lord Montfort’s!’ thought Ferdinand. ‘How strange all this seems!’
‘You were not of the riding party this morning,’ said his Grace to Henrietta.
‘I have not been very well this day or two,’ said Miss Temple.
‘Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day,’ replied the duke. ‘What say you, Captain Armine?’
Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, and muttered some contradictory compliments.
‘Oh! I am very well now,’ said Miss Temple.
‘You must come and dine with me,’ said Lady Bellair to Count Mirabel, ‘because you talk well across a table. I want a man who talks well across a table. So few can do it without bellowing. I think you do it very well.’
‘Naturally,’ replied the Count. ‘If I did not do it well, I should not do it at all.’
‘Ah! you are audacious,’ said the old lady. ‘I like a little impudence. It is better to be impudent than to be servile.’
‘Mankind are generally both,’ said the Count.
‘I think they are,’ said the old lady. ‘Pray, is the old Duke of Thingabob alive? You know whom I mean: he was an émigré, and a relation of yours.’
‘De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too.’
‘He was a great talker,’ said Lady Bellair, ‘but then, he was the tyrant of conversation. Now, men were made to listen as well as to talk.’
‘Without doubt,’ said the Count; ‘for Nature has given us two ears, but only one mouth.’
‘You said that we might all be very happy,’ whispered Lord Montfort to Miss Grandison. ‘What think you; have we succeeded?’
‘I think we all look very confused,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘What a fortunate, idea it was inviting Lady Bellair and the Count. They never could look confused.’
‘Watch Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort.
‘It is not fair. How silent Ferdinand is!’
‘Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Christopher Sly or not,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘What a fine embarrassment you have contrived, Miss Grandison!’
‘Nay, Digby, you were the author of it. I cannot help thinking of your interview with Mr. Temple. You were prompt!’
‘Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘but in the present instance I shrank from suspense, more, however, for others than myself. It certainly was a singular interview.’
‘And were you not nervous?’
‘Why, no; I felt convinced that the interview could have only one result. I thought of your memorable words; I felt I was doing what you wished, and that I was making all of us happy. However, all honour be to Mr. Temple! He has proved himself a man of sense.’
As the dinner proceeded, there was an attempt on all sides to be gay. Count Mirabel talked a great deal, and Lady Bellair laughed at what he said, and maintained her reputation for repartee. Her ladyship had been for a long time anxious to seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it was evident that he was quite ‘a favourite.’ Even Ferdinand grew a little more at his ease. He ventured to relieve the duke from some of his labours, and carve for Miss Temple.
‘What do you think of our family party?’ said Henrietta to Ferdinand, in a low voice.
‘I can think only of one thing,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I am so nervous,’ she continued, ‘that it seems to me I shall every minute shriek, and leave the room.’
‘I feel the same; I am stupefied.’
‘Talk to Mr. Glastonbury; drink wine, and talk. Look, look at your mother; she is watching us. She is dying to speak to you, and so is some one else.’
At length the ladies withdrew. Ferdinand attended them to the door of the dining-room. Lady Bellair shook her fan at him, but said nothing. He pressed his mother’s hand. ‘Good-bye, cousin Ferdinand,’ said Miss Grandison in a laughing tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she passed by. It was a speaking glance, and touched his heart. The gentlemen remained behind much longer than was the custom in Mr. Temple’s house. Everybody seemed resolved to drink a great deal of wine, and Mr. Temple always addressed himself to Ferdinand, if anything were required, in a manner which seemed to recognise, his responsible position in the family.
Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the drawing-room, he could not venture on the step. He longed to speak to Glastonbury on the subject which engrossed his thoughts, but he had not courage. Never did a man, who really believed himself the happiest and most fortunate person in the world, ever feel more awkward and more embarrassed. Was his father aware of what had occurred? He could not decide. Apparently, Henrietta imagined that his mother did, by the observation which she had made at dinner. Then his father must be conscious of everything. Katherine must have told all. Were Lord Montfort’s family in the secret? But what use were these perplexing enquiries? It was certain that Henrietta was to be his bride, and that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliance. There could be no doubt of that, or why was he there?
At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand once more beheld Henrietta Temple. As he entered, she was crossing the room with some music in her hand, she was a moment alone. He stopped, he would have spoken, but his lips would not move.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘are you happy?’
‘My head wanders. Assure me that it is all true,’ he murmured in an agitated voice.
‘It is all true; there, go and speak to Lady Armine. I am as nervous as you are.’
Ferdinand seated himself by his mother.
‘Well, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘I have heard wonderful things.’
‘And I hope they have made you happy, mother?’
‘I should, indeed, be both unreasonable and ungrateful if they did not; but I confess to you, my dear child, I am even as much astonished as gratified.’
‘And my father, he knows everything?’
‘Everything. But we have heard it only from Lord Montfort and Katherine. We have had no communication with anyone else. And we meet here to-day in this extraordinary manner, and but for them we should be completely in the dark.’
‘And the duchess; do they know all?’
‘I conclude so.’
‘’Tis very strange, is it not?’
‘I am quite bewildered.’
‘O mother! is she not beautiful? Do you not love her? Shall we not all be the happiest family in the world?’
‘I think we ought to be, dear Ferdinand. But I have not recovered from my astonishment. Ah, my child, why did you not tell me when you were ill?’
‘Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken the course they have done? But you must blame Kate as well as me; dear Kate!’
‘I think of her,’ said Lady Armine; ‘I hope Kate will be happy.’
‘She must be, dear mother; only think what an excellent person is Lord Montfort.’
‘He is indeed an excellent person,’ said Lady Armine; ‘but if I had been engaged to you, Ferdinand, and it ended by my marrying Lord Montfort, I should be very disappointed.’
‘The duchess would be of a different opinion,’ said Ferdinand.
Lady Bellair, who was sitting on a sofa opposite, and had hitherto been conversing with the duchess, who had now quitted her and joined the musicians, began shaking her fan at Ferdinand in a manner which signified her extreme desire that he should approach her.
‘Well, Lady Bellair,’ said Ferdinand, seating himself by her side.
‘I am in the secret, you know,’ said her ladyship.
‘What secret, Lady Bellair?’
‘Ah! you will not commit yourself. Well, I like discretion. I have always seen it from the first. No one has worked for you as I have. I like true love, and I have left her all my china in my will.’
‘I am sure the legatee is very fortunate, whoever she may be.’
‘Ah, you rogue, you know very well whom I mean. You are saucy; you never had a warmer friend than myself. I always admired you; you have a great many good qualities and a great many bad ones. You always were a little saucy. But I like a little spice of sauciness; I think it takes. I hear you are great friends with Count Thingabob; the Count, whose grandfather I danced with seventy years ago. That is right; always have distinguished friends. Never have fools for friends; they are no use. I suppose he is in the secret too.’
‘Really, Lady Bellair, I am in no secret. You quite excite my curiosity.’
‘Well, I can’t get anything out of you, I see that. However, it all happened at my house, that can’t be denied. I tell you what I will do; I will give you all a dinner, and then the world will be quite certain that I made the match.’
Lady Armine joined them, and Ferdinand seized the opportunity of effecting his escape to the piano.
‘I suppose Henrietta has found her voice again, now,’ whispered Katherine to her cousin.
‘Dear Katherine, really if you are so malicious, I shall punish you,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Well, the comedy is nearly concluded. We shall join hands, and the curtain will drop.’
‘And I hope, in your opinion, not an unsuccessful performance.’
‘Why, I certainly cannot quarrel with the catastrophe,’ said Miss Grandison.
In the meantime, the Count Mirabel had obtained possession of Mr. Temple, and lost no opportunity of confirming every favourable view which that gentleman had been influenced by Lord Montfort to take of Ferdinand and his conduct. Mr. Temple was quite convinced that his daughter must be very happy, and that the alliance, on the whole, would be productive of every satisfaction that he had ever anticipated.
The evening drew on; carriages were announced; guests retired; Ferdinand lingered; Mr. Temple was ushering Lady Bellair, the last guest, to her carriage; Ferdinand and Henrietta were alone. They looked at each other, their eyes met at the same moment, there was but one mode of satisfactorily terminating their mutual embarrassments: they sprang into each other’s arms. Ah, that was a moment of rapture, sweet, thrilling, rapid! There was no need of words, their souls vaulted over all petty explanations; upon her lips, her choice and trembling lips, he sealed his gratitude and his devotion.
The sound of footsteps was heard, the agitated Henrietta made her escape by an opposite entrance. Mr. Temple returned, he met Captain Armine with his hat, and enquired whether Henrietta had retired; and when Ferdinand answered in the affirmative, wished him good-night, and begged him to breakfast with them to-morrow.
CHAPTER XXV
Which, Though Final, It Is Hoped Will Prove Satisfactory.
OUR kind reader will easily comprehend that from the happy day we have just noticed, Ferdinand Armine was seldom absent from Grosvenor-square, or from the society of Henrietta Temple. Both were so happy that they soon overcame any little embarrassment which their novel situation might first occasion them. In this effort, however, they were greatly encouraged by the calm demeanour of Lord Montfort and the complacent carriage of his intended bride. The world wondered and whispered, marvelled and hinted, but nothing disturbed Lord Montfort, and Katherine had the skill to silence raillery. Although it was settled that the respective marriages should take place as soon as possible, the settlements necessarily occasioned delay. By the application of his funded property, and by a charge upon his Yorkshire estates, Mr. Temple paid off the mortgages on Armine, which, with a certain life-charge in his own favour, was settled in strict entail upon the issue of his daughter. A certain portion of the income was to be set aside annually to complete the castle, and until that edifice was ready to receive them, Ferdinand and Henrietta were to live with Mr. Temple, principally at Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased.
In spite, however, of the lawyers, the eventful day at length arrived. Both happy couples were married at the same time and in the same place, and Glastonbury performed the ceremony. Lord and Lady Montfort departed for a seat in Sussex, belonging to his father; Ferdinand and Henrietta repaired to Armine; while Sir Ratcliffe and his lady paid a visit to Mr. Temple in Yorkshire, and Glastonbury found himself once more in his old quarters in Lancashire with the duke and duchess.
Once more at Armine; wandering once more together in the old pleasaunce; it was so strange and sweet, that both Ferdinand and Henrietta almost began to believe that it was well that the course of their true love had for a moment not run so smoothly as at present, and they felt that their adversity had rendered them even more sensible of their illimitable bliss. And the woods of Ducie, they were not forgotten; nor, least of all, the old farmhouse that had been his shelter. Certainly they were the happiest people that ever lived, and though some years have now passed since these events took place, custom has not sullied the brightness of their love. They have no cares now, and yet both have known enough of sorrow to make them rightly appreciate their unbroken and unbounded blessings.
When the honeymoon was fairly over, for neither of them would bate a jot of this good old-fashioned privilege, Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine returned to the Place, and Glastonbury to his tower; while Mr. Temple joined them at Ducie, accompanied by Lord and Lady Montfort. The autumn also brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter the pheasants, gay, brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. He has ever remained one of Ferdinand’s most cherished friends; indeed, I hardly think that there is any individual to whom Ferdinand is more attached. And after all, as the Count often observes, if it had not been for Ferdinand’s scrapes they would not have known each other. Nor was Lord Catchimwhocan passed over. Ferdinand Armine was not the man to neglect a friend or to forget a good service; and he has conferred on that good-natured, though somewhat improvident, young nobleman, more substantial kindness than the hospitality which is always cheerfully extended to him. When Ferdinand repaid Mr. Bond Sharpe his fifteen hundred pounds, he took care that the interest should appear in the shape of a golden vase, which is now not the least gorgeous ornament of that worthy’s splendid sideboard. The deer have appeared again too in the park of Armine, and many a haunch smokes on the epicurean table of Cleveland-row.
Lady Bellair is as lively as ever, and bids fair to amuse society as long as the famous Countess of Desmond,
Who lived to the age of a hundred and ten,
And died by a fall from a cherry tree then;
What a frisky old girl!
In her annual progresses through the kingdom she never omits laying under contribution every establishment of the three families, in whose fortunes she was so unexpectedly mixed up. As her ladyship persists in asserting, and perhaps now really believes, that both matches were the result of her matrimonial craft, it would be the height of ingratitude if she ever could complain of the want of a hearty welcome.
In the daily increasing happiness of his beloved daughter, Mr. Temple has quite forgotten any little disappointment which he might once have felt at not having a duke for a son-in-law, and such a duke as his valued friend, Lord Montfort. But Ferdinand Armine is blessed with so sweet a temper that it is impossible to live with him and not love him; and the most cordial intimacy and confidence subsist between the father of Henrietta Temple and his son-in-law. From the aspect of public affairs also, Mr. Temple, though he keeps this thought to himself, is inclined to believe that a coronet may yet grace the brow of his daughter, and that the barony of Armine may be revived. Soon after the passing of the memorable Act of 1828, Lord Montfort became the representative of his native county, and an active and influential member of the House of Commons. After the reform, Mr. Armine was also returned for a borough situate near the duke’s principal seat, and although Lord Montfort and Mr. Armine both adhere to the Whig politics of their families, they have both also, in the most marked manner, abstained from voting on the appropriation clause; and there is little doubt that they will ultimately support that British and national administration which Providence has doubtless in store for these outraged and distracted realms. At least this is Mr. Temple’s more than hope, who is also in the House, and acts entirely with Lord Stanley. The Montforts and the younger Armines contrive, through mutual visits and a town residence during the Session, to pass the greater part of their lives together; they both honestly confess that they are a little in love with each other’s wives, but this only makes their society more agreeable. The family circle at Armine has been considerably increased of late; there is a handsome young Armine who has been christened Glastonbury, a circumstance which repays the tenant of the tower for all his devotion, and this blending of his name and memory with the illustrious race that has so long occupied his thoughts and hopes, is to him a source of constant self-congratulation. The future Sir Glastonbury has also two younger brothers quite worthy of the blood, Temple and Digby; and the most charming sister in the world, with large violet eyes and long dark lashes, who is still in arms, and who bears the hallowed name of Henrietta. And thus ends our LOVE STORY.