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

said Ferdinand. 'None!' said Glastonbury. 'Prepare yourself, my dear child, for the worst.'

'Is she married?' enquired Ferdinand.

'No; but she is going to be.'

'I know it,' said Ferdinand.

Glastonbury stared.

'You know it? what! to Digby?'

'Digby, or whatever his name may be; damn him!'

'Hush! hush!' said Glastonbury.

'May all the curses------'

'God forbid,' said Glastonbury, interrupting him.

'Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous------'

'She is an angel,' said Glastonbury, 'a very angel. She has fainted, and nearly in my arms.'

'Fainted! nearly in your arms! Oh, tell me all, tell me all, Glastonbury,' exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed with an eager voice and sparkling eyes. 'Does she love me?'

'I fear so,' said Glastonbury. 'Fear!'

'Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart!' said Glastonbury.

'When I told her of all your sufferings------'

'Did you tell her? What then?'

'And she herself has barely recovered from a long and terrible illness.'

'My own Henrietta! Now I could die happy,' said Ferdinand.

'I thought it would break your heart,' said Glastonbury.

'It is the only happy moment I have known for months,' said Ferdinand.

'I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mind,' said Glastonbury. 'I really never meant to tell you anything. I do not know how I came into your room.'

'Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.'

'Only think!' said Glastonbury; 'I never was so unhappy in my life.'

'I have endured for the last four hours the tortures of the damned,' said Ferdinand, 'to think that she was going to be married, to be married to another; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of the past; and that I was dying like a dog in this cursed caravanserai! O Glastonbury! nothing that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this day. And now you have come and made me comparatively happy. I shall get up directly.'

Glastonbury looked quite astonished; he could not comprehend how his fatal intelligence could have produced effects so directly contrary from those he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdinand's reiterated enquiries, he contrived to give a detailed account of everything that had occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued to be one of constant self-congratulation.

'There is, however, one misfortune,' said Ferdinand, 'with which you are unacquainted, my dear friend.'

'Indeed!' said Glastonbury, 'I thought I knew enough.'

'Alas! she has become a great heiress!'

'Is that it?' said Glastonbury.

'There is the blow,' said Ferdinand. 'Were it not for that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from the arms of this stripling.'

'Stripling!' said Glastonbury. 'I never saw a truer nobleman in my life.'

'Ah!' exclaimed Ferdinand.

'Nay, second scarcely to yourself! I could not believe my eyes,' continued Glastonbury. 'He was but a child when I saw him last; but so were you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordinary rival.'

'Good-looking?'

'Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely met a personage so highly accomplished, or who more quickly impressed you with his moral and intellectual excellence.'

'And they are positively engaged?'

'To be married next month,' replied Glastonbury.

'O Glastonbury! why do I live?' exclaimed Ferdinand; 'why did I recover?'

'My dear child, but just now you were comparatively happy.'

'Happy! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, is there in this world a thing so deplorable as I am!'

'I thought I did wrong to say anything,' said Glastonbury, speaking as it were to himself.

Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in his bed, with his face averted from Glastonbury.

'Good night,' said Glastonbury, after remaining some time in silence.

'Good night,' said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful tone.


CHAPTER V.


_Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as Remarkable a Chapter as
Any in the Work_.


WRETCHED as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected; Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about to cross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window. He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person to whom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was not a single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached the equipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerable agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was, however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair.

'You wicked man,' said her little ladyship, in a great rage. 'Oh! how I hate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I have been giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been in town, and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife? Oh! you are not married. You should marry; I hate a _ci-devant jeune homme_. However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your name, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have a great deal to say to you.' And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely necessary to comply.

'Now, where shall we go?' said her ladyship; 'I have got till two o'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, to receive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come every day if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards. I never see them; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear people who leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere? You do not! Why do not you? How is your worthy father, Sir Peter? Is his name Sir Peter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And your charming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite one of my favourites. And were not you to marry? Tell me, why have you not? Miss--Miss--you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son's friend. In town, are they? Where do they live? Brook-street! I will go and call upon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live.'

And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair's carriage stopped opposite the house of Miss Grandison.

'Are they early risers?' said her ladyship; 'I get up every morning at six. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, and then they cannot refuse.'

In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected an entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered into the morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine.

'My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are so bright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite love you, that I do. Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends. And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time? Here have I been giving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends; telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longing to see you; and you have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over; I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three evenings yet; to-night, you must come to me to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday; you must come on all three nights. Oh! why did you not call upon me? I should have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you to meet Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they would have tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dine with you some day. Now, when will you have me? Let me see, when am I. free?' So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was her inseparable companion in London. 'All this week I am ticketed; Monday, the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with Bonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday, where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, the Maxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famous house for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, for he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at one o'clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. So it cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell you to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am always at home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come every day, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny little grandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked Lady Grandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got the estate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of my greatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked her to dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where she lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.'

So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyship took Ferdinand's arm and retired.

Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour with them, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, he observed Lady Bellair's little red book, which she had left behind.

'Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?' said Miss Grandison; 'we must take it to her immediately.'

'I will leave it,' said Ferdinand, 'I shall pass her house.'

Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a long building, in the Italian style, situate in the midst of gardens, which, though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste, that it was very difficult to believe that you were in a great city. The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which Lady Bellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the ground floor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair's injunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing what to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was ushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases of brilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, and Etruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in that classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hope first rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far into the gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory of considerable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a long building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, and screened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls of this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, and prints of the country seats of Lady Bellair's friends, all of which she took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a