Henrietta Temple, Benjamin Disraeli [free ereaders .TXT] 📗

somewhat annoying remarks of her noble patroness.

'But as for Bonmot,' continued Lady Bellair, 'I will have nothing to do with him. General Faneville, he is a dear good man, and gives me dinners. I love dinners: I never dine at home, except when I have company. General Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets me always choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, "Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day, and name your party." I said directly, "General, anybody but Bonmot." You know Bonmot is his particular friend.'

'But surely that is cruel,' said Henrietta Temple, smiling.

'I am cruel,' said Lady Bellair, 'when I hate a person I am very cruel, and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and called me "cruel fair;" but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox; and I love you, and I love your father. The first party your father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you think of that? And I love my grandchildren; I call them all my grand-children. I think great-grandchildren sounds silly; I am so happy that they have married so well. My dear Selina is a countess; you shall be a countess, too,' added Lady Bellair, laughing. 'I must see you a countess before I die. Mrs. Grenville is not a countess, and is rather poor; but they will be rich some day; and Grenville is a good name: it sounds well. That is a great thing. I hate a name that does not sound well.'


CHAPTER VI.


_Containing a Conversation Not Quite so Amusing as the
Last_.


IN THE evening Henrietta amused her guests with music. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enthusiastically fond of music, and very proud of her intimate friendship with Pasta. 'Oh! you know her, do you?' 'Very well; you shall bring her to my house. She shall sing at all my parties; I love music at my evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will not come in the evening, I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like singers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fashionable, and young men like her; and what I want at my dinners are young men, young men of very great fashion. I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some; Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is very fine, you know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but he always comes to me.' Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and seated herself by Mr. Temple. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious to obtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bellair had assured her was of the first _ton_. Her ladyship herself beckoned Henrietta Temple to join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very affectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended to bring-about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear grandson, Lord Bellair, was married; for he, after all, was the only person worthy of her. 'He would taste you, my dear; he would understand you. Dear Bellair! he is so very handsome, and so very witty. Why did he go and marry? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her? Oh! she is charming: so very pretty, so very witty, and such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why were you not in England? If you had only come to England a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How provoking!'

'But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very happy. What more can you wish?'

'Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get him, my child. There is nobody so difficult as Lord Fitzwarrene. That is quite right. Men should always be difficult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with you when you want them.'

'What a charming place is Ducie!' sighed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. 'The country is so delightful.'

'But you would not like to live in the country only,' said Mr. Temple.

'Ah! you do not know me!' sighed the sentimental Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'If you only knew how I love flowers! I wish you could but see my conservatory in Park-lane!'

'And how did you find Bath this year, Lady Bellair?' enquired Miss Temple.

'Oh! my dear, I met a charming man there, I forget his name, but the most distinguished person I ever met; so very handsome, so very witty, and with blood in his veins, only I forget his name, and it is a very good name, too. My dear,' addressing herself to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, 'tell me the name of my favourite.'

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled: 'My great favourite!' exclaimed the irritated Lady Bellair, rapping her fan against the sofa. 'Oh! why do you not remember names! I love people who remember names. My favourite, my Bath favourite. What is his name? He is to dine with me in town. What is the name of my Bath favourite who is certainly to dine with me in town?'

'Do you mean Captain Armine?' enquired Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. Miss Temple turned pale. 'That is the man,' said Lady Bellair. 'Oh! such a charming man. You shall marry him, my dear; you shall not marry Lord Fitzwarrene.'

'But you forget he is going to be married,' said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.

Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. She held down her head. She felt the fever in her cheek. 'Is our engagement, then, so notorious?' she thought to herself.

'Ah! yes, I forgot he was going to be married,' said Lady Bellair. 'Well, then, it must be Lord Fitzwarrene. Besides, Captain Armine is not rich, but he has got a very fine place though, and I will go and stop there some day. And, besides, he is over head-and-ears in debt, so they say. However, he is going to marry a very rich woman, and so all will be right. I like old families in decay to get round again.'

Henrietta dreaded that her father should observe her confusion; she had recourse to every art to prevent it. 'Dear Ferdinand,' she thought to herself, 'thy very rich wife will bring thee, I fear, but a poor dower. Ah! would he were here!'

'Whom is Captain Armine going to marry?' enquired Mr. Temple.

'Oh! a very proper person,' said Lady Bellair. 'I forget her name. Miss Twoshoes, or something. What is her name, my dear?'

'You mean Miss Grandison, madam?' responded Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.

'To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. The only one left of the Grandisons. I knew her grandfather. He was my son's schoolfellow.'

'Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours,' said Mr. Temple.

'Oh! you know him,' said Lady Bellair. 'Is not he charming?'

'Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Grandison?' enquired Mr. Temple.

'Oh! there is no doubt in the world,' said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'Everything is quite settled. My most particular friend, Lady Julia Harteville, is to be one of the bridesmaids. I have seen all the presents. Both the families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the happy pair together every day. They are related, you know. It is an excellent match, for the Armines have great estates, mortgaged to the very last acre. I have heard that Sir Ratcliffe Armine has not a thousand a year he can call his own. We are all so pleased,' added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite one of the family. 'Is it not delightful?'

'They are to be married next month,' said Lady Bellair. 'I did not quite make the match, but I did something. I love the Grandisons, because Lord Grandison was my son's friend fifty years ago.'

'I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Armine is,' continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'The truth is, Captain Armine has been wild, very wild indeed; a little of a _roue_; but then such a fine young man, so very handsome, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could you expect? But he has sown his wild oats now. They have been engaged these six months; ever since he came from abroad. He has been at Bath all the time, except for a fortnight or so, when he went to his Place to make the necessary preparations. We all so missed him. Captain Armine was quite the life of Bath I am almost ashamed to repeat what was said of him,' added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, blushing through her rouge; 'but they said every woman was in love with him.'

'Fortunate man!' said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a grave expression.

'And he says, he is only going to marry because he is wearied of conquests,' continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; 'how impertinent, is it not? But Captain Armine says such things! He is quite a privileged person at Bath!'

Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of general retirement had arrived, she had not returned. Her maid brought a message that her mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses for not again descending.


CHAPTER VII.


_In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter's
Chamber_.


HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gained her own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealed sufficient.

She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapable of thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked when, on turning round, she beheld her mistress.

This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity of some exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewed interruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with an effort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to her father which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she wished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form and shape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she might remain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy for her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lost its tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet, as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come her heart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless; there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an end of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rare accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! And he had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be, could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, had adored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of his enraptured eyes, and pledged