CHAPTER VI.

_Which Contains an Event Not Less Important Than the One

Which Concluded Our Second Book_.

LORD MONTFORT was scarcely disheartened by this interview with Miss

Temple. His lordship was a devout believer in the influence of time. It

was unnatural to suppose that one so young and so gifted as Henrietta

could ultimately maintain that her career was terminated because her

affections had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly of

so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord Montfort differed

from most men in this respect, that the consciousness of this intimacy

did not cost him even a pang. He preferred indeed to gain the heart of

a woman like Miss Temple, who, without having in the least degree

forfeited the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of

her feelings, had yet learnt in some degree to penetrate the mystery of

the passions, to one so untutored in the world’s ways, that she might

have bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, but not more

innocent. He was convinced that the affection of Henrietta, if once

obtained, might be relied on, and that the painful past would only make

her more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, and amid all the

dazzling characters and seducing spectacles of the world, cling to

him with a firmer gratitude and a more faithful fondness. And yet Lord

Montfort was a man of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste.

He was a man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine; but

with Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason; with Ferdinand,

the romance of imagination. The first was keenly alive to all the

imperfections of our nature, but he also gave that nature credit for

all its excellencies. He observed finely, he calculated nicely, and

his result was generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither

observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, and his

impetuous passions struggled to realise them.

Although Lord Montfort carefully abstained from pursuing the subject

which nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilful

ally in Mr. Temple. That gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading his

lordship’s cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own; and this

was the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment of his daughter.

Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of children, left to

reflect, sometimes asked herself whether she were justified, from

what she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, in not

accomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well? There

had been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There

had been no deception as to the past. Lord Montfort knew all. She told

him that she could bestow only a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired

only to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the death

which she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was she always

to lead this life? Was her father to pass the still long career which

probably awaited him in ministering to the wearisome caprices of a

querulous invalid? This was a sad return for all his goodness: a gloomy

catastrophe to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to

blend her life with another’s, what individual could offer pretensions

which might ensure her tranquillity, or even happiness, equal to those

proffered by Lord Montfort? Ah! who was equal to him? so amiable, so

generous, so interesting! It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta

would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to that

being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. If

it be agonising to be deserted, there is at least consolation in being

cherished. And who cherished her? One whom all admired; one to gain

whose admiration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was she

before she knew Montfort? If she had not known Montfort, what would she

have been even at this present? She recalled the hours of anguish,

the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, the

cheerless, hopeless, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying on

her solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and all

its passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And now

there was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, without

considerate attention and innocent amusement. If she were querulous, no

one murmured; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her fancies;

but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thine

was the magic that had worked this change! And for whom were all these

choice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted,

betrayed! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consolation

of a despised woman. Leaning on the arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta

Temple might meet the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at

least without feeling herself an object of pity!

Time had flown. The Italian spring, with all its splendour, illumined

the glittering palaces and purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort and

his friends were returning from Capua in his galley. Miss Temple was

seated between her father and their host. The Ausonian clime, the

beautiful scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day of

exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain from expressing

her delight. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that glittered over

the glowing mountains; her cheek was as radiant as the sunset.

‘Ah! what a happy day this has been!’ she exclaimed.

The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the delight her

exclamation had afforded one of her companions. With a trembling heart

Lord Montfort leant back in the galley; and yet, ere the morning sun

had flung its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was his

betrothed.