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HENRIETTA TEMPLE
By Benjamin Disraeli
TO THE COUNT ALFRED D'ORSAY
THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED
BY
HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND.
HENRIETTA TEMPLE
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BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
_Some Account of the Family of Armine, and
Especially of Sir Ferdinand and of Sir Ratcliffe._
THE family of Armine entered England with William the Norman. Ralph
d'Armyn was standard-bearer of the Conqueror, and shared prodigally in
the plunder, as appears by Doomsday Book. At the time of the general
survey the family of Ermyn, or Armyn, possessed numerous manors in
Nottinghamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. William D'Armyn,
lord of the honour of Armyn, was one of the subscribing Barons to the
Great Charter. His predecessor died in the Holy Land before Ascalon.
A succession of stout barons and valiant knights maintained the high
fortunes of the family; and in the course of the various struggles with
France they obtained possession of several fair castles in Guienne and
Gascony. In the Wars of the Roses the Armyns sided with the house of
Lancaster. Ferdinand Armyn, who shared the exile of Henry the Seventh,
was knighted on Bosworth Field, and soon after created Earl of
Tewkesbury. Faithful to the Church, the second Lord Tewkesbury became
involved in one of those numerous risings that harassed the last years
of Henry the Eighth. The rebellion was unsuccessful, Lord Tewkesbury was
beheaded, his blood attainted, and his numerous estates forfeited to the
Crown. A younger branch of the family, who had adopted Protestantism,
married the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and attracted, by his
talents in negotiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was sent on a
secret mission to the Low Countries, where, having greatly distinguished
himself, he obtained on his return the restoration of the family estate
of Armine, in Nottinghamshire, to which he retired after an eminently
prosperous career, and amused the latter years of his life in the
construction of a family mansion, built in that national style of
architecture since described by the name of his royal mistress, at once
magnificent and convenient. His son, Sir Walsingham Armine, figured in
the first batch of baronets under James the First.
During the memorable struggle between the Crown and the Commons, in the
reign of the unhappy Charles, the Armine family became distinguished
Cavaliers. The second Sir Walsingham raised a troop of horse, and gained
great credit by charging at the head of his regiment and defeating
Sir Arthur Haselrigg's Cuirassiers. It was the first time that that
impenetrable band had been taught to fly; but the conqueror was covered
with wounds. The same Sir Walsingham also successfully defended Armine
House against the Commons, and commanded the cavalry at the battle
of Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. For these various
services and sufferings Sir Walsingham was advanced to the dignity of
a baron of the realm, by the title of Lord Armine, of Armine, in the
county of Nottingham. He died without issue, but the baronetcy devolved
on his youngest brother, Sir Ferdinando.
The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, followed the fortunes
of the second James, and the head of the house died at St. Germain. His
son, however, had been prudent enough to remain in England and support
the new dynasty, by which means he contrived to secure his title and
estates. Roman Catholics, however, the Armines always remained, and
this circumstance accounts for this once-distinguished family no longer
figuring in the history of their country. So far, therefore, as the
house of Armine was concerned, time flew during the next century with
immemorable wing. The family led a secluded life on their estate,
intermarrying only with the great Catholic families, and duly begetting
baronets.
At length arose, in the person of the last Sir Ferdinand Armine, one
of those extraordinary and rarely gifted beings who require only an
opportunity to influence the fortunes of their nation, and to figure as
a Caesar or an Alcibiades. Beautiful, brilliant, and ambitious, the young
and restless Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house of
his fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and entered the Imperial
service. His blood and creed gained him a flattering reception; his
skill and valour soon made him distinguished. The world rang with
stories of his romantic bravery, his gallantries, his eccentric manners,
and his political intrigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected King
of Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled in this high object
by the influence of Austria, or whether, as was much whispered at the
time, he had dared to urge his insolent and unsuccessful suit on a still
more delicate subject to the Empress Queen herself, certain it is that
Sir Ferdinand suddenly quitted the Imperial service, and appeared at
Constantinople in person. The man whom a point of honour prevented from
becoming a Protestant in his native country had no scruples about his
profession of faith at Stamboul: certain it is that the English baronet
soon rose high in the favour of the Sultan, assumed the Turkish dress,
conformed to the Turkish customs, and finally, led against Austria a
division of the Turkish army. Having gratified his pique by defeating
the Imperial forces in a sanguinary engagement, and obtaining a
favourable peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand Armine doffed his turban,
and suddenly reappeared in his native country. After the sketch we have
given of the last ten years of his life, it is unnecessary to observe
that Sir Ferdinand Armine immediately became what is called fashionable;
and, as he was now in Protestant England, the empire of fashion was the
only one in which the young Catholic could distinguish himself. Let us
then charitably set down to the score of his political disabilities
the fantastic dissipation and the frantic prodigality in which the
liveliness of his imagination and the energy of his soul exhausted
themselves. After three startling years he married the Lady Barbara
Ratcliffe, whose previous divorce from her husband, the Earl of
Faulconville, Sir Ferdinand had occasioned. He was, however, separated
from his lady during the first year of their more hallowed union, and,
retiring to Rome, Sir Ferdinand became apparently devout. At the end of
a year he offered to transfer the whole of his property to the Church,
provided the Pope would allow him an annuity and make him a cardinal.
His Holiness not deeming it fit to consent to the proposition, Sir
Ferdinand quitted his capital in a huff, and, returning to England,
laid claim to the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Although assured of
failing in these claims, and himself perhaps as certain of ill success
as his lawyers, Sir Ferdinand nevertheless expended upwards of 60,000L.
in their promotion, and was amply repaid for the expenditure in the
gratification of his vanity by keeping his name before the public. He
was never content except when he was astonishing mankind; and while he
was apparently exerting all his efforts to become a King of Poland,
a Roman cardinal, or an English peer, the crown, the coronet, and the
scarlet hat were in truth ever secondary points with him, compared
to the sensation throughout Europe which the effort was contrived and
calculated to ensure.
On his second return to his native country Sir Ferdinand had not
re-entered society. For such a man, society, with all its superficial
excitement, and all the shadowy variety with which it attempts to
cloud the essential monotony of its nature, was intolerably dull and
commonplace. Sir Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in Armine,
having previously announced to the world that he was going to write his
memoirs. This history, the construction of a castle, and the prosecution
of his claims before the House of Lords, apparently occupied his time to
his satisfaction, for he remained quiet for several years, until, on the
breaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened to Paris, became a
member of the Jacobin Club, and of the National Convention. The name
of Citizen Armine appears among the regicides. Perhaps in this vote he
avenged the loss of the crown of Poland, and the still more mortifying
repulse he may have received from the mother of Marie Antoinette. After
the execution of the royal victims, however, it was discovered that
Citizen Armine had made them an offer to save their lives and raise an
insurrection in La Vendue, provided he was made Lieutenant-general of
the kingdom. At his trial, which, from the nature of the accusation and
the character of the accused, occasioned to his gratification a great
sensation, he made no effort to defend himself, but seemed to glory in
the chivalric crime. He was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fate
with the greatest composure, assuring the public with a mysterious air,
that had he lived four-and-twenty hours longer everything would have
been arranged, and the troubles which he foresaw impending for Europe
prevented. So successfully had Armine played his part, that his
mysterious and doubtful career occasioned a controversy, from which only
the appearance of Napoleon distracted universal attention, and which,
indeed, only wholly ceased within these few years. What were his
intentions? Was he or was he not a sincere Jacobin? If he made the offer
to the royal family, why did he vote for their death? Was he resolved,
at all events, to be at the head of one of the parties? A middle course
would not suit such a man; and so on. Interminable were the queries and
their solutions, the pamphlets and the memoirs, which the conduct of
this vain man occasioned, and which must assuredly have appeased his
manes. Recently it has been discovered that the charge brought against
Armine was perfectly false and purely malicious. Its victim, however,
could not resist the dazzling celebrity of the imaginary crime, and he
preferred the reputation of closing his career by conduct which at once
perplexed and astonished mankind, to a vindication which would have
deprived his name of some brilliant accessories, and spared him to a
life of which he was perhaps wearied.
By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion Sir Ferdinand Armine
left one child, a son, whom he had never seen, now Sir Ratcliffe.
Brought up in sadness and in seclusion, education had faithfully
developed the characteristics of a reserved and melancholy mind.
Pride of lineage and sentiments of religion, which even in early youth
darkened into bigotry, were not incompatible with strong affections,
a stern sense of duty, and a spirit of chivalric honour. Limited in
capacity, he was, however, firm in purpose. Trembling at the name of his
father, and devoted to the unhappy parent whose presence he had scarcely
ever quitted, a word of reproach had never escaped his lips against the
chieftain of his blood, and one, too, whose career, how little soever
his child could sympathise with it, still maintained, in men's mouths
and minds, the name and memory of the house of Armine. At the death
of his father Sir Ratcliffe had just attained his majority, and
he succeeded to immense estates encumbered with mortgages, and to
considerable debts, which his feelings of honour would have compelled
him to discharge, had they indeed been enforced by no other claim. The
estates of the family, on their restoration, had not been entailed; but,
until Sir Ferdinand no head of the house had abused the confidence
of his ancestors, and the vast possessions of the house of Armine had
descended unimpaired; and unimpaired, so far as he was concerned, Sir
Ratcliffe determined they should remain. Although, by the sale of the
estates, not only the encumbrances and liabilities might have been
discharged, but himself left in possession of a moderate independence,
Sir Ratcliffe at once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh sums were
raised for the payment of the debts, and the mortgages now consumed
nearly the whole rental of the lands on which they were secured. Sir
Ratcliffe obtained for himself only an annuity of three hundred per
annum, which he presented to his mother, in addition to the small
portion which she had received on her first marriage; and for himself,
visiting Armine Place for the first time, he roamed for a few days with
sad complacency about that magnificent demesne, and then, taking down
from the walls of the magnificent hall the sabre with which his father
had defeated the Imperial host, he embarked for Cadiz, and shortly after
his arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish service.
Although the hereditary valour of the Armines had descended to
their forlorn representative, it is not probable that, under any
circumstances, Sir Ratcliffe would have risen to any eminence in the
country of his temporary adoption. His was not one of those minds born
to command and to create; and his temper was too proud to serve and to
solicit. His residence in Spain, however, was not altogether without
satisfaction. It was during this sojourn that he gained the little
knowledge of life and human nature he possessed; and the creed and
solemn manners of the land harmonised with his faith and habits. Among
these strangers, too, the proud young Englishman felt not so keenly the
degradation of his house; and sometimes, though his was not the fatal
gift of imagination, sometimes he indulged in day dreams of its rise.
Unpractised in business, and not gifted with that intuitive quickness
which supplies experience and often baffles it, Ratcliffe Armine, who
had not quitted the domestic hearth even for the purposes of education,
was yet fortunate enough to possess a devoted friend: and this was
Glastonbury, his tutor, and confessor to his mother. It was to him that
Sir Ratcliffe intrusted the management of his affairs, with a confidence
which was deserved; for Glastonbury sympathised with all his feelings,
and was so wrapped up in the glory of the family, that he had no greater
ambition in life than to become their historiographer, and had been for
years employed in amassing materials for a great work dedicated to their
celebrity.
When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent about three years his mother
died. Her death was unexpected. She had not fulfilled two-thirds of the
allotted period of the Psalmist, and in spite of many sorrows she was
still beautiful. Glastonbury, who communicated to him the intelligence
in a letter, in which he vainly attempted to suppress his own
overwhelming affliction, counselled his immediate return to England, if
but for a season; and the unhappy Ratcliffe followed his advice. By
the death of his mother, Sir Ratcliffe Armine became possessed, for the
first time, of a small but still an independent income; and having paid
a visit, soon after his return to his native country, to a Catholic
nobleman to whom his acquaintance had been of some use when travelling
in Spain, he became enamored of one of his daughters, and his passion
being returned, and not disapproved by the father, he was soon after
married to Constance, the eldest daughter of Lord Grandison.
CHAPTER II.
_Armine Described_.
AFTER his marriage Sir Ratcliffe determined to reside at Armine. In one
of the largest parks in England there yet remained a fragment of a vast
Elizabethan pile, that in old days bore the name of Armine Place. When
Sir Ferdinand had commenced building Armine Castle, he had pulled down
the old mansion, partly for the sake of its site and partly for the sake
of its materials. Long lines of turreted and many-windowed walls, tall
towers, and lofty arches, now rose in picturesque confusion on the
green ascent where heretofore old Sir Walsingham had raised the fair
and convenient dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served the
purpose of a long posterity. The hall and chief staircase of the castle
and a gallery alone were finished, and many a day had Sir Ferdinand
passed in arranging the pictures, the armour, and choice rarities of
these magnificent apartments. The rest of the building was a mere shell;
nor was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of bricks and stone and
piles of timber appeared in every direction; and traces of the sudden
stoppage of a great work might be observed in the temporary saw-pits
still remaining, the sheds for the workmen, and the kilns and furnaces,
which never had been removed. Time, however, that had stained the
neglected towers with an antique tint, and had permitted many a
generation of summer birds to build their sunny nests on all the coignes
of vantage of the unfinished walls, had exercised a mellowing influence
even on these rude accessories, and in the course of years they had been
so drenched by the rain, and so buffeted by the wind, and had become so
covered with moss and ivy, that they rather added to then detracted from
the picturesque character of the whole mass.
A few hundred yards from the castle, but situate on the same verdant
rising ground, and commanding, although well sheltered, an extensive
view over the wide park, was the fragment of the old Place that we have
noticed. The rough and undulating rent which marked the severance of
the building was now thickly covered with ivy, which in its gamesome
luxuriance had contrived also to climb up a remaining stack of tall
chimneys, and to spread over the covering of the large oriel window.
This fragment contained a set of pleasant chambers, which, having been
occupied by the late baronet, were of course furnished with great taste
and comfort; and there was, moreover, accommodation sufficient for a
small establishment. Armine Place, before Sir Ferdinand, unfortunately
for his descendants, determined in the eighteenth century on building
a feudal castle, had been situate in famous pleasure-grounds, which
extended at the back of the mansion over a space of some hundred acres.
The grounds in the immediate vicinity of the buildings had of course
suffered severely, but the far greater portion had only been neglected;
and there were some indeed who deemed, as they wandered through the
arbour-walks of this enchanting wilderness, that its beauty had been
enhanced even by this very neglect. It seemed like a forest in a
beautiful romance; a green and bowery wilderness where Boccaccio would
have loved to woo, and Watteau to paint. So artfully had the walks been
planned, that they seemed interminable, nor was there a single point in
the whole pleasaunce where the keenest eye could have detected a limit.
Sometimes you wandered in those arched and winding walks dear to
pensive spirits; sometimes you emerged on a plot of turf blazing in
the sunshine, a small and bright savannah, and gazed with wonder on the
group of black and mighty cedars that rose from its centre, with
their sharp and spreading foliage. The beautiful and the vast blended
together; and the moment after you had beheld with delight a bed of
geraniums or of myrtles, you found yourself in an amphitheatre of
Italian pines. A strange exotic perfume filled the air: you trod on the
flowers of other lands; and shrubs and plants, that usually are only
trusted from their conservatories, like sultanas from their jalousies,
to sniff the air and recall their bloom, here learning from hardship
the philosophy of endurance, had struggled successfully even against
northern winters, and wantoned now in native and unpruned luxuriance.
Sir Ferdinand, when he resided at Armine, was accustomed to fill these
pleasure-grounds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage; but
these had fled away with their master, all but some swans which still
floated on the surface of a lake, which marked the centre of this
paradise. In the remains of the ancient seat of his fathers, Sir
Ratcliffe Armine and his bride now sought a home.
The principal chamber of Armine Place was a large irregular room, with
a low but richly-carved oaken roof, studded with achievements. This
apartment was lighted by the oriel window we have mentioned, the upper
panes of which contained some ancient specimens of painted glass,
and having been fitted up by Sir Ferdinand as a library, contained a
collection of valuable books. From the library you entered through an
arched door of glass into a small room, of which, it being much out of
repair when the family arrived, Lady Armine had seized the opportunity
of gratifying her taste in the adornment. She had hung it with some
old-fashioned pea-green damask, that exhibited to a vantage several
copies of Spanish paintings by herself, for she was a skilful artist.
The third and remaining chamber was the dining-room, a somewhat gloomy
chamber, being shadowed by a neighbouring chestnut. A portrait of Sir
Ferdinand, when a youth, in a Venetian dress, was suspended over the
old-fashioned fireplace; and opposite hung a fine hunting piece by
Schneiders. Lady Armine was an amiable and accomplished woman. She had
enjoyed the advantage of a foreign education under the inspection of a
cautious parent: and a residence on the Continent, while it had afforded
her many graces, had not, as unfortunately sometimes is the case,
divested her of those more substantial though less showy qualities of
which a husband knows the value. She was pious and dutiful: her manners
were graceful, for she had visited courts and mixed in polished circles,
but she had fortunately not learnt to affect insensibility as a system,
or to believe that the essence of good breeding consists in showing your
fellow-creatures that you despise them. Her cheerful temper solaced the
constitutional gloom of Sir Ratcliffe, and indeed had originally won his
heart, even more than her remarkable beauty: and while at the same
time she loved a country life, she possessed in a lettered taste, in a
beautiful and highly cultivated voice, and in a scientific knowledge of
music and of painting, all those resources which prevent retirement from
degenerating into loneliness. Her foibles, if we must confess that she
was not faultless, endeared her to her husband, for her temper reflected
his own pride, and she possessed the taste for splendour which was also
his native mood, although circumstances had compelled him to stifle its
gratification.
Love, pure and profound, had alone prompted the union between Ratcliffe
Armine and Constance Grandison Doubtless, like all of her race, she
might have chosen amid the wealthiest of the Catholic nobles and gentry
one who would have been proud to have mingled his life with hers; but,
with a soul not insensible to the splendid accidents of existence, she
yielded her heart to one who could repay the rich sacrifice only with
devotion. His poverty, his pride, his dangerous and hereditary gift of
beauty, his mournful life, his illustrious lineage, his reserved and
romantic mind, had at once attracted her fancy and captivated her heart.
She shared all his aspirations and sympathised with all his hopes; and
the old glory of the house of Armine, and its revival and restoration,
were the object of her daily thoughts, and often of her nightly dreams.
With these feelings Lady Armine settled herself at her new home,
scarcely with a pang that the whole of the park in which she lived was
let out as grazing ground, and only trusting, as she beheld the groups
of ruminating cattle, that the day might yet come for the antlered
tenants of the bowers to resume their shady dwellings. The good man and
his wife who hitherto had inhabited the old Place, and shown the castle
and the pleasaunce to passing travellers, were, under the new order of
affairs, promoted to the respective offices of serving-man and cook,
or butler and housekeeper, as they styled themselves in the village.
A maiden brought from Grandison to wait on Lady Armine completed the
establishment, with her young brother, who, among numerous duties,
performed the office of groom, and attended to a pair of beautiful white
ponies which Sir Ratcliffe drove in a phaeton. This equipage, which was
remarkable for its elegance, was the especial delight of Lady Armine,
and certainly the only piece of splendour in which Sir Ratcliffe
indulged. As for neighbourhood, Sir Ratcliffe, on his arrival, of course
received a visit from the rector of his parish, and, by the courteous
medium of this gentleman, he soon occasioned it to be generally
understood that he was not anxious that the example of his rector should
be followed. The intimation, in spite of much curiosity, was of course
respected. Nobody called upon the Armines. This happy couple, however,
were too much engrossed with their own society to require amusement from
any other sources than themselves. The honeymoon was passed in wandering
in the pleasure-grounds, and in wondering at their own marvellous
happiness. Then Lady Armine would sit on a green bank and sing her
choicest songs, and Sir Ratcliffe repaid her for her kindness with
speeches softer even than serenades. The arrangement of their dwelling
occupied the second month; each day witnessed some felicitous yet
economical alteration of her creative taste. The third month Lady Armine
determined to make a garden.
'I wish,' said her affectionate husband, as he toiled with delight in
her service, 'I wish, my dear Constance, that Glastonbury was here; he
was such a capital gardener.'
'Let us ask him, dear Ratcliffe; and, perhaps, for such a friend we have
already allowed too great a space of time to elapse without sending an
invitation.'
'Why, we are so happy,' said Sir Ratcliffe, smiling; 'and yet
Glastonbury is the best creature in the world. I hope you will like him,
dear Constance.'
'I am sure I shall, dear Ratcliffe. Give me that geranium, love. Write
to him, to-day; write to Glastonbury to-day.'
CHAPTER III.
_Arrival of Glastonbury._
ADRIAN GLASTONBURY was a younger son of an old but decayed English
family. He had been educated at a college of Jesuits in France, and had
entered at an early period of life the service of the Romish Church,
whose communion his family had never quitted. At college young
Glastonbury had been alike distinguished for his assiduous talents and
for the extreme benevolence of his disposition. His was one of those
minds to which refinement is natural, and which learning and experience
never deprive of simplicity. Apparently his passions were not violent;
perhaps they were restrained by his profound piety. Next to his
devotion, Glastonbury was remarkable for his taste. The magnificent
temples in which the mysteries of the Deity and saints he worshipped
were celebrated developed the latent predisposition for the beautiful
which became almost the master sentiment of his life. In the inspired
and inspiring paintings that crowned the altars of the churches and the
cathedrals in which he ministered, Glastonbury first studied art; and it
was as he glided along the solemn shade of those Gothic aisles, gazing
on the brave groining of the vaulted roofs, whose deep and sublime
shadows so beautifully contrasted with the sparkling shrines and the
delicate chantries below, that he first imbibed that passion for the
architecture of the Middle Ages that afterwards led him on many a
pleasant pilgrimage with no better companions than a wallet and a
sketch-book. Indeed, so sensible was Glastonbury of the influence of the
early and constant scene of his youth on his imagination, that he was
wont to trace his love of heraldry, of which he possessed a remarkable
knowledge, to the emblazoned windows that perpetuated the memory and the
achievements of many a pious founder.
When Glastonbury was about twenty-one years of age, he unexpectedly
inherited from an uncle a sum which, though by no means considerable,
was for him a sufficient independence; and as no opening in the service
of the Church at this moment offered itself, which he considered it a
duty to pursue, he determined to gratify that restless feeling which
seems inseparable from the youth of men gifted with fine sensibilities,
and which probably arises in an unconscious desire to quit the
commonplace and to discover the ideal. He wandered on foot throughout
the whole of Switzerland and Italy; and, after more than three years'
absence, returned to England with several thousand sketches, and a
complete Alpine Hortus Siccus. He was even more proud of the latter than
of having kissed the Pope's toe. In the next seven years the life of
Glastonbury was nearly equally divided between the duties of his sacred
profession and the gratification of his simple and elegant tastes.
He resided principally in Lancashire, where he became librarian to
a Catholic nobleman of the highest rank, whose notice he had first
attracted by publishing a description of his Grace's residence,
illustrated by his drawings. The duke, who was a man of fine taste
and antiquarian pursuits, and an exceedingly benevolent person, sought
Glastonbury's acquaintance in consequence of the publication, and from
that moment a close and cherished intimacy subsisted between them. In
the absence of the family, however, Glastonbury found time for many
excursions; by means of which he at last completed drawings of all our
cathedrals. There remained for him still the abbeys and the minsters
of the West of England, a subject on which he was ever eloquent.
Glastonbury performed all these excursions on foot, armed only with an
ashen staff which he had cut in his early travels, and respecting
which he was superstitious; so that he would have no more thought of
journeying without this stick than most other people without their
hat. Indeed, to speak truth, Glastonbury had been known to quit a house
occasionally without that necessary appendage, for, from living much
alone, he was not a little absent; but instead of piquing himself
on such eccentricities, they ever occasioned him mortification. Yet
Glastonbury was an universal favourite, and ever a welcome guest. In his
journeys he had no want of hosts; for there was not a Catholic family
which would not have been hurt had he passed them without a visit. He
was indeed a rarely accomplished personage. An admirable scholar and
profound antiquary, he possessed also a considerable practical knowledge
of the less severe sciences, was a fine artist, and no contemptible
musician. His pen, too, was that of a ready writer; if his sonnets be
ever published, they will rank among the finest in our literature.
Glastonbury was about thirty when he was induced by Lady Barbara Armine
to quit a roof where he had passed some happy years, and to undertake
the education of her son Ratcliffe, a child of eight years of age. From
this time Glastonbury in a great degree withdrew himself from his former
connexions, and so completely abandoned his previous mode of life, that
he never quitted his new home. His pupil repaid him for his zeal rather
by the goodness of his disposition and his unblemished conduct, than by
any remarkable brilliancy of talents or acquirements: but Ratcliffe, and
particularly his mother, were capable of appreciating Glastonbury; and
certain it is, whatever might be the cause, he returned their sympathy
with deep emotion, for every thought and feeling of his existence seemed
dedicated to their happiness and prosperity.
So great indeed was the shock which he experienced at the unexpected
death of Lady Barbara, that for some time he meditated assuming the
cowl; and if the absence of his pupil prevented the accomplishment of
this project, the plan was only postponed, not abandoned. The speedy
marriage of Sir Ratcliffe followed. Circumstances had prevented
Glastonbury from being present at the ceremony. It was impossible for
him to retire to the cloister without seeing his pupil. Business, if not
affection, rendered an interview between them necessary. It was equally
impossible for Glastonbury to trouble a bride and bridegroom with his
presence. When, however, three months had elapsed, he began to believe
that he might venture to propose a meeting to Sir Ratcliffe; but while
he was yet meditating on this step, he was anticipated by the receipt of
a letter containing a warm invitation to Armine.
It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon in June. Lady Armine was seated in
front of the Place looking towards the park, and busied with her work;
while Sir Ratcliffe, stretched on the grass, was reading to her the last
poem of Scott, which they had just received from the neighbouring town.
'Ratcliffe, my dear,' said Lady Armine, 'some one approaches.'
'A tramper, Constance?'
'No, no, my love; rise; it is a gentleman.'
'Who can it be?' said Sir Ratcliffe, rising; 'perhaps it is your
brother, love. Ah! no, it is--it is Glastonbury!'
And at these words he ran forward, jumped over the iron hurdle which
separated their lawn from the park, nor stopped his quick pace until
he reached a middle-aged man of very prepossessing appearance, though
certainly not unsullied by the dust, for assuredly the guest had
travelled far and long.
'My dear Glastonbury,' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, embracing him, and
speaking under the influence of an excitement in which he rarely
indulged, 'I am the happiest fellow alive. How do you do? I will
introduce you to Constance directly. She is dying to know you, and quite
prepared to love you as much as myself. O! my dear Glastonbury, you have
no idea how happy I am. She is a perfect angel.'
'I am sure of it,' said Glastonbury, seriously.
Sir Ratcliffe hurried his tutor along. 'Here is my best friend,
Constance,' he eagerly exclaimed. Lady Armine rose and welcomed Mr.
Glastonbury very cordially. 'Your presence, my dear sir, has, I assure
you, been long desired by both of us,' she said, with a delightful
smile.
'No compliments, believe me,' added Sir Ratcliffe; 'Constance never pays
compliments. She fixed upon your own room herself. She always calls it
Mr. Glastonbury's room.'
'Ah! madam,' said Mr. Glastonbury, laying his hand very gently on the
shoulder of Sir Ratcliffe, and meaning to say something felicitous, 'I
know this dear youth well; and I have always thought whoever could claim
this heart should be counted a very fortunate woman.'
'And such the possessor esteems herself,' replied Lady Armine with a
smile.
Sir Ratcliffe, after a quarter of an hour or so had passed in
conversation, said: 'Come, Glastonbury, you have arrived at a good time,
for dinner is at hand. Let me show you to your room. I fear you have
had a hot day's journey. Thank God, we are together again. Give me your
staff; I will take care of it; no fear of that. So, this way. You have
seen the old Place before? Take care of that step. I say, Constance,'
said Sir Ratcliffe, in a suppressed voice, and running back to his wife,
'how do you like him?'
'Very much indeed.'
'But do you really?'
'Really, truly.'
'Angel!' exclaimed the gratified Sir Ratcliffe.
CHAPTER IV.
_Progress of Affairs at Armine_.
LIFE is adventurous. Events are perpetually occurring, even in the
calmness of domestic existence, which change in an instant the whole
train and tenor of our thoughts and feelings, and often materially
influence our fortunes and our character. It is strange, and sometimes
as profitable as it is singular, to recall our state on the eve of
some acquaintance which transfigures our being; with some man whose
philosophy revolutionises our mind; with some woman whose charms
metamorphose our career. These retrospective meditations are fruitful of
self-knowledge.
The visit of Glastonbury was one of those incidents which, from the
unexpected results that they occasion, swell into events. He had not
been long a guest at Armine before Sir Ratcliffe and his lady could not
refrain from mutually communicating to each other the gratification they
should feel could Glastonbury be induced to cast his lot among them. His
benevolent and placid temper, his many accomplishments, and the entire
affection which he evidently entertained for everybody that bore the
name, and for everything that related to the fortunes of Armine, all
pointed him out as a friend alike to be cherished and to be valued.
Under his auspices the garden of the fair Constance soon flourished:
his taste guided her pencil, and his voice accompanied her lute. Sir
Ratcliffe, too, thoroughly enjoyed his society: Glastonbury was with him
the only link, in life, between the present and the past. They talked
over old times together; and sorrowful recollections lost half their
bitterness, from the tenderness of his sympathetic reminiscences. Sir
Ratcliffe, too, was conscious of the value of such a companion for his
gifted wife. And Glastonbury, moreover, among his many accomplishments,
had the excellent quality of never being in the way. He was aware that
young people, and especially young lovers, are not averse sometimes to
being alone; and his friends, in his absence, never felt that he was
neglected, because his pursuits were so various and his resources so
numerous that they were sure he was employed and amused.
In the pleasaunce of Armine, at the termination of a long turfen avenue
of purple beeches, there was a turreted gate, flanked by round towers,
intended by Sir Ferdinand for one of the principal entrances of his
castle. Over the gate were small but convenient chambers, to which you
ascended by a winding stair-. case in one of the towers; the other was
a mere shell. It was sunset; the long vista gleamed in the dying rays,
that shed also a rich breadth of light over the bold and baronial arch.
Our friends had been examining the chambers, and Lady Armine, who was a
little wearied by the exertion, stood opposite the building, leaning on
her husband and his friend.
'A man might go far, and find a worse dwelling than that portal,' said
Glastonbury, musingly. 'Me-thinks life might glide away pleasantly
enough in those little rooms, with one's books and drawings, and this
noble avenue for a pensive stroll.'
'I wish to heaven, my dear Glastonbury, you would try the experiment,'
said Sir Ratcliffe.
'Ah! do, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Lady Armine, 'take pity upon us!'
'At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister,' added Sir Ratcliffe;
'and say what they like, there is nothing like living among friends.'
'You would find me very troublesome,' replied Glastonbury, with a smile;
and then, turning the conversation, evidently more from embarrassment
than distaste, he remarked the singularity of the purple beeches.
Their origin was uncertain; but one circumstance is sure: that, before
another month had passed, Glastonbury was a tenant for life of the
portal of Armine Castle, and all his books and collections were safely
stowed and arranged in the rooms with which he had been so much pleased.
The course of time for some years flowed on happily at Armine. In the
second year of their marriage Lady Armine presented her husband with a
son. Their family was never afterwards increased, but the proud father
was consoled by the sex of his child for the recollection that the
existence of his line depended upon the precious contingency of a single
life. The boy was christened Ferdinand. With the exception of an annual
visit to Lord Grandison, the Armine family never quitted their home.
Necessity as well as taste induced this regularity of life. The affairs
of Sir Ratcliffe did not improve. His mortgagees were more strict in
their demands of interest than his tenants in payment of their rents.
His man of business, who had made his fortune in the service of the
family, was not wanting in accommodation to his client; but he was a
man of business; he could not sympathise with the peculiar feelings and
fancies of Sir Ratcliffe, and he persisted in seizing every opportunity
of urging on him the advisability of selling his estates. However, by
strict economy and temporary assistance from his lawyer, Sir Ratcliffe,
during the first ten years of his marriage, managed to carry on affairs;
and though occasional embarrassments sometimes caused him fits of gloom
and despondency, the sanguine spirit of his wife, and the confidence in
the destiny of their beautiful child which she regularly enforced upon
him, maintained on the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys were
indeed centred in the education of the little Ferdinand. At ten years of
age he was one of those spirited and at the same time docile boys,
who seem to combine with the wild and careless grace of childhood the
thoughtfulness and self-discipline of maturer age. It was the constant
and truthful boast of his parents, that, in spite of all his liveliness,
he had never in the whole course of his life disobeyed them. In the
village, where he was idolised, they called him 'the little prince;'
he was so gentle and so generous, so kind and yet so dignified in his
demeanour. His education was remarkable; for though he never quitted
home, and lived in such extreme seclusion, so richly gifted were those
few persons with whom he passed his life, that it would have been
difficult to have fixed upon a youth, however favoured by fortune, who
enjoyed greater advantages for the cultivation of his mind and manners.
From the first dawn of the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonbury
had devoted himself to its culture; and the kind scholar, who had not
shrunk from the painful and patient task of impregnating a young mind
with the seeds of knowledge, had bedewed its budding promise with all
the fertilising influence of his learning and his taste. As Ferdinand
advanced in years, he had participated in the accomplishments of his
mother; from her he derived not only a taste for the fine arts, but no
unskilful practice. She, too, had cultivated the rich voice with which
Nature had endowed him, and it was his mother who taught him not only to
sing, but to dance. In more manly accomplishments, Ferdinand could
not have found a more skilful instructor than his father, a consummate
sportsman, and who, like all his ancestors, was remarkable for his
finished horsemanship and the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too,
whose inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety and unaffected
virtue, the higher duties of existence were not forgotten; and Ferdinand
Armine was early and ever taught to be sincere, dutiful, charitable,
and just; and to have a deep sense of the great account hereafter to
be delivered to his Creator. The very foibles of his parents which he
imbibed tended to the maintenance of his magnanimity. His illustrious
lineage was early impressed upon him, and inasmuch as little now was
left to them but their honour, so it was doubly incumbent upon him to
preserve that chief treasure, of which fortune could not deprive them,
unsullied.
This much of the education of Ferdinand Armine. With great gifts
of nature, with lively and highly cultivated talents, and a most
affectionate and disciplined temper, he was adored by the friends who
nevertheless had too much sense to spoil him. But for his character,
what was that? Perhaps, with all their anxiety and all their care, and
all their apparent opportunities for observation, the parent and the
tutor are rarely skilful in discovering the character of their child or
charge. Custom blunts the fineness of psychological study: those with
whom we have lived long and early are apt to blend our essential and our
accidental qualities in one bewildering association. The consequences of
education and of nature are not sufficiently discriminated. Nor is it,
indeed, marvellous, that for a long time temperament should be disguised
and even stifled by education; for it is, as it were, a contest between
a child and a man.
There were moments when Ferdinand Armine loved to be alone, when he
could fly from all the fondness of his friends, and roam in solitude
amid the wild and desolate pleasure-grounds, or wander for hours in
the halls and galleries of the castle, gazing on the pictures of his
ancestors. He ever experienced a strange satisfaction in beholding the
portrait of his grandfather. He would sometimes stand abstracted for
many minutes before the portrait of Sir Ferdinand in the gallery,
painted by Reynolds, before his grandfather left England, and which the
child already singularly resembled. But was there any other resemblance
between them than form and feature? Did the fiery imagination and the
terrible passions of that extraordinary man lurk in the innocent heart
and the placid mien of his young descendant? No matter now! Behold, he
is a light-hearted and airy child! Thought passes over his brow like a
cloud in a summer sky, or the shadow of a bird over the sunshiny earth;
and he skims away from the silent hall and his momentary reverie to fly
a kite or chase a butterfly!
CHAPTER V.
_A Domestic Scene._
YEARS glided away without any remarkable incidents in the life of young
Ferdinand. He seldom quitted home, except as companion to Glastonbury
in his pedestrian excursions, when he witnessed a different kind of life
from that displayed in the annual visit which he paid to Grandison. The
boy amused his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he became a favourite.
The old Lord, indeed, would have had no objection to his grandson
passing half the year with him; and he always returned home with a
benediction, a letter full of his praises, and a ten-pound note. Lady
Armine was quite delighted with these symptoms of affection on the part
of her father towards her child, and augured from them important future
results. But Sir Ratcliffe, who was not blessed with so sanguine a
temperament as his amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by blood, was
perhaps better qualified to form an opinion of the character of his
father-in-law, never shared her transports, and seldom omitted an
opportunity of restraining them.
'It is all very well, my dear,' he would observe, 'for Ferdinand to
visit his relations. Lord Grandison is his grandfather. It is very
proper that he should visit his grandfather. I like him to be seen
at Grandison. That is all very right. Grandison is a first-rate
establishment, where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class,
with whom circumstances unhappily,' and here Sir Ratcliffe sighed,
'debar him from mixing; and your father, Constance, is a very good sort
of man. I like your father, Constance, you know, very much. No person
ever could be more courteous to me than he has ever been. I have no
complaints to make of him, Constance; or your brother, or indeed of
any member of your family. I like them all. Persons more kind, or more
thoroughly bred, I am sure I never knew. And I think they like us. They
appear to me to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaffectedly
sorry when we quit them. I am sure I should be very happy if it were in
my power to return their hospitality, and welcome them at Armine: but it
is useless to think of that. God only knows whether we shall be able to
remain here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, that if
you are building any castle in that little brain of yours on the ground
of expectations from Grandison, trust me you will be disappointed, my
dear, you will, indeed.' 'But, my love--'
'If your father die to-morrow, my dear, he will not leave us a shilling.
And who can complain? I cannot. He has always been very frank. I
remember when we were going to marry, and I was obliged to talk to
him about your portion; I remember it as if it were only yesterday; I
remember his saying, with the most flattering smile in the world,
"I wish the 5,000L., Sir Ratcliffe, were 50,000L., for your sake;
particularly as it will never be in my power to increase it."'
'But, my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do something for his favourite,
Ferdinand?'
'My dear Constance, there you are again! Why _favourite_? I hate the
very word. Your father is a good-natured man, a very good-natured man:
he is one of the best-natured men I ever was acquainted with. He has not
a single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has; and what is
more, my dear, nobody ever could persuade him that anybody else has. He
has no idea of our situation; he never could form an idea of it. If
I chose to attempt to make him understand it he would listen with the
greatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of the story, tell
me to keep up my spirits, and order another bottle of Madeira in order
that he might illustrate his precept by practice. He is a good-natured
selfish man. He likes us to visit him because you are gay and agreeable,
and because I never asked a favour of him in the whole course of our
acquaintance: he likes Ferdinand to visit him because he is a handsome
fine-spirited boy, and his friends congratulate him on having such a
grandson. And so Ferdinand is his _favourite;_ and next year I should
not be surprised were he to give him a pony: and perhaps, if he die, he
will leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold watch.'
'Well, I dare say you are right, Ratcliffe; but still nothing that
you can say will ever persuade me that Ferdinand is not papa's decided
favourite.'
'Well! we shall soon see what this favour is worth,' retorted Sir
Ratcliffe, rather bitterly. 'Regularly every visit for the last three
years your father has asked me what I intended to do with Ferdinand. I
said to him last year more than I thought I ever could say to anyone. I
told him that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished to get him a
commission; but that I had no influence to get him a commission, and
no money to pay for it if it were offered me. I think that was pretty
plain; and I have been surprised ever since that I ever could have
placed myself in such a degrading position as to say so much.'
'Degrading, my dear Ratcliffe!' said his wife.
'I felt it as such; and such I still feel it.'
At this moment Glastonbury, who was standing at the other end of the
room examining a large folio, and who had evidently been uneasy during
the whole conversation, attempted to quit the room.
'My dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ratcliffe, with a forced smile, 'you are
alarmed at our domestic broils. Pray, do not leave the room. You know we
have no secrets from you.'
'No, pray do not go, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Lady Armine: 'and if indeed
there be a domestic broil,' and here she rose and kissed her husband,
'at any rate witness our reconciliation.'
Sir Ratcliffe smiled, and returned his wife's embrace with much feeling.
'My own Constance,' he said, 'you are the dearest wife in the world; and
if I ever feel unhappy, believe me it is only because I do not see you
in the position to which you are entitled.'
'I know no fortune to be compared to your love, Ratcliffe; and as for
our child, nothing will ever persuade me that all will not go right, and
that he will not restore the fortunes of the family.'
'Amen!' said Glastonbury, closing the book with a reverberating sound.
'Nor indeed can I believe that Providence will ever desert a great and
pious line!'
CHAPTER VI.
_Containing Another Domestic Scene_.
LADY ARMINE and Glastonbury were both too much interested in the welfare
of Sir Ratcliffe not to observe with deep concern that a great, although
gradual, change had occurred in his character during the last five
years. He had become moody and querulous, and occasionally even
irritable. His constitutional melancholy, long diverted by the
influence of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming woman, and
the interesting feelings of a father, began to reassert its ancient and
essential sway, and at times even to deepen into gloom. Sometimes whole
days elapsed without his ever indulging in conversation; his nights,
once tranquil, were now remarkable for their restlessness; his wife was
alarmed at the sighs and agitation of his dreams. He abandoned also his
field sports, and none of those innocent sources of amusement, in which
it was once his boast their retirement was so rich, now interested him.
In vain Lady Armine sought his society in her walks, or consulted him
about her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic replies discouraged
all her efforts. No longer did he lean over her easel, or call for a
repetition of his favourite song. At times these dark fits passed away,
and if not cheerful, he was at least serene. But on the whole he was
an altered man; and his wife could no longer resist the miserable
conviction that he was an unhappy one.
She, however, was at least spared the mortification, the bitterest that
a wife can experience, of feeling that this change in his conduct was
occasioned by any indifference towards her; for, averse as Sir Ratcliffe
was to converse on a subject so hopeless and ungrateful as the state of
his fortune, still there were times in which he could not refrain from
communicating to the partner of his bosom all the causes of his misery,
and these, indeed, too truly had she divined.
'Alas!' she would sometimes say as she tried to compose his restless
pillow; 'what is this pride to which you men sacrifice everything? For
me, who am a woman, love is sufficient. Oh! my Ratcliffe, why do you not
feel like your Constance? What if these estates be sold, still we are
Armines! and still our dear Ferdinand is spared to us! Believe me, love,
that if deference to your feelings has prompted my silence, I have long
felt that it would be wiser for us at once to meet a necessary evil. For
God's sake, put an end to the torture of this life, which is destroying
us both. Poverty, absolute poverty, with you and with your love, I can
meet even with cheerfulness; but indeed, my Ratcliffe, I can bear our
present life no longer; I shall die if you be unhappy. And oh! dearest
Ratcliffe, if that were to happen, which sometimes I fear has happened,
if you were no longer to love me--'
But here Sir Ratcliffe assured her of the reverse.
'Only think,' she would continue, 'if when we married we had voluntarily
done that which we may now be forced to do, we really should have been
almost rich people; at least we should have had quite enough to live
in ease, and even elegance. And now we owe thousands to that horrible
Bagster, who I am sure cheated your father out of house and home, and I
dare say, after all, wants to buy Armine for himself.'
'He buy Armine! An attorney buy Armine! Never, Constance, never! I will
be buried in its ruins first. There is no sacrifice that I would not
sooner make--'
'But, dearest love, suppose we sell it to some one else, and suppose
after paying every thing we have thirty thousand pounds left. How well
we could live abroad on the interest of thirty thousand pounds?'
'There would not be thirty thousand pounds left now!'
'Well, five-and-twenty, or even twenty. I could manage on twenty. And
then we could buy a commission for dear Ferdinand.'
'But to leave our child!'
'Could not he go into the Spanish service? Perhaps you could get a
commission in the Spanish Guards for nothing. They must remember you
there. And such a name as Armine! I have no doubt that the king would be
quite proud to have another Armine in his guard. And then we could live
at Madrid; and that would be so delightful, because you speak Spanish
so beautifully, and I could learn it very quickly. I am very quick at
learning languages, I am, indeed.'
'I think you are very quick at everything, dear Constance. I am sure you
are really a treasure of a wife; I have cause every hour to bless you;
and, if it were not for my own sake, I should say that I wish you had
made a happier marriage.'
'Oh! do not say that, Ratcliffe; say anything but that, Ratcliffe. If
you love me I am the happiest woman that ever lived. Be sure always of
that.'
'I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid!'
'To be sure they do. How could they forget you; how could they forget
my Ratcliffe? I daresay you go to this day by the name of the handsome
Englishman.'
'Pooh! I remember when I left England before, I had no wife then, no
child, but I remembered who I was, and when I thought I was the last of
our race, and that I was in all probability going to spill the little
blood that was spared of us in a foreign soil, oh, Constance, I do not
think I ever could forget the agony of that moment. Had it been for
England, I would have met my fate without a pang. No! Constance, I am an
Englishman: I am proud of being an Englishman. My fathers helped to make
this country what it is; no one can deny that; and no consideration in
the world shall ever induce me again to quit this island.'
'But suppose we do not quit England. Suppose we buy a small estate and
live at home.'
'A small estate at home! A small, new estate! Bought of a Mr. Hopkins,
a great tallow-chandler, or some stock-jobber about to make a new flight
from a Lodge to a Park. Oh no! that would be too degrading.'
'But suppose we keep one of our own manors?'
'And be reminded every instant of every day of those we have lost; and
hear of the wonderful improvements of our successors. I should go mad.'
'But suppose we live in London?'
'Where?'
'I am sure I do not know; but I should think we might get a nice little
house somewhere.'
'In a suburb! a fitting lodgment for Lady Armine. No! at any rate we
will have no witnesses to our fall.'
'But could not we try some place near my father's?'
'And be patronised by the great family with whom I had the good fortune
of being connected. No! my dear Constance, I like your father very well,
but I could not stand his eleemosynary haunches of venison, and great
baskets of apples and cream-cheeses sent with the housekeeper's duty.'
'But what shall we do, dear Ratcliffe?'
'My love, there is no resisting fate. We must live or die at Armine,
even if we starve.'
'Perhaps something will turn up. I dreamed the other night that dear
Ferdinand married an heiress. Suppose he should? What do you think?'
'Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky as his father. Good
night, love!'
CHAPTER VII.
_Containing an Unexpected Visit to London, and Its
Consequences._
THE day after the conversation in the library to which Glastonbury
had been an unwilling listener, he informed his friends that it was
necessary for him to visit the metropolis; and as young Ferdinand had
never yet seen London, he proposed that he should accompany him. Sir
Ratcliffe and Lady Armine cheerfully assented to this proposition; and
as for Ferdinand, it is difficult to describe the delight which the
anticipation of his visit occasioned him. The three days that were
to elapse before his departure did not seem sufficient to ensure
the complete packing of his portmanteau: and his excited manner, the
rapidity of his conversation, and the restlessness of his movements were
very diverting.
'Mamma! is London twenty times bigger than Nottingham? How big is it,
then? Shall we travel all night? What o'clock is it now? I wonder if
Thursday will ever come? I think I shall go to bed early, to finish the
day sooner. Do you think my cap is good enough to travel in? I shall
buy a hat in London. I shall get up early the very first morning, and
buy a hat. Do you think my uncle is in London? I wish Augustus were not
at Eton, perhaps he would be there. I wonder if Mr. Glastonbury will
take me to see St. Paul's! I wonder if he will take me to the play. I'd
give anything to go to the play. I should like to go to the play and St.
Paul's! What fun it will be dining on the road!'
It did indeed seem that Thursday would never come; yet it came at last.
The travellers were obliged to rise before the sun, and drive over to
Nottingham to meet their coach; so they bid their adieus the previous
eve. As for Ferdinand, so fearful was he of losing the coach, that he
scarcely slept, and was never convinced that he was really in time,
until he found himself planted in breathless agitation outside of the
Dart light-post-coach. It was the first time in his life that he
had ever travelled outside of a coach. He felt all the excitement of
expanding experience and advancing manhood. They whirled along: at
the end of every stage Ferdinand followed the example of his
fellow-travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling eyes hurried
to Glastonbury, who was inside, to inquire how he sped. 'Capital
travelling, isn't it, sir? Did the ten miles within the hour. You have
no idea what a fellow our coachman is; and the guard, such a fellow our
guard! Don't wait here a moment. Can I get anything for you? We dine at
Mill-field. What fun!'
Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich plains of our merry midland;
a quick and dazzling vision of golden corn-fields and lawny pasture
land; farmhouses embowered in orchards and hamlets shaded by the
straggling members of some vast and ancient forest. Then rose in
the distance the dim blue towers, or the graceful spire, of some old
cathedral, and soon the spreading causeways announced their approach to
some provincial capital. The coachman flanks his leaders, who break into
a gallop; the guard sounds his triumphant bugle; the coach bounds
over the noble bridge that spans a stream covered with craft; public
buildings, guildhalls, and county gaols rise on each side. Rattling
through many an inferior way they at length emerge into the High Street,
the observed of all observers, and mine host of the Red Lion, or the
White Hart, followed by all his waiters, advances from his portal with a
smile to receive the 'gentlemen passengers.'
'The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen: dinner quite ready!'
'Tis a delightful sound. And what a dinner! What a profusion of
substantial delicacies! What mighty and iris-tinted rounds of beef! What
vast and marble-veined ribs! What gelatinous veal pies! What colossal
hams! Those are evidently prize cheeses! And how invigorating is
the perfume of those various and variegated pickles! Then the bustle
emulating the plenty; the ringing of bells, the clash of thoroughfare,
the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-pervading feeling
of omnipotence, from the guests, who order what they please, to the
landlord, who can produce and execute everything they can desire. 'Tis
a wondrous sight. Why should a man go and see the pyramids and cross the
desert, when he has not beheld York Minster or travelled on the Road!
Our little Ferdinand amid all this novelty heartily enjoyed himself,
and did ample justice to mine host's good cheer. They were soon again
whirling along the road; but at sunset, Ferdinand, at the instance of
Glastonbury, availed himself of his inside place, and, wearied by the
air and the excitement of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep.
Several hours had elapsed, when, awaking from a confused dream in which
Armine and all he had lately seen were blended together, he found his
fellow-travellers slumbering, and the mail dashing along through the
illuminated streets of a great city. The streets were thickly thronged.
Ferdinand stared at the magnificence of the shops blazing with lights,
and the multitude of men and vehicles moving in all directions. The
guard sounded his bugle with treble energy, and the coach suddenly
turned through an arched entrance into the court-yard of an
old-fashioned inn. His fellow-passengers started and rubbed their eyes.
'So! we have arrived, I suppose,' grumbled one of these gentlemen,
taking off his night-cap.
'Yes, gentlemen, I am happy to say our journey is finished,' said a more
polite voice; 'and a very pleasant one I have found it. Porter, have the
goodness to call me a coach.'
'And one for me,' added the gruff voice.
'Mr. Glastonbury,' whispered the awe-struck Ferdinand, 'is this London?'
'This is London: but we have yet two or three miles to go before we
reach our quarters. I think we had better alight and look after our
luggage. Gentlemen, good evening!'
Mr. Glastonbury hailed a coach, into which, having safely deposited
their portmanteaus, he and Ferdinand entered; but our young friend was
so entirely overcome by his feelings and the genius of the place, that
he was quite unable to make an observation. Each minute the streets
seemed to grow more spacious and more brilliant, and the multitude
more dense and more excited. Beautiful buildings, too, rose before
him; palaces, and churches, and streets, and squares of imposing
architecture; to his inexperienced eye and unsophisticated spirit their
route appeared a never-ending triumph. To the hackney-coachman, however,
who had no imagination, and who was quite satiated with metropolitan
experience, it only appeared that he had had an exceeding good fare, and
that he was jogging up from Bishopsgate Street to Charing Cross.
When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited his charge at Morley's
Hotel, in Cockspur Street, and extorted from them an extra shilling, in
consideration of their evident rustication, he bent his course towards
the Opera House; for clouds were gathering, and, with the favour of
Providence, there seemed a chance about midnight of picking up some
helpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the choicest victim, in a
midnight shower, of these public conveyancers.
The coffee-room at Morley's was a new scene of amusement to Ferdinand,
and he watched with great diversion the two evening papers portioned
out among twelve eager quidnuncs, and the evident anxiety which they
endured, and the nice diplomacies to which they resorted, to obtain
the envied journals. The entrance of our two travellers so alarmingly
increasing the demand over the supply, at first seemed to attract
considerable and not very friendly notice; but when a malignant half-pay
officer, in order to revenge himself for the restless watchfulness of
his neighbour, a political doctor of divinity, offered the journal,
which he had long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was declined, the
general alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. Glastonbury had never looked
into a newspaper in his life, save the County Chronicle, to which he
occasionally contributed a communication, giving an account of the
digging up of some old coins, signed Antiquarius; or of the exhumation
of some fossil remains, to which he more boldly appended his initials.
In spite of the strange clatter in the streets, Ferdinand slept
well, and the next morning, after an early breakfast, himself and his
fellow-traveller set out on their peregrinations. Young and sanguine,
full of health and enjoyment, innocent and happy, it was with difficulty
that Ferdinand could restrain his spirits as he mingled in the bustle
of the streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and although the end of
June, the town was yet quite full.
'Is this Charing Cross, sir? I wonder if we shall ever be able to get
over. Is this the fullest part of the town, sir? What a fine day, sir!
How lucky we are in the weather! We are lucky in everything! Whose house
is that? Northumberland House! Is it the Duke of Northumberland's? Does
he live there? How I should like to see it! Is it very fine? Who is
that? What is this? The Admiralty; oh! let me see the Admiralty! The
Horse Guards! Oh! where, where? Let us set our watches by the Horse
Guards. The guard of our coach always sets his watch by the Horse
Guards. Mr. Glastonbury, which is the best clock, the Horse Guards, or
St. Paul's? Is that the Treasury? Can we go in? That is Downing Street,
is it? I never heard of Downing Street. What do they do in Downing
Street? Is this Charing Cross still, or is it Parliament Street? Where
does Charing Cross end, and where does Parliament Street begin? By Jove,
I see Westminster Abbey!'
After visiting Westminster Abbey and the two Houses of Parliament, Mr.
Glastonbury, looking at his watch, said it was now time to call upon
a friend of his who lived in St. James's Square. This was the nobleman
with whom early in life Glastonbury had been connected, and with
whom and whose family he had become so great a favourite, that,
notwithstanding his retired life, they had never permitted the connexion
entirely to subside. During the very few visits which he had made to
the metropolis, he always called in St. James's Square and his reception
always assured him that his remembrance imparted pleasure.
When Glastonbury sent up his name he was instantly admitted, and ushered
up stairs. The room was full, but it consisted only of a family party.
The mother of the Duke, who was an interesting personage, with fine
grey hair, a clear blue eye, and a soft voice, was surrounded by her
great-grandchildren, who were at home for the Midsummer holidays, and
who had gathered together at her rooms this morning to consult upon
amusements. Among them was the heir presumptive of the house, a youth
of the age of Ferdinand, and of a prepossessing appearance. It was
difficult to meet a more amiable and agreeable family, and nothing could
exceed the kindness with which they all welcomed Glastonbury. The Duke
himself soon appeared. 'My dear, dear Glastonbury,' he said, 'I heard
you were here, and I would come. This shall be a holiday for us all.
Why, man, you bury yourself alive!'
'Mr. Armine,' said the Duchess, pointing to Ferdinand.
'Mr. Armine, how do you do? Your grandfather and I were well acquainted.
I am glad to know his grandson. I hope your father, Sir Ratcliffe, and
Lady Armine are well. My dear Glastonbury, I hope you have come to
stay a long time. You must dine with us every day. You know we are very
old-fashioned people; we do not go much into the world; so you will
always find us at home, and we will do what we can to amuse your young
friend. Why, I should think he was about the same age as Digby? Is he at
Eton? His grandfather was. I shall never forget the time he cut off old
Barnard's pig-tail. He was a wonderful man, poor Sir Ferdinand! he was
indeed.'
While his Grace and Glastonbury maintained their conversation, Ferdinand
conducted himself with so much spirit and propriety towards the rest of
the party, and gave them such a lively and graceful narrative of all his
travels up to town, and the wonders he had already witnessed, that they
were quite delighted with him; and, in short, from this moment, during
his visit to London he was scarcely ever out of their society, and every
day became a greater favourite with them. His letters to his mother, for
he wrote to her almost every day, recounted all their successful efforts
for his amusement, and it seemed that he passed his mornings in a round
of sight-seeing, and that he went to the play every night of his life.
Perhaps there never existed a human being who at this moment more
thoroughly enjoyed life than Ferdinand Armine.
In the meantime, while he thought only of amusement, Mr. Glastonbury was
not inattentive to his more important interests; for the truth is that
this excellent man had introduced him to the family only with the hope
of interesting the feelings of the Duke in his behalf. His Grace was
a man of a generous disposition. He sympathised with the recital of
Glastonbury as he detailed to him the unfortunate situation of this
youth, sprung from so illustrious a lineage, and yet cut off by a
combination of unhappy circumstances from almost all those natural
sources whence he might have expected support and countenance. And when
Glastonbury, seeing that the Duke's heart was moved, added that all he
required for him, Ferdinand, was a commission in the army, for which his
parents were prepared to advance the money, his Grace instantly declared
that he would exert all his influence to obtain their purpose.
Mr. Glastonbury was, therefore, more gratified than surprised when,
a few days after the conversation which we have mentioned, his noble
friend informed him, with a smile, that he believed all might be
arranged, provided his young charge could make it convenient to quit
England at once. A vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment just
ordered to Malta, and an ensigncy had been promised to Ferdinand Armine.
Mr. Glastonbury gratefully closed with the offer. He sacrificed a fourth
part of his moderate independence in the purchase of the commission and
the outfit of his young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, ere
the third week of their visit was completed, of forwarding a Gazette to
Armine, containing the appointment of Ferdinand Armine as Ensign in the
Royal Fusiliers.
CHAPTER VIII.
_A Visit to Glastonbury's Chamber_.
IT WAS arranged that Ferdinand should join his regiment by the next
Mediterranean packet, which was not to quit Falmouth for a fortnight.
Glastonbury and himself, therefore, lost no time in bidding adieu to
their kind friends in London, and hastening to Armine. They arrived the
day after the Gazette. They found Sir Ratcliffe waiting for them at
the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with which he greeted
Glastonbury more than repaid that good man for all his exertions. There
was, notwithstanding, a perceptible degree of constraint both on the
part of the baronet and his former tutor. It was evident that Sir
Ratcliffe had something on his mind of which he wished to disburden
himself; and it was equally apparent that Glastonbury was unwilling to
afford him an opportunity. Under these rather awkward circumstances, it
was perhaps fortunate that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving his
father an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and of all the
friends he had made, from the good Duke of-----to that capital fellow,
the guard of the coach.
They were at the park gates: Lady Armine was there to meet them. The
carriage stopped; Ferdinand jumped out and embraced his mother.
She kissed him, and ran forward and extended both her hands to Mr.
Glastonbury. 'Deeds, not words, must show our feelings,' she said, and
the tears glittered in her beautiful eyes; Glastonbury, with a blush,
pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, during which Ferdinand
recounted all his adventures, Lady Armine invited him, when she rose,
to walk with her in the garden. It was then, with an air of considerable
confusion, clearing his throat, and filling his glass at the same time,
that Sir Ratcliffe said to his remaining guest,
'My dear Glastonbury, you cannot suppose that I believe that the days
of magic have returned. This commission, both Constance and myself
feel, that is, we are certain, that you are at the bottom of it all. The
commission is purchased. I could not expect the Duke, deeply as I feel
his generous kindness, to purchase a commission for my son: I could
not permit it. No! Glastonbury,' and here Sir Ratcliffe became more
animated, '_you_ could not permit it, my honour is safe in your hands?'
Sir Ratcliffe paused for a reply.
'On that score my conscience is clear,' replied Glastonbury.
'It is, then,--it must be then as I suspect,' rejoined Sir Ratcliffe. 'I
am your debtor for this great service.'
'It is easy to count your obligations to me,' said Glastonbury, 'but
mine to you and yours are incalculable.'
'My dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ratcliffe, pushing his glass away as he
rose from his seat and walked up and down the room, 'I may be proud,
but I have no pride for you, I owe you too much; indeed, my dear friend,
there is nothing that I would not accept from you, were it in your power
to grant what you would desire. It is not pride, my dear Glastonbury;
do not mistake me; it is not pride that prompts this explanation;
but--but--had I your command of language I would explain myself more
readily; but the truth is, I--I--I cannot permit that you should suffer
for us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed.'
Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily; then rising from his
seat he took the baronet's arm, and without saying a word walked slowly
towards the gates of the castle where he lodged, and which we have
before described. When he had reached the steps of the tower he withdrew
his arm, and saying, 'Let me be pioneer,' invited Sir Ratcliffe to
follow him. They accordingly entered his chamber.
It was a small room lined with shelves of books, except in one spot,
where was suspended a portrait of Lady Barbara, which she had bequeathed
him in her will. The floor was covered with so many boxes and cases
that it was not very easy to steer a course when you had entered.
Glastonbury, however, beckoned to his companion to seat himself in one
of his two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, from a drawer of
which he brought forth a paper.
'It is my will,' said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Ratcliffe, who laid
it down on the table.
'Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to peruse it, for it concerns
yourself.'
'I would rather learn its contents from yourself, if you positively
desire me,' replied Sir Ratcliffe.
'I have left everything to our child,' said Glastonbury; for thus, when
speaking to the father alone, he would often style the son.
'May it be long before he enjoys the 'bequest,' said Sir Ratcliffe,
brushing away a tear; 'long, very long.'
'As the Almighty pleases,' said Glastonbury, crossing himself. 'But
living or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, and hold myself but the
steward of his inheritance, which I will never abuse.'
'O! Glastonbury, no more of this I pray; you have wasted a precious life
upon our forlorn race. Alas! how often and how keenly do I feel, that
had it not been for the name of Armine your great talents and goodness
might have gained for you an enviable portion of earthly felicity; yes,
Glastonbury, you have sacrificed yourself to us.'
'Would that I could!' said the old man, with brightening eyes and an
unaccustomed energy of manner. 'Would that I could! would that any act
of mine, I care not what, could revive the fortunes of the house of
Armine. Honoured for ever be the name, which with me is associated with
all that is great and glorious in man, and [here his voice faltered, and
he turned away his face] exquisite and enchanting in woman!
'No, Ratcliffe,' he resumed, 'by the memory of one I cannot name, by
that blessed and saintly being from whom you derive your life, you will
not, you cannot deny this last favour I ask, I entreat, I supplicate you
to accord me: me, who have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your roof
hath ever shrouded!'
'My friend, I cannot speak,' said Sir Ratcliffe, throwing himself back
in the chair and covering his face with his right hand; 'I know not what
to say; I know not what to feel.'
Glastonbury advanced, and gently took his other hand. 'Dear Sir
Ratcliffe,' he observed, in his usual calm, sweet voice, 'if I have
erred you will pardon me. I did believe that, after my long and
intimate connection with your house; after having for nearly forty years
sympathised as deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble
blood flowed in these old veins; after having been honoured on your
side with a friendship which has been the consolation and charm of my
existence; indeed, too great a blessing; I did believe, more especially
when I reminded myself of the unrestrained manner in which I had availed
myself of the advantages of that friendship, I did believe, actuated by
feelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts to which I cannot
now give utterance, that I might venture, without offence, upon this
slight service: ay, that the offering might be made in the spirit of
most respectful affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour in
your sight.'
'Excellent, kind-hearted man!' said Sir Ratcliffe, pressing the hand of
Glastonbury in his own; 'I accept your offering in the spirit of perfect
love. Believe me, dearest friend, it was no feeling of false pride that
for a moment influenced me; I only felt-'
'That in venturing upon this humble service I deprived myself of some
portion of my means of livelihood: you are mistaken. When I cast my lot
at Armine I sank a portion of my capital on my life; so slender are my
wants here, and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire,
that, believe me, I have never yet expended upon myself this apportioned
income; and as for the rest, it is, as you have seen, destined for our
Ferdinand. Yet a little time and Adrian Glastonbury must be gathered to
his fathers. Why, then, deprive him of the greatest gratification of
his remaining years? the consciousness that, to be really serviceable to
those he loves, it is not necessary for him to cease to exist.'
'May you never repent your devotion to our house!' said Sir Ratcliffe,
rising from his seat. 'Time was we could give them who served us
something better than thanks; but, at any rate, these come from the
heart.'
CHAPTER IX.
_The Last Day and the Last Night_.
IN THE meantime, the approaching I departure of Ferdinand was the great
topic of interest at Armine, It was settled that his father should
accompany him to Falmouth, where he was to embark; and that they should
pay a visit on their way to his grandfather, whose seat was situate in
the west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, occasioned
Lady Armine the deepest affliction; but she struggled to suppress her
emotion. Yet often, while apparently busied with the common occupations
of the day, the tears trickled down her cheek; and often she rose from
her restless seat, while surrounded by those she loved, to seek the
solitude of her chamber and indulge her overwhelming sorrow. Nor was
Ferdinand less sensible of the bitterness of this separation. With all
the excitement of his new prospects, and the feeling of approaching
adventure and fancied independence, so flattering to inexperienced
youth, he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. Nearly
seventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, undisturbed by
a single bad passion, and unsullied by a single action that he could
regret. The river of his life had glided along, reflecting only a
cloudless sky. But if he had been dutiful and happy, if at this moment
of severe examination his conscience were serene, he could not but feel
how much this enviable state of mind was to be attributed to those
who had, as it were, imbued his life with love; whose never-varying
affection had developed all the kindly feelings of his nature, had
anticipated all his wants, and listened to all his wishes; had assisted
him in difficulty and guided him in doubt; had invited confidence by
kindness, and deserved it by sympathy; had robbed instruction of all its
labour, and discipline of all its harshness.
It was the last day; on the morrow he was to quit Armine. He strolled
about among the mouldering chambers of the castle, and a host of
thoughts and passions, like clouds in a stormy sky, coursed over his
hitherto serene and light-hearted breast. In this first great struggle
of his soul some symptoms of his latent nature developed themselves,
and, amid the rifts of the mental tempest, occasionally he caught some
glimpses of self-knowledge. Nature, that had endowed him with a fiery
imagination and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, and,
hitherto, those undeveloped and untried gifts, with a heart of infinite
sensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blending of the
daring and the soft; and now, as he looked around him and thought of his
illustrious and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man,
of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own creation, the
surrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he had
not inherited the energies with the name of his grandsire, and if their
exertion might not yet revive the glories of his line. He felt within
him alike the power and the will; and while he indulged in magnificent
reveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which career, indeed,
his approaching departure was to be the commencement, the association
of ideas led his recollection to those beings from whom he was about to
depart. His fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tumbling
exhausted in the sky: he thought of his innocent and happy boyhood,
of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentle
assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion; and he demanded aloud, in a
voice of anguish, whether Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisite
than to pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with such
beloved companions.
His name was called: it was his mother's voice. He dashed away a
desperate tear, and came forth with a smiling face. His mother and
father were walking together at a little distance.
'Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected gaiety, 'we have
just been settling that you are to send me a gazelle from Malta.' And in
this strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in some degree touching
upon the mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some time
converse, as if she were all this time trying the fortitude of her mind,
and accustoming herself to a catastrophe which she was resolved to meet
with fortitude.
While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who was hurrying from his
rooms to the Place, for the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, and
they entered their home together. It was singular at dinner, too, in
what excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner also,
generally a simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the demeanour
of the guests, and, although no one felt inclined to eat, consisted
of every dish and delicacy which was supposed to be a favourite with
Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous,
and produced a magnum of claret which he had himself discovered in the
old cellars, and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water-drinker,
ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, she scarcely ever ceased
talking; she found a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy when
there was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to the apparent
spirit of the party; and, had a stranger been present, he could only
have supposed that they were celebrating some anniversary of domestic
joy. It seemed rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting of
those who had lived together so long, and loved each other so dearly.
But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow heavy, and every
one was glad that the early departure of the travellers on the morrow
was an excuse for speedily retiring.
'No adieus to-night!' said Lady Armine with a gay air, as she
scarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 'We shall be all up
to-morrow.'
So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and faltering
tongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and retired to his chamber.
He could not refrain from exercising an unusual scrutiny when he had
entered the room. He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, and
threw a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There was the glass
vase which his mother had never omitted each day to fill with fresh
flowers, and the counterpane that was her own handiwork. He kissed it;
and, flinging off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded with
darkness and buried in his bed.
There was a gentle tap at his door. He started.
'Are you in bed, my Ferdinand?' inquired his mother's voice.
Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and observed a tall white
figure approaching him.
Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bedside and took him in
her arms. She buried her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon his
heart. He could not move; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud.
'May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling child; may He
guard over you; may He preserve you!' Very weak was her still, solemn
voice. 'I would have spared you this, my darling. For you, not for
myself, have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength of a
mother's love. Alas! what mother has a child like thee? O! Ferdinand,
my first, my only-born: child of love and joy and happiness, that never
cost me a thought of sorrow; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful! must
we, oh! must we indeed part?'
'It is too cruel,' continued Lady Armine, kissing with a thousand kisses
her weeping child. 'What have I done to deserve such misery as this?
Ferdinand, beloved Ferdinand, I shall die.'
'I will not go, mother, I will not go,' wildly exclaimed the boy,
disengaging himself from her embrace and starting up in his bed.
'Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it never can be good to leave a home like
this.'
'Hush! hush! my darling. What words are these? How unkind, how wicked
it is of me to say all this! Would that I had not come! I only meant
to listen at your door a minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear you
speak, and like a fool,--how naughty of me! never, never shall I forgive
myself-like a miserable fool I entered.'
'My own, own mother, what shall I say? what shall I do? I love you,
mother, with all my heart and soul and spirit's strength: I love you,
mother. There is no mother loved as you are loved!'
''Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. Oh! why are you not like
other children, Ferdinand? When your uncle left us, my father said,
"Good-bye," and shook his hand; and he--he scarcely kissed us, he was so
glad to leave his home; but you-tomorrow; no, not to-morrow. Can it be
to-morrow?'
'Mother, let me get up and call my father, and tell him I will not go.'
'Good God! what words are these? Not go! 'Tis all your hope to go; all
ours, dear child. What would your father say were he to hear me speak
thus? Oh! that I had not entered! What a fool I am!'
'Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall soon meet.'
'Shall we soon meet? God! how joyous will be the day.'
'And I--I will write to you by every ship.'
'Oh! never fail, Ferdinand, never fail.'
'And send you a gazelle, and you shall call it by my name, dear mother.'
'Darling child!'
'You know I have often stayed a month at grand-papa's, and once six
weeks. Why! eight times six weeks, and I shall be home again.'
'Home! home again! eight times six weeks; a year, nearly a year! It
seems eternity. Winter, and spring, and summer, and winter again, all to
pass away. And for seventeen years he has scarcely been out of my sight.
Oh! my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I cannot believe it; I
cannot believe that we are to part.'
'Mother, dearest mother, think of my father; think how much his hopes
are placed on me; think, dearest mother, how much I have to do. All now
depends on me, you know. I must restore our house.'
'O! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise upon me; yet
I would say that, had I but my child, I could live in peace; how, or
where, I care not.'
'Dearest mother, you unman me.'
'It is very wicked. I am a fool. I never, no! never shall pardon myself
for this night, Ferdinand.'
'Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. Believe me we shall indeed
meet very soon, and somehow or other a little bird whispers to me we
shall yet be very happy.'
'But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as before? Ay! There it is, my
child. You will be a man when you come back, and be ashamed to love your
mother. Promise me now,' said Lady Armine, with extraordinary energy,
'promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not let them make
you ashamed of loving me. They will joke, and jest, and ridicule all
home affections. You are very young, sweet love, very, very young, and
very inexperienced and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frank
and beautiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Remember Armine,
dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust me, oh! yes, indeed
believe me, darling, you will never find friends in this world like
those you leave at Armine.'
'I know it,' exclaimed Ferdinand, with streaming eyes; 'God be my
witness how deeply I feel that truth. If I forget thee and them, dear
mother, may God indeed forget me.'
'My Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, in a calm tone, 'I am better now. I
hardly am sorry that I did come now. It will be a consolation to me
in your absence to remember all you have said. Good night, my beloved
child; my darling child, good night. I shall not come down to-morrow,
dear. We will not meet again; I will say good-bye to you from the
window. Be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as you say indeed, we shall
soon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks! Why what are eight-and-forty
weeks? It is not quite a year. Courage, my sweet boy! let us keep up
each other's spirits. Who knows what may yet come from this your first
venture into the world? I am full of hope. I trust you will find all
that you want. I packed up everything myself. Whenever you want anything
write to your mother. Mind, you have eight packages; I have written them
down on a card and placed it on the hall table. And take the greatest
care of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. I am very superstitious about that
sword, and while you have it I am sure you will succeed. I have ever
thought that had he taken it with him to France all would have gone
right with him. God bless, God Almighty bless you, child. Be of good
heart. I will write you everything that takes place, and, as you say, we
shall soon meet. Indeed, after to-night,' she added in a more mournful
tone, 'we have naught else to think of but of meeting. I fear it is very
late. Your father will be surprised at my absence.' She rose from his
bed and walked up and down the room several times in silence; then again
approaching him, she folded him in her arms and quitted the chamber
without again speaking.
CHAPTER X.
_The Advantage of Being a Favourite Grandson_.
THE exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in sleep. When he woke the
dawn was just breaking. He dressed and went forth to look, for the
last time, on his hereditary woods. The air was cold, but the sky was
perfectly clear, and the beams of the rising sun soon spread over the
blue heaven. How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the surrounding
scene! With what enjoyment did he inhale the soft and renovating breeze!
The dew quivered on the grass, and the carol of the wakening birds,
roused from their slumbers by the spreading warmth, resounded from the
groves. From the green knoll on which he stood he beheld the clustering
village of Armine, a little agricultural settlement formed of the
peasants alone who lived on the estate. The smoke began to rise in blue
curls from the cottage chimneys, and the church clock struck the hour of
five. It seemed to Ferdinand that those labourers were far happier than
he, since the setting sun would find them still at Armine: happy, happy
Armine!
The sound of carriage wheels roused him from his reverie. The fatal
moment had arrived. He hastened to the gate according to his promise,
to bid farewell to Glastonbury. The good old man was up. He pressed his
pupil to his bosom, and blessed him with a choking voice.
'Dearest and kindest friend!' murmured Ferdinand. Glastonbury placed
round his neck a small golden crucifix that had belonged to Lady
Barbara. 'Wear it next your heart, my child,' said he; 'it will remind
you of your God, and of us all.' Ferdinand quitted the tower with a
thousand blessings.
When he came in sight of the Place he saw his father standing by the
carriage, which was already packed. Ferdinand ran into the house to get
the card which had been left on the hall table for him by his mother.
He ran over the list with the old and faithful domestic, and shook hands
with him. Nothing now remained. All was ready. His father was seated.
Ferdinand stood a moment in thought. 'Let me run up to my mother, sir?'
'You had better not, my child,' replied Sir Ratcliffe, 'she does not
expect you. Come, come along.' So he slowly seated himself, with his
eyes fixed on the window of his mother's chamber; and as the carriage
drove off the window opened, and a hand waved a white handkerchief. He
saw no more; but as he saw it he clenched his hand in agony.
How different was this journey to London from his last! He scarcely
spoke a word. Nothing interested him but his own feelings. The guard and
the coachman, and the bustle of the inn, and the passing spectacles of
the road, appeared a collection of impertinences. All of a sudden it
seemed that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad when they
arrived in London, and glad that they were to stay in it only a single
day. Sir Ratcliffe and his son called upon the Duke; but, as they had
anticipated, the family had quitted town. Our travellers put up at
Hatchett's, and the following night started for Exeter in the Devonport
mail. Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis having interchanged
with his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At Exeter, after a
night of most welcome rest, they took a post-chaise and proceeded by a
cross-road to Grandison.
When Lord Grandison, who as yet was perfectly unacquainted with the
revolutions in the Armine family, had clearly comprehended that his
grandson had obtained a commission without either troubling him for his
interest, or putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refusing
his money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimonials of his
affection, both towards his son-in-law and his grandson. He seemed quite
proud of such relations; he patted Sir Ratcliffe on his back, asked a
thousand questions about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobbered
over Ferdinand as if he were a child of five years old. He informed
all his guests daily (and the house was full) that Lady Armine was his
favourite daughter, and Sir Ratcliffe his favourite son-in-law, and
Ferdinand especially his favourite grandchild. He insisted upon Sir
Ratcliffe always sitting at the head of his table, and always placed
Ferdinand on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner why
he had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, because Sir Ratcliffe
Armine was here.
'Darbois,' said the old nobleman, 'have not I told you that Clos
de Vougeot is always to be kept for Sir Ratcliffe Armine? It is his
favourite wine. Clos de Vougeot directly to Sir Ratcliffe Armine. I do
not think, my dear madam [turning to a fair neighbour], that I have
yet had the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my favourite
son-in-law, Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He married my daughter Constance, my
favourite daughter, Constance. Only here for a few days, a very, very
few days indeed. Quite a flying visit. I wish I could see the whole
family oftener and longer. Passing through to Falmouth with his son,
this young gentleman on my right, my grandson, my favourite grandson,
Ferdinand. Just got his commission. Ordered for Malta immediately. He is
in the Fusileers, the Royal Fusileers. Very difficult, my dear madam, in
these days to obtain a commission, especially a commission in the Royal
Fusileers. Very great interest required, very great interest, indeed.
But the Armines are a most ancient family, very highly connected, very
highly connected; and, between you and me, the Duke of-----would do
anything for them.
Come, come, Captain Armine, take a glass of wine with your old
grandfather.'
'How attached the old gentleman appears to be to his grandson!'
whispered the lady to her neighbour.
'Delightful! yes!' was the reply, 'I believe he is the favourite
grandson.'
In short, the old gentleman at last got so excited by the universal
admiration lavished on his favourite grandson, that he finally insisted
on seeing the young hero in his regimentals; and when Ferdinand took his
leave, after a great many whimpering blessings, his domestic feelings
were worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely
presented his grandson with a hundred-pound note.
'Thank you, my dear grandpapa,' said the astonished Ferdinand, who
really did not expect more than fifty, perhaps even a moiety of that
more moderate sum; 'thank you, my dear grandpapa; I am very much obliged
to you, indeed.'
'I wish I could do more for you; I do, indeed,' said Lord Grandison;
'but nobody ever thinks of paying his rent now. You are my grandson, my
favourite grandson, my dear favourite daughter's only child. And you are
an officer in his Majesty's service, an officer in the Royal Fusiliers,
only think of that! It is the most unexpected thing that ever happened
to me. To see you so well and so unexpectedly provided for, my dear
child, has taken a very great load off my mind; it has indeed. You
have no idea of a parent's anxiety in these matters, especially of a
grandfather. You will some day, I warrant you,' continued the noble
grandfather, with an expression between a giggle and a leer; 'but do
not be wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild at least. Young blood
must have its way; but be cautious; now, do; be cautious, my dear child.
Do not get into any scrapes; at least, do not get into any serious
scrapes; and whatever happens to you,' and here his lordship assumed
even a solemn tone, 'remember you have friends; remember, my dear
boy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear Ferdinand, are his
favourite grandson.'
This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits of our
travellers. When they arrived at Falmouth, they found, however, that the
packet, which waited for government despatches, was not yet to sail. Sir
Ratcliffe scarcely knew whether he ought to grieve or to rejoice at the
reprieve; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and himself passed
their mornings in visiting the mines, Pendennis Castle, and the other
lions of the neighbourhood; and returned in the evening to their
cheerful hotel, with good appetites for their agreeable banquet, the
mutton of Dartmoor and the cream of Devon.
At length, however, the hour of separation approached; a message
awaited them at the inn, on their return from one of their rambles, that
Ferdinand must be on board at an early hour on the morrow. That evening
the conversation between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was of a graver
nature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in confidence
of his affairs. Dark hints, indeed, had before reached Ferdinand; nor,
although his parents had ever spared his feelings, could his intelligent
mind have altogether refrained from guessing much that had never
been formally communicated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had
anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. He encouraged
his father with his hopes, and supported him by his sympathy. He
expressed to Sir Ratcliffe his confidence that the generosity of his
grandfather would prevent him at present from becoming a burden to
his own parent, and he inwardly resolved that no possible circumstance
should ever induce him to abuse the benevolence of Sir Ratcliffe.
The moment of separation arrived. Sir Ratcliffe pressed to his bosom his
only, his loving, and his beloved child. He poured over Ferdinand the
deepest, the most fervid blessing that a father ever granted to a son.
But, with all this pious consolation, it was a moment of agony.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
_Partly Retrospective, yet Very Necessary to be Perused_.
EARLY five years had elapsed between the event which formed the subject
of our last chapter and the recall to England of the regiment in which
Captain Armine now commanded a company. This period of time had passed
away not unfruitful of events in the experience of that family, in
whose fate and feelings I have attempted to interest the reader. In this
interval Ferdinand Armine had paid one short visit to his native land;
a visit which had certainly been accelerated, if not absolutely
occasioned, by the untimely death of his cousin Augustus, the
presumptive heir of Grandison. This unforeseen event produced a great
revolution in the prospects of the family of Armine; for although the
title and an entailed estate devolved to a distant branch, the absolute
property of the old lord was of great amount; and, as he had no male
heir now living, conjectures as to its probable disposition were
now rife among all those who could possibly become interested in it.
Whatever arrangement the old lord might decide upon, it seemed nearly
certain that the Armine family must be greatly benefited. Some persons
even went so far as to express their conviction that everything would be
left to Mr. Armine, who everybody now discovered to have always been a
particular favourite with his grandfather. At all events, Sir Ratcliffe,
who ever maintained upon the subject a becoming silence, thought it
as well that his son should remind his grandfather personally of his
existence; and it was at his father's suggestion that Ferdinand had
obtained a short leave of absence, at the first opportunity, to pay a
hurried visit to Grandison and his grandfather.
The old lord yielded him a reception which might have flattered the
most daring hopes. He embraced Ferdinand, and pressed him to his heart a
thousand times; he gave him his blessing in the most formal manner every
morning and evening; and assured everybody that he now was not only his
favourite but his only grandson. He did not even hesitate to affect a
growing dislike for his own seat, because it was not in his power to
leave it to Ferdinand; and he endeavoured to console that fortunate
youth for his indispensable deprivation by mysterious intimations that
he would, perhaps, find quite enough to do with his money in completing
Armine Castle, and maintaining its becoming splendour. The sanguine
Ferdinand returned to Malta with the conviction that he was his
grandfather's heir; and even Sir Ratcliffe was almost disposed to
believe that his son's expectations were not without some show of
probability, when he found that Lord Grandison had absolutely furnished
him with the funds for the purchase of his company.
Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had entered it under favourable
circumstances. He had joined a crack regiment in a crack garrison. Malta
is certainly a delightful station. Its city, Valetta, equals in its
noble architecture, if it even do not excel, any capital in Europe;
and although it must be confessed that the surrounding region is little
better than a rock, the vicinity, nevertheless, of Barbary, of Italy,
and of Sicily, presents exhaustless resources to the lovers of the
highest order of natural beauty. If that fair Valetta, with its streets
of palaces, its picturesque forts and magnificent church, only crowned
some green and azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu for instance, I
really think that the ideal of landscape would be realised.
To Ferdinand, who was inexperienced in the world, the dissipation
of Malta, too, was delightful. It must be confessed that, under all
circumstances, the first burst of emancipation from domestic routine
hath in it something fascinating. However you may be indulged at home,
it is impossible to break the chain of childish associations; it is
impossible to escape from the feeling of dependence and the habit of
submission. Charming hour when you first order your own servants, and
ride your own horses, instead of your father's! It is delightful even
to kick about your own furniture; and there is something manly and
magnanimous in paying our own taxes. Young, lively, kind, accomplished,
good-looking, and well-bred, Ferdinand Armine had in him all the
elements of popularity; and the novelty of popularity quite intoxicated
a youth who had passed his life in a rural seclusion, where he had been
appreciated, but not huzzaed. Ferdinand was not only popular, but proud
of being popular. He was popular with the Governor, he was popular with
his Colonel, he was popular with his mess, he was popular throughout the
garrison. Never was a person so popular as Ferdinand Armine. He was the
best rider among them, and the deadliest shot; and he soon became an
oracle at the billiard-table, and a hero in the racquet-court. His
refined education, however, fortunately preserved him from the fate
of many other lively youths: he did not degenerate into a mere hero of
sports and brawls, the genius of male revels, the arbiter of roistering
suppers, and the Comus of a club. His boyish feelings had their play; he
soon exuded the wanton heat of which a public school would have served
as a safety-valve. He returned to his books, his music, and his pencil.
He became more quiet, but he was not less liked. If he lost some
companions, he gained many friends; and, on the whole, the most
boisterous wassailers were proud of the accomplishments of their
comrade; and often an invitation to a mess dinner was accompanied by a
hint that Armine dined there, and that there was a chance of hearing him
sing. Ferdinand now became as popular with the Governor's lady as with
the Governor himself, was idolised by his Colonel's wife, while not a
party throughout the island was considered perfect without the presence
of Mr. Armine.
Excited by his situation, Ferdinand was soon tempted to incur expenses
which his income did not justify. The facility of credit afforded him
not a moment to pause; everything he wanted was furnished him; and until
the regiment quitted the garrison he was well aware that a settlement
of accounts was never even desired. Amid this imprudence he was firm,
however, in his resolution never to trespass on the resources of his
father. It was with difficulty that he even brought himself to draw for
the allowance which Sir Ratcliffe insisted on making him; and he would
gladly have saved his father from making even this advance, by vague
intimations of the bounty of Lord Grandison, had he not feared this
conduct might have led to suspicious and disagreeable enquiries. It
cannot be denied that his debts occasionally caused him anxiety, but
they were not considerable; he quieted his conscience by the belief
that, if he were pressed, his grandfather could scarcely refuse to
discharge a few hundred pounds for his favourite grandson; and, at all
events, he felt that the ultimate resource of selling his commission
was still reserved for him. If these vague prospects did not drive away
compunction, the qualms of conscience were generally allayed in the
evening assembly, in which his vanity was gratified. At length he paid
his first visit to England. That was a happy meeting. His kind father,
his dear, dear mother, and the faithful Glastonbury, experienced some of
the most transporting moments of their existence, when they beheld,
with admiring gaze, the hero who returned to them. Their eyes were never
satiated with beholding him; they hung upon his accents. Then came the
triumphant visit to Grandison; and then Ferdinand returned to Malta, in
the full conviction that he was the heir to fifteen thousand a year.
Among many other, there is one characteristic of capitals in which
Valetta is not deficient: the facility with which young heirs apparent,
presumptive, or expectant, can obtain any accommodation they desire. The
terms; never mind the terms, who ever thinks of them? As for Ferdinand
Armine, who, as the only son of an old baronet, and the supposed future
inheritor of Armine Park, had always been looked upon by tradesmen with
a gracious eye, he found that his popularity in this respect was not at
all diminished by his visit to England, and its supposed consequences;
slight expressions, uttered on his return in the confidence of
convivial companionship, were repeated, misrepresented, exaggerated, and
circulated in all quarters. We like those whom we love to be fortunate.
Everybody rejoices in the good luck of a popular character; and soon it
was generally understood that Ferdinand Armine had become next in the
entail to thirty thousand a year and a peerage. Moreover, he was not
long to wait for his inheritance. The usurers pricked up their ears, and
such numerous proffers of accommodation and assistance were made to the
fortunate Mr. Armine, that he really found it quite impossible to refuse
them, or to reject the loans that were almost forced on his acceptance.
Ferdinand Armine had passed the Rubicon. He was in debt. If youth but
knew the fatal misery that they are entailing on themselves the moment
they accept a pecuniary credit to which they are not entitled, how they
would start in their career! how pale they would turn! how they would
tremble, and clasp their hands in agony at the precipice on which they
are disporting! Debt is the prolific mother of folly and of crime;
it taints the course of life in all its dreams. Hence so many unhappy
marriages, so many prostituted pens, and venal politicians! It hath a
small beginning, but a giant's growth and strength. When we make the
monster we make our master, who haunts us at all hours, and shakes his
whip of scorpions for ever in our sight. The slave hath no overseer so
severe. Faustus, when he signed the bond with blood, did not secure a
doom more terrific. But when we are young we must enjoy ourselves. True;
and there are few things more gloomy than the recollection of a youth
that has not been enjoyed. What prosperity of manhood, what splendour
of old age, can compensate for it? Wealth is power; and in youth, of all
seasons of life, we require power, because we can enjoy everything that
we can command. What, then, is to be done? I leave the question to
the schoolmen, because I am convinced that to moralise with the
inexperienced availeth nothing.
The conduct of men depends upon their temperament, not upon a bunch of
musty maxims. No one had been educated with more care than Ferdinand
Armine; in no heart had stricter precepts of moral conduct ever been
instilled. But he was lively and impetuous, with a fiery imagination,
violent passions, and a daring soul. Sanguine he was as the day; he
could not believe in the night of sorrow, and the impenetrable gloom
that attends a career that has failed. The world was all before him; and
he dashed at it like a young charger in his first strife, confident that
he must rush to victory, and never dreaming of death.
Thus would I attempt to account for the extreme imprudence of his
conduct on his return from England. He was confident in his future
fortunes; he was excited by the applause of the men, and the admiration
of the women; he determined to gratify, even to satiety, his restless
vanity; he broke into profuse expenditure; he purchased a yacht; he
engaged a villa; his racing-horses and his servants exceeded all other
establishments, except the Governor's, in breeding, in splendour, and in
number. Occasionally wearied with the monotony of Malta, he obtained a
short leave of absence, and passed a few weeks at Naples, Palermo, and
Rome, where he glittered in brilliant circles, and whence he returned
laden with choice specimens of art and luxury, and followed by the
report of strange and flattering adventures. Finally, he was the prime
patron of the Maltese opera, and brought over a celebrated Prima Donna
from San Carlo in his own vessel.
In the midst of his career, Ferdinand received intelligence of the death
of Lord Grandison. Fortunately, when he received it he was alone; there
was no one, therefore, to witness his blank dismay when he discovered
that, after all, he was not his grandfather's heir! After a vast number
of trifling legacies to his daughters, and their husbands, and their
children, and all his favourite friends, Lord Grandison left the whole
of his property to his grand-daughter Katherine, the only remaining
child of his son, who had died early in life, and the sister of the
lately deceased Augustus.
What was to be done now? His mother's sanguine mind, for Lady Armine
broke to him the fatal intelligence, already seemed to anticipate
the only remedy for this 'unjust will.' It was a remedy delicately
intimated, but the intention fell upon a fine and ready ear. Yes! he
must marry; he must marry his cousin; he must marry Katherine Grandison.
Ferdinand looked around him at his magnificent rooms; the damask
hangings of Tunis, the tall mirrors from Marseilles, the inlaid tables,
the marble statues, and the alabaster vases that he had purchased at
Florence and at Rome, and the delicate mats that he had himself imported
from Algiers. He looked around and he shrugged his shoulders: 'All this
must be paid for,' thought he; 'and, alas! how much more!' And then came
across his mind a recollection of his father and his cares, and innocent
Armine, and dear Glastonbury, and his sacrifice. Ferdinand shook his
head and sighed.
'How have I repaid them,' thought he. 'Thank God, they know nothing.
Thank God, they have only to bear their own disappointments and their
own privations; but it is in vain to moralise. The future, not the
past, must be my motto. To retreat is impossible; I may yet advance and
conquer. Katherine Grandison: only think of my little cousin Kate for
a wife! They say that it is not the easiest task in the world to fan
a lively flame in the bosom of a cousin. The love of cousins is
proverbially not of a very romantic character. 'Tis well I have not
seen her much in my life, and very little of late. Familiarity breeds
contempt, they say. Will she dare to despise me?' He glanced at the
mirror. The inspection was not unsatisfactory. Plunged in profound
meditation, he paced the room.
CHAPTER II.
_In Which Captain Armine Achieves with Rapidity a Result
Which Always Requires Great Deliberation_.
It so happened that the regiment in which Captain Armine had the honour
of commanding a company was at this time under orders of immediate
recall to England; and within a month of his receipt of the fatal
intelligence of his being, as he styled it, disinherited, he was on his
way to his native land, This speedy departure was fortunate, because
it permitted him to retire before the death of Lord Grandison became
generally known, and consequently commented upon and enquired into.
Previous to quitting the garrison, Ferdinand had settled his affairs for
the time without the slightest difficulty, as he was still able to raise
any money that he required.
On arriving at Falmouth, Ferdinand learnt that his father and mother
were at Bath, on a visit to his maiden aunt, Miss Grandison, with whom
his cousin now resided. As the regiment was quartered at Exeter, he was
enabled in a very few days to obtain leave of absence and join them. In
the first rapture of meeting all disappointment was forgotten, and in
the course of a day or two, when this sentiment had somewhat subsided,
Ferdinand perceived that the shock which his parents must have
necessarily experienced was already considerably softened by
the prospect in which they secretly indulged, and which various
circumstances combined in inducing them to believe was by no means a
visionary one.
His cousin Katherine was about his own age; mild, elegant, and pretty.
Being fair, she looked extremely well in her deep mourning. She was
not remarkable for the liveliness of her mind, yet not devoid of
observation, although easily influenced by those whom she loved, and
with whom she lived. Her maiden aunt evidently exercised a powerful
control over her conduct and opinions; and Lady Armine was a favourite
sister of this maiden aunt. Without, therefore, apparently directing
her will, there was no lack of effort from this quarter to predispose
Katherine in favour of her cousin. She heard so much of her cousin
Ferdinand, of his beauty, and his goodness, and his accomplishments,
that she had looked forward to his arrival with feelings of no ordinary
interest. And, indeed, if the opinions and sentiments of those with
whom she lived could influence, there was no need of any artifice to
predispose her in favour of her cousin. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine
were wrapped up in their son. They seemed scarcely to have another idea,
feeling, or thought in the world, but his existence and his felicity;
and although their good sense had ever preserved them from the silly
habit of uttering his panegyric in his presence, they amply compensated
for this painful restraint when he was away. Then he was ever,
the handsomest, the cleverest, the most accomplished, and the most
kind-hearted and virtuous of his sex. Fortunate the parents blessed with
such a son! thrice fortunate the wife blessed with such a husband!
It was therefore with no ordinary emotion that Katherine Grandison heard
that this perfect cousin Ferdinand had at length arrived. She had seen
little of him even in his boyish days, and even then he was rather a
hero in their Lilliputian circle.
Ferdinand Armine was always looked up to at Grandison, and always spoken
of by her grandfather as a very fine fellow indeed; a wonderfully
fine fellow, his favourite grandson, Ferdinand Armine: and now he had
arrived. His knock was heard at the door, his step was on the stairs,
the door opened, and certainly his first appearance did not disappoint
his cousin Kate. So handsome, so easy, so gentle, and so cordial; they
were all the best friends in a moment. Then he embraced his father with
such fervour, and kissed his mother with such fondness: it was evident
that he had an excellent heart. His arrival indeed, was a revolution.
Their mourning days seemed at once to disappear; and although they of
course entered society very little, and never frequented any public
amusement, it seemed to Katherine that all of a sudden she lived in a
round of delightful gaiety. Ferdinand was so amusing and so
accomplished! He sang with her, he played with her; he was always
projecting long summer rides and long summer walks. Then his
conversation was so different from everything to which she had ever
listened. He had seen so many things and so many persons; everything
that was strange, and everybody that was famous. His opinions were so
original, his illustrations so apt and lively, his anecdotes so
inexhaustible and sparkling! Poor inexperienced, innocent Katherine! Her
cousin in four-and-twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall in
love with her; and so he determined to make her fall in love with him.
He quite succeeded. She adored him. She did not believe that there was
anyone in the world so handsome, so good, and so clever. No one, indeed,
who knew Ferdinand Armine could deny that he was a rare being; but, had
there been any acute and unprejudiced observers who had known him in his
younger and happier hours, they would perhaps have remarked some
difference in his character and conduct, and not a favourable one. He
was indeed more brilliant, but not quite so interesting as in old days;
far more dazzling, but not quite so apt to charm. No one could deny his
lively talents and his perfect breeding, but there was a restlessness
about him, an excited and exaggerated style, which might have made some
suspect that his demeanour was an effort, and that under a superficial
glitter, by which so many are deceived, there was no little deficiency
of the genuine and sincere. Katherine Grandison, however, was not one of
those profound observers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, who
really did not feel sufficient emotion to venture upon a scene, made his
proposals to her when they were riding in a green lane: the sun just
setting, and the evening star glittering through a vista. The lady
blushed, and wept, and sobbed, and hid her fair and streaming face; but
the result was as satisfactory as our hero could desire. The young
equestrians kept their friends in the crescent at least two hours for
dinner, and then had no appetite for the repast when they had arrived.
Nevertheless the maiden aunt, although a very particular personage, made
this day no complaint, and was evidently far from being dissatisfied
with anybody or anything. As for Ferdinand, he called for a tumbler of
champagne, and secretly drank his own health, as the luckiest fellow of
his acquaintance, with a pretty, amiable, and high-bred wife, with all
his debts paid, and the house of Armine restored.
CHAPTER III.
_Which Ferdinand Returns to Armine_.
IT WAS settled that a year must elapse from the death of Lord Grandison
before the young couple could be united: a reprieve which did not
occasion Ferdinand acute grief. In the meantime the Grandisons were
to pass at least the autumn at Armine, and thither the united families
proposed soon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who had been nearly
two months at Bath, and was a little wearied of courtship, contrived to
quit that city before his friends, on the plea of visiting London, to
arrange about selling his commission; for it was agreed that he should
quit the army.
On his arrival in London, having spoken to his agent, and finding town
quite empty, he set off immediately for Armine, in order that he might
have the pleasure of being there a few days without the society of his
intended; celebrate the impending first of September; and, especially,
embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not be supposed that Ferdinand
had forgotten for a moment this invaluable friend; on the contrary, he
had written to him several times since his arrival: always assuring him
that nothing but important business could prevent him from instantly
paying him his respects.
It was with feelings of no common emotion, even of agitation, that
Ferdinand beheld the woods of his ancient home rise in the distance, and
soon the towers and turrets of Armine Castle. Those venerable bowers,
that proud and lordly house, were not then to pass away from their old
and famous line? He had redeemed the heritage of his great ancestry; he
looked with unmingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, once
to him a source of as much anxiety as affection. What a change in
the destiny of the Armines! Their glory restored; his own devoted and
domestic hearth, once the prey of so much care and gloom, crowned with
ease and happiness and joy; on all sides a career of splendour and
felicity. And _he_ had done all this! What a prophet was his mother!
She had ever indulged the fond conviction that her beloved, son would
be their restorer. How wise and pious was the undeviating confidence of
kind old Glastonbury in their fate! With what pure, what heart-felt
delight, would that faithful friend listen to his extraordinary
communication!
His carriage dashed through the park gates as if the driver were
sensible of his master's pride and exultation. Glastonbury was ready to
welcome him, standing in the flower-garden, which he had made so rich
and beautiful, and which had been the charm and consolation of many of
their humbler hours.
'My dear, dear father!' exclaimed Ferdinand, embracing him, for thus he
ever styled his old tutor.
But Glastonbury could not speak; the tears quivered in his eyes and
trickled down his faded cheek. Ferdinand led him into the house.
'How well you look, dear father!' continued Ferdinand; 'you really look
younger and heartier than ever. You received all my letters, I am sure;
and yours, how kind of you to remember and to write to me! I never
forgot you, my dear, dear friend. I never could forget you. Do you know
I am the happiest fellow in the world? I have the greatest news in the
world to tell my Glastonbury--and we owe everything to you, everything.
What would Sir Ratcliffe have been without you? what should I have been?
Fancy the best news you can, dear friend, and it is not so good as I
have got to tell. You will rejoice, you will be delighted! We shall
furnish a castle! by Jove we shall furnish a castle! We shall indeed,
and you shall build it! No more gloom; no more care. The Armines shall
hold their heads up again, by Jove they shall! Dearest of men, I dare
say you think me mad. I am mad with joy. How that Virginian creeper has
grown! I have brought you so many plants, my father! a complete Sicilian
Hortus Siccus. Ah, John, good John, how is your wife? Take care of my
pistol-case. Ask Louis; he knows all about everything. Well, dear
Glastonbury, and how have you been? How is the old tower? How are the
old books, and the old staff, and the old arms, and the old everything?
Dear, dear Glastonbury!'
While the carriage was unpacking, and the dinner-table prepared, the
friends walked in the garden, and from thence strolled towards the
tower, where they remained some time pacing up and down the beechen
avenue. It was evident, on their return, that Ferdinand had communicated
his great intelligence. The countenance of Glastonbury was radiant with
delight.
Indeed, although he had dined, he accepted with readiness Ferdinand's
invitation to repeat the ceremony; nay, he quaffed more than one glass
of wine; and, I believe, even drank the health of every member of
the united families of Armine and Grandison. It was late before the
companions parted, and retired for the night; and I think, before
they bade each other good night, they must have talked over every
circumstance that had occurred in their experience since the birth of
Ferdinand.
CHAPTER IV.
_In Which Some Light Is Thrown on the Title of This Work_.
HOW delicious after a long absence to wake on a sunny morning and find
ourselves at home! Ferdinand could scarcely credit that he was really
again at Armine. He started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes and
stared at the unaccustomed, yet familiar sights, and for a moment Malta
and the Royal Fusiliers, Bath and his betrothed, were all a dream; and
then he remembered the visit of his dear mother to this very room on the
eve of his first departure. He had returned; in safety had he returned,
and in happiness, to accomplish all her hopes and to reward her for all
her solicitude. Never felt anyone more content than Ferdinand Armine,
more content and more grateful.
He rose and opened the casement; a rich and exhilarating perfume filled
the chamber; he looked with a feeling of delight and pride over the
broad and beautiful park; the tall trees rising and flinging their
taller shadows over the bright and dewy turf, and the last mists
clearing away from the distant woods and blending with the spotless sky.
Everything was sweet and still, save, indeed, the carol of the birds, or
the tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was a rich autumnal morn. And
yet with all the excitement of his new views in life, and the blissful
consciousness of the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feel
that a great change had come over his spirit since the days he was wont
to ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. His innocence was gone. Life
was no longer that deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from which
he had been roused to so much care; and if not remorse, at least to
so much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence was not then a
subterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene enjoyment. Feelings
then were not compromised for interests; and then it was the excellent
that was studied, not the expedient. 'Yet such I suppose is life,'
murmured Ferdinand; 'we moralise when it is too late; nor is there
anything more silly than to regret. One event makes another: what we
anticipate seldom occurs; what we least expected generally happens; and
time can only prove which is most for our advantage. And surely I am
the last person who should look grave. Our ancient house rises from
its ruins; the beings I love most in the world are not only happy, but
indebted to me for their happiness; and I, I myself, with every gift
of fortune suddenly thrown at my feet, what more can I desire? Am I
not satisfied? Why do I even ask the question? I am sure I know not. It
rises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. The girl is
young, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her? I love her, at least I
suppose I love her. I love her at any rate as much as I love, or ever
did love, woman. There is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; there
should be none; there is none; unless indeed it be that a man does
not like to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance and
rapture.
'I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost wish that I had no
father and no mother; ay! not a single friend or relative in the world,
and that Armine were sunk into the very centre of the earth. If I stood
alone in the world methinks I might find the place that suits me; now
everything seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My spirit has
had no play. Something whispers me that, with all its flush prosperity,
this is neither wise nor well. God knows I am not heartless, and would
be grateful; and yet if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than I
have yet experienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its sweet
reflections, as little better than a dull delusion.'
While Ferdinand was thus moralising at the casement, Glastonbury
appeared beneath; and his appearance dissipated this gathering gloom.
'Let us breakfast together,' proposed Ferdinand. 'I have breakfasted
these two hours,' replied the hermit of the gate. 'I hope that on the
first night of your return to Armine you have proved auspicious dreams.'
'My bed and I are old companions,' said Ferdinand, 'and we agreed
very well. I tell you what, my dear Glastonbury, we will have a stroll
together this morning and talk over our plans of last night. Go into
the library and look over my sketch-books: you will find them on my
pistol-case, and I will be with you anon.'
In due time the friends commenced their ramble. Ferdinand soon became
excited by Glastonbury's various suggestions for the completion of
the castle; and as for the old man himself, between his architectural
creation and the restoration of the family to which he had been so long
devoted, he was in a rapture of enthusiasm, which afforded an amusing
contrast to his usual meek and subdued demeanour.
'Your grandfather was a great man,' said Glastonbury, who in old days
seldom ventured to mention the name of the famous Sir Ferdinand: 'there
is no doubt he was a very great man. He had great ideas. How he would
glory in our present prospects! 'Tis strange what a strong confidence I
have ever had in the destiny of your house. I felt sure that Providence
would not desert us. There is no doubt we must have a portcullis.'
'Decidedly, a portcullis,' said Ferdinand; 'you shall make all the
drawings yourself, my dear Glastonbury, and supervise everything. We
will not have a single anachronism. It shall be perfect.'
'Perfect,' echoed Glastonbury; 'really perfect. It shall be a perfect
Gothic castle. I have such treasures for the work. All the labours of
my life have tended to this object. I have all the emblazonings of your
house since the Conquest. There shall be three hundred shields in the
hall. I will paint them myself. Oh! there is no place in the world like
Armine!'
'Nothing,' said Ferdinand; 'I have seen a great deal, but after all
there is nothing like Armine.'
'Had we been born to this splendour,' said Glastonbury, 'we should have
thought little of it. We have been mildly and wisely chastened. I cannot
sufficiently admire the wisdom of Providence, which has tempered, by
such a wise dispensation, the too-eager blood of your race.'
'I should be sorry to pull down the old place,' said Ferdinand.
'It must not be,' said Glastonbury; 'we have lived there happily, though
humbly.'
'I would we could move it to another part of the park, like the house of
Loretto,' said Ferdinand with a smile.
'We can cover it with ivy,' observed Glastonbury, looking somewhat
grave.
The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and prospects. At
length the friends parted, agreeing to meet again at dinner. Glastonbury
repaired to his tower, and Ferdinand, taking his gun, sauntered into the
surrounding wilderness.
But he felt no inclination for sport. The conversation with Glastonbury
had raised a thousand thoughts over which he longed to brood. His
life had been a scene of such constant excitement since his return to
England, that he had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calm
self-communion; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, the contrast
between his past and his present situation struck him so forcibly that
he could not refrain from falling into a reverie upon his fortunes. It
was wonderful, all wonderful, very, very wonderful. There seemed indeed,
as Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the whole
transaction. The fall of his family, the heroic, and, as it now
appeared, prescient firmness with which his father had clung, in all
their deprivations, to his unproductive patrimony, his own education,
the extinction of his mother's house, his very follies, once to him a
cause of so much unhappiness, but which it now seemed were all the time
compelling him, as it were, to his prosperity; all these and a thousand
other traits and circumstances flitted over his mind, and were each in
turn the subject of his manifold meditation. Willing was he to credit
that destiny had reserved for him the character of restorer; that duty
indeed he had accepted, and yet----
He looked around him as if to see what devil was whispering in his
ear. He was alone. No one was there or near. Around him rose the
silent bowers, and scarcely the voice of a bird or the hum of an insect
disturbed the deep tranquillity. But a cloud seemed to rest on the fair
and pensive brow of Ferdinand Armine. He threw himself on the turf,
leaning his head on one hand, and with the other plucking the wild
flowers, which he as hastily, almost as fretfully, flung away.
'Conceal it as I will,' he exclaimed, 'I am a victim; disguise them as
I may, all the considerations are worldly. There is, there must be,
something better in this world than power and wealth and rank; and
surely there must be felicity more rapturous even than securing the
happiness of a parent. Ah! dreams in which I have so oft and so fondly
indulged, are ye, indeed, after all, but fantastical and airy visions?
Is love indeed a delusion, or am I marked out from men alone to be
exempted from its delicious bondage? It must be a delusion. All laugh
at it, all jest about it, all agree in stigmatising it the vanity of
vanities. And does my experience contradict this harsh but common fame?
Alas! what have I seen or known to give the lie to this ill report?
No one, nothing. Some women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, than
Kate, and many, many less fair; and some have crossed my path with a
wild and brilliant grace, that has for a moment dazzled my sight, and
perhaps for a moment lured me from my way. But these shooting stars
have but glittered transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by their
evanescent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me believe then,
oh! let me of all men then believe, that the forms that inspire
the sculptor and the painter have no models in nature; that that
combination of beauty and grace, of fascinating intelligence and
fond devotion, over which men brood in the soft hours of their young
loneliness, is but the promise of a better world, and not the charm of
this one.
'But, what terror in that truth! what despair! what madness! Yes!
at this moment of severest scrutiny, how profoundly I feel that life
without love is worse than death! How vain and void, how flat and
fruitless, appear all those splendid accidents of existence for which
men struggle, without this essential and pervading charm! What a world
without a sun! Yes! without this transcendent sympathy, riches and rank,
and even power and fame, seem to me at best but jewels set in a coronet
of lead!
'And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of whose magnificent
yet ruinous career this castle is in truth a fitting emblem--I say, who
knows whether the secret of his wild and restless course is not hidden
in this same sad lack of love? Perhaps while the world, the silly,
superficial world, marvelled and moralised at his wanton life, and
poured forth its anathemas against his heartless selfishness, perchance
he all the time was sighing for some soft bosom whereon to pour his
overwhelming passion, even as I am!
'O Nature! why art thou beautiful? My heart requires not, imagination
cannot paint, a sweeter or a fairer scene than these surrounding bowers.
This azazure vault of heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep and
blending shade, these rare and fragrant shrubs, yon grove of green and
tallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned lake; my
soul is charmed with all this beauty and this sweetness; I feel no
disappointment here; my mind does not here outrun reality; here there
is no cause to mourn over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires. Is it
then my destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires of
my heart?'
At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his dogs at some little
distance roused Ferdinand from his reverie. He called them to him,
and soon one of them obeyed his summons, but instantly returned to his
companion with such significant gestures, panting and yelping, that
Ferdinand supposed that Basto was caught, perhaps, in some trap: so,
taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's rescue.
To his surprise, as he was about to emerge from a berceau on to a plot
of turf, in the centre of which grew a large cedar, he beheld a lady
in a riding-habit standing before the tree, and evidently admiring its
beautiful proportions.
[Illustration: page094.jpg]
Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed to him that it was
more radiant than the sunshine. He gazed with rapture on the dazzling
brilliancy of her complexion, the delicate regularity of her features,
and the large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and the
darkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position her hat had
fallen back, revealing her lofty and pellucid brow, and the dark and
lustrous locks that were braided over her temples. The whole countenance
combined that brilliant health and that classic beauty which we
associate with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew-bespangled
meads of Ida, or glancing amid the hallowed groves of Greece. Although
the lady could scarcely have seen eighteen summers, her stature was
above the common height; but language cannot describe the startling
symmetry of her superb figure.
There is no love but love at first sight. This is the transcendent and
surpassing offspring of sheer and unpolluted sympathy. All other is the
illegitimate result of observation, of reflection, of compromise, of
comparison, of expediency. The passions that endure flash like the
lightning: they scorch the soul, but it is warmed for ever. Miserable
man whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid morning of his mind!
Some hours indeed of warmth and lustre may perchance fall to his lot;
some moments of meridian splendour, in which he basks in what he deems
eternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the clouds of care, how
often dusked by the blight of misery and misfortune! And certain as the
gradual rise of such affection is its gradual decline and melancholy
setting. Then, in the chill, dim twilight of his soul, he execrates
custom; because he has madly expected that feelings could be habitual
that were not homogeneous, and because he has been guided by the
observation of sense, and not by the inspiration of sympathy.
Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to behold a beautiful
being, and as instantaneously to feel an overwhelming conviction that
with that fair form for ever our destiny must be entwined; that there is
no more joy but in her joy, no sorrow but when she grieves; that in her
sigh of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter all is bliss; to
feel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivelled gourd before her
vision; to feel fame a juggle and posterity a lie; and to be prepared at
once, for this great object, to forfeit and fling away all former hopes,
ties, schemes, views; to violate in her favour every duty of society;
this is a lover, and this is love! Magnificent, sublime, divine
sentiment! An immortal flame burns in the breast of that man who adores
and is adored. He is an ethereal being. The accidents of earth touch him
not. Revolutions of empire, changes of creed, mutations of opinion,
are to him but the clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes and
struggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties of pigmies
and the fantastical achievements of apes. Nothing can subdue him. He
laughs alike at loss of fortune, loss of friends, loss of character. The
deeds and thoughts of men are tor him equally indifferent. He does not
mingle in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible to
the airy impostures before which they bow down. He is a mariner who, on
the sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly on a single star; and if that do
not shine, he lets go the rudder, and glories when his barque descends
into the bottomless gulf.
Yes! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the heart of Ferdinand
Armine, as, pale and trembling, he withdrew a few paces from the
overwhelming spectacle, and leant against a tree in a chaos of emotion.
What had he seen? What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight? What
did he feel? What wild, what delicious, what maddening impulse now
pervaded his frame? A storm seemed raging in his soul, a mighty wind
dispelling in its course the sullen clouds and vapours of long years.
Silent he was indeed, for he was speechless; though the big drop that
quivered on his brow and the slight foam that played upon his lip proved
the difficult triumph of passion over expression. But, as the wind
clears the heaven, passion eventually tranquillises the soul. The tumult
of his mind gradually subsided; the flitting memories, the scudding
thoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such wild order,
vanished and melted away, and a feeling of bright serenity succeeded, a
sense of beauty and of joy, and of hovering and circumambient happiness.
He advanced, and gazed again; the lady was still there. Changed indeed
her position; she had gathered a flower and was examining its beauty.
'Henrietta!' exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoining wood. Before
she could answer, a stranger came forward, a man of middle age but of
an appearance remarkably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, fair,
with an aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed him barking.
'I cannot find the gardener anywhere,' said the stranger; 'I think we
had better remount.'
'Ah, me! what a pity!' exclaimed the lady.
'Let me be your guide,' said Ferdinand, advancing.
The lady rather started; the gentleman, not at all discomposed,
courteously welcomed Ferdinand, and said, 'I feel that we are
intruders, sir. But we were informed by the woman at the lodge that the
family were not here at present, and that we should find her husband in
the grounds.'
'The family are not at Armine,' replied Ferdinand; 'I am sure, however,
Sir Ratcliffe would be most happy for you to walk about the grounds as
much as you please; and as I am well acquainted with them, I should feel
delighted to be your guide.'
'You are really too courteous, sir,' replied the gentleman; and his
beautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand with a smile like a sunbeam, that
played about her countenance till it finally settled into two exquisite
dimples, and revealed to him teeth that, for a moment, he believed to be
even the most beautiful feature of that surpassing visage.
They sauntered along, every step developing new beauties in their
progress and eliciting from his companions renewed expressions of
rapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, the tall rare trees, the
luxuriant shrubs, the silent and sequestered lake, in turn enchanted
them, until at length, Ferdinand, who had led them with experienced
taste through all the most striking points of the pleasaunce, brought
them before the walls of the castle.
'And here is Armine Castle,' he said; 'it is little better than a shell,
and yet contains something which you might like to see.'
'Oh! by all means,' exclaimed the lady.
'But we are spoiling your sport,' suggested the gentleman.
'I can always kill partridges,' replied Ferdinand, laying down his gun;
'but I cannot always find agreeable companions.'
So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle and they entered
the hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimensions large enough to feast
a thousand vassals, with a dais and a rich Gothic screen, and a gallery
for the musicians. The walls were hung with arms and armour admirably
arranged; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so covered with
piled-up cases of furniture that the general effect of the scene, was
not only greatly marred, but it was even difficult in some parts to
trace a path.
'Here,' said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case and running to the
wall, 'here is the standard of Ralph d'Ermyn, who came over with the
Conqueror, and founded the family in England. Here is the sword of
William d'Armyn, who signed Magna Carta. Here is the complete coat
armour of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. This case contains
a diamond-hilted sword, given by the Empress to the great Sir Ferdinand
for defeating the Turks; and here is a Mameluke sabre, given to the same
Sir Ferdinand by the Sultan for defeating the Empress.'
'Oh! I have heard so much of that great Sir Ferdinand,' said the lady.
'He must have been the most interesting character.'
'He was a marvellous being,' answered her guide, with a peculiar look,
'and yet I know not whether his descendants have not cause to rue his
genius.'
'Oh! never, never!' said the lady; 'what is wealth to genius? How much
prouder, were I an Armine, should I be of such an ancestor than of a
thousand others, even if they had left me this castle as complete as he
wished it to be!'
'Well, as to that,' replied Ferdinand, 'I believe I am somewhat of your
opinion; though I fear he lived in too late an age for such order of
minds. It would have been better for him perhaps if he had succeeded in
becoming King of Poland.'
'I hope there is a portrait of him,' said the lady; 'there is nothing I
long so much to see.'
'I rather think there is a portrait,' replied her companion, somewhat
drily. 'We will try to find it out. Do not you think I make not a bad
cicerone?'
'Indeed, most excellent,' replied the lady.
'I perceive you are a master of your subject,' replied the gentleman,
thus affording Ferdinand an easy opportunity of telling them who he was.
The hint, however, was not accepted.
'And now,' said Ferdinand, 'we will ascend the staircase.'
Accordingly they mounted a large spiral staircase which filled the space
of a round tower, and was lighted from the top by a lantern of rich,
coloured glass on which were emblazoned the arms of the family. Then
they entered the vestibule, an apartment spacious enough for a salon;
which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but of which the
painted ceiling, the gilded panels, and inlaid floor were more suitable
to a French palace. The brilliant doors of this vestibule opened in many
directions upon long suites of state chambers, which indeed merited the
description of shells. They were nothing more; of many the flooring was
not even laid down; the walls of all were rough and plastered.
'Ah!' said the lady, 'what a pity it is not finished!'
'It is indeed desolate,' observed Ferdinand; 'but here perhaps is
something more to your taste.' So saying, he opened another door and
ushered them into the picture gallery.
It was a superb chamber nearly two hundred feet in length, and contained
only portraits of the family, or pictures of their achievements. It was
of a pale green colour, lighted from the top; and the floor, of oak and
ebony, was partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of fanciful
pattern and brilliant dye, a present from the Sultan to the great Sir
Ferdinand. The earlier annals of the family were illustrated by a series
of paintings by modern masters, representing the battle of Hastings,
the siege of Ascalon, the meeting at Runnymede, the various invasions
of France, and some of the most striking incidents in the Wars of the
Roses, in all of which a valiant Armyn prominently figured. At length
they stood before the first contemporary portrait of the Armyn family,
one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by an Italian master. This great
dignitary was legate of the Pope in the time of the seventh Henry,
and in his scarlet robes and ivory chair looked a papal Jupiter, not
unworthy himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him the
series of family portraits was unbroken; and it was very interesting to
trace, in this excellently arranged collection, the history of national
costume. Holbein had commemorated the Lords Tewkesbury, rich in velvet,
and golden chains, and jewels. The statesmen of Elizabeth and James,
and their beautiful and gorgeous dames, followed; and then came many
a gallant cavalier, by Vandyke. One admirable picture contained Lord
Armine and his brave brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum,
on which his lordship was apparently planning the operations of the
campaign. Then followed a long series of un-memorable baronets, and
their more interesting wives and daughters, touched by the pencil of
Kneller, of Lely, or of Hudson; squires in wigs and scarlet jackets,
and powdered dames in hoops and farthingales.
They stood before the crowning effort of the gallery, the masterpiece
of Reynolds. It represented a full-length portrait of a young man,
apparently just past his minority. The side of the figure was alone
exhibited, and the face glanced at the spectator over the shoulder, in
a favourite attitude of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. A
profusion of dark brown curls was dashed aside from a lofty forehead of
dazzling brilliancy. The face was perfectly oval; the nose, though
small was high and aquiline, and exhibited a remarkable dilation of the
nostril; the curling lip was shaded by a very delicate mustache; and
the general expression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large grey
eyes would have been perhaps arrogant and imperious, had not the
extraordinary beauty of the whole countenance rendered it fascinating.
It was indeed a picture to gaze upon and to return to; one of those
visages which, after having once beheld, haunt us at all hours and flit
across our mind's eye unexpected and unbidden. So great was the effect
that it produced upon the present visitors to the gallery, that they
stood before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutinising glance
of the gentleman was more than once diverted from the portrait to the
countenance of his conductor, and the silence was eventually broken by
our hero.
'And what think you,' he enquired, 'of the famous Sir Ferdinand?'
The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, and appeared
somewhat confused. Her companion replied, 'I think, sir, I cannot err in
believing that I am indebted for much courtesy to his descendant?'
'I believe,' said Ferdinand, 'that I should not have much trouble in
proving my pedigree. I am generally considered an ugly likeness of my
grandfather.'
The gentleman smiled, and then said, 'I hardly know whether I can style
myself your neighbour, for I live nearly ten miles distant. It would,
however, afford me sincere gratification to see you at Ducie Bower.
I cannot welcome you in a castle. My name is Temple,' he continued,
offering his card to Ferdinand. 'I need not now introduce you to my
daughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffe Armine had a son, but I
had understood he was abroad.'
'I have returned to England within these two months,' replied Ferdinand,
'and to Armine within these two days. I deem it fortunate that my return
has afforded me an opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But you
must not talk of our castle, for that you know is our folly. Pray come
now and visit our older and humbler dwelling, and take some refreshment
after your long ride.'
This offer was declined, but with great courtesy. They quitted the
castle, and Mr. Temple was about to direct his steps towards the lodge,
where he had left his own and his daughter's horses; but Ferdinand
persuaded them to return through the park, which he proved to them very
satisfactorily must be the nearest way. He even asked permission to
accompany them; and while his groom was saddling his horse he led them
to the old Place and the flower-garden.
'You must be very fatigued, Miss Temple. I wish that I could persuade
you to enter and rest yourself.'
'Indeed, no: I love flowers too much to leave them.'
'Here is one that has the recommendation of novelty as well as beauty,'
said Ferdinand, plucking a strange rose, and presenting it to her. 'I
sent it to my mother from Barbary.'
'You live amidst beauty.'
'I think that I never remember Armine looking so well as to-day.'
'A sylvan scene requires sunshine,' replied Miss Temple. 'We have been
most fortunate in our visit.'
'It is something brighter than the sunshine that makes it so fair,'
replied Ferdinand; but at this moment the horses appeared.
CHAPTER V.
_In Which Captain Armine Is Very Absent during Dinner_.
YOU are well mounted,' said Mr. Temple to Ferdinand.
''Tis a barb. I brought it over with me.'
''Tis a beautiful creature,' said Miss Temple.
'Hear that, Selim,' said Ferdinand; 'prick up thine ears, my steed. I
perceive that you are an accomplished horsewoman, Miss Temple. You know
our country, I dare say, well?'
'I wish to know it better. This is only the second summer that we have
passed at Ducie.'
'By-the-bye, I suppose you know my landlord, Captain Armine?' said Mr.
Temple.
'No,' said Ferdinand; 'I do not know a single person in the county. I
have myself scarcely been at Armine for these five years, and my father
and mother do not visit anyone.'
'What a beautiful oak!' exclaimed Miss Temple, desirous of turning the
conversation.
'It has the reputation of being planted by Sir Francis Walsingham,' said
Ferdinand. 'An ancestor of mine married his daughter. He was the father
of Sir Walsingham, the portrait in the gallery with the white stick. You
remember it?'
'Perfectly: that beautiful portrait! It must be, at all events, a very
old tree.'
'There are few things more pleasing to me than an ancient place,' said
Mr. Temple.
'Doubly pleasing when in the possession of an ancient family,' added his
daughter.
'I fear such feelings are fast wearing away,' said Ferdinand.
'There will be a reaction,' said Mr. Temple.
'They cannot destroy the poetry of time,' said the lady.
'I hope I have no very inveterate prejudices,' said Ferdinand; 'but
I should be sorry to see Armine in any other hands than our own, I
confess.'
'I never would enter the park again,' said Miss Temple.
'So far as worldly considerations are concerned,' continued Ferdinand,
'it would perhaps be much better for us if we were to part with it.'
'It must, indeed, be a costly place to keep up,' said Mr. Temple.
'Why, as for that,' said Ferdinand, 'we let the kine rove and the sheep
browse where our fathers hunted the stag and flew their falcons. I think
if they were to rise from their graves they would be ashamed of us.'
'Nay!' said Miss Temple, 'I think yonder cattle are very picturesque.
But the truth is, anything would look well in such a park as this. There
is such a variety of prospect.'
The park of Armine indeed differed materially from those vamped-up
sheep-walks and ambitious paddocks which are now honoured with the
title. It was, in truth, the old chase, and little shorn of its original
proportions. It was many miles in circumference, abounding in hill and
dale, and offering much variety of appearance. Sometimes it was studded
with ancient timber, single trees of extraordinary growth, and rich
clumps that seemed coeval with the foundation of the family. Tracts of
wild champaign succeeded these, covered with gorse and fern. Then came
stately avenues of sycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments of stately
woods, that in old days doubtless reached the vicinity of the mansion
house; and these were in turn succeeded by modern coverts.
At length our party reached the gate whence Ferdinand had calculated
that they should quit the park. He would willingly have accompanied
them. He bade them farewell with regret, which was softened by the hope
expressed by all of a speedy meeting.
'I wish, Captain Armine,' said Miss Temple, 'we had your turf to canter
home upon.'
'By-the-bye, Captain Armine,' said Mr. Temple, 'ceremony should scarcely
subsist between country neighbours, and certainly we have given you no
cause to complain of our reserve. As you are alone at Armine, perhaps
you would come over and dine with us to-morrow. If you can manage to
come early, we will see whether we may not contrive to kill a bird
together; and pray remember we can give you a bed, which I think, all
things considered, it would be but wise to accept.'
'I accept everything,' said Ferdinand, smiling; 'all your offers. Good
morning, my dearest sir; good morning, Miss Temple.'
'Miss Temple, indeed!' exclaimed Ferdinand, when he had watched them
out of sight. 'Exquisite, enchanting, adored being! Without thee what is
existence? How dull, how blank does everything even now seem! It is as
if the sun had just set! Oh! that form! that radiant countenance! that
musical and thrilling voice! Those tones still vibrate on my ear, or I
should deem it all a vision! Will to-morrow ever come? Oh! that I
could express to you my love, my overwhelming, my absorbing, my burning
passion! Beautiful Henrietta! Thou hast a name, methinks, I ever loved.
Where am I? what do I say? what wild, what maddening words are these? Am
I not Ferdinand Armine, the betrothed, the victim? Even now, methinks, I
hear the chariot-wheels of my bride. God! if she be there; if she indeed
be at Armine on my return: I'll not see her; I'll not speak to them;
I'll fly. I'll cast to the winds all ties and duties; I will not be
dragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to redeem, by my forfeited
felicity, the worldly fortunes of my race. O Armine, Armine! she would
not enter thy walls again if other blood but mine swayed thy fair
demesne: and I, shall I give thee another mistress, Armine? It would
indeed be treason! Without her I cannot live. Without her form bounds
over this turf and glances in these arbours I never wish to view them.
All the inducements to make the wretched sacrifice once meditated then
vanish; for Armine, without her, is a desert, a tomb, a hell. I am free,
then. Excellent logician! But this woman: I am bound to her. Bound? The
word makes me tremble. I shiver: I hear the clank of my fetters. Am I
indeed bound? Ay! in honour. Honour and love! A contest! Pah! The Idol
must yield to the Divinity!'
With these wild words and wilder thoughts bursting from his lips and
dashing through his mind; his course as irregular and as reckless as
his fancies; now fiercely galloping, now pulling up into a sudden halt,
Ferdinand at length arrived home; and his quick eye perceived in a
moment that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. Glastonbury was in
the flower-garden on one knee before a vase, over which he was training
a creeper. He looked up as he heard the approach of Ferdinand. His
presence and benignant smile in some degree stilled the fierce emotions
of his pupil. Ferdinand felt that the system of dissimulation must now
commence; besides, he was always careful to be most kind to Glastonbury.
He would not allow that any attack of spleen, or even illness, could
ever justify a careless look or expression to that dear friend.
'I hope, my dear father,' said Ferdinand, 'I am punctual to our hour?'
'The sun-dial tells me,' said Glastonbury, 'that you have arrived to
the moment; and I rather think that yonder approaches a summons to our
repast. I hope you have passed your morning agreeably?'
'If all days would pass as sweet, my father, I should indeed be
blessed.'
'I, too, have had a fine morning of it. You must come to-morrow and see
my grand emblazonry of the Ratcliffe and Armine coats; I mean it for the
gallery.' With these words they entered the Place.
'You do not eat, my child,' said Glastonbury to his companion.
'I have taken too long a ride, perhaps,' said Ferdinand: who indeed was
much too excited to have an appetite, and so abstracted that anyone but
Glastonbury would have long before detected his absence.
'I have changed my hour to-day,' continued Glastonbury, 'for the
pleasure of dining with you, and I think to-morrow you had better change
your hour and dine with me.'
'By-the-bye, my dear father, you, who know everything, do you happen to
know a gentleman of the name of Temple in this neighbourhood?'
'I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the Bower to a gentleman of that
name.'
'Do you know who he is?'
'I never asked; for I feel no interest except about proprietors, because
they enter into my County History. But I think I once heard that this
Mr. Temple had been our minister at some foreign court. You give me a
fine dinner and eat nothing yourself. This pigeon is savoury.'
'I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta Armine, my
father?'
'The beautiful creature!' said Glastonbury, laying down his knife and
fork; 'she died young. She was a daughter of Lord Armine; and the Queen,
Henrietta Maria, was her godmother. It grieves me much that we have no
portrait of her. She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet light blue.'
'Oh! no; dark, my father; dark and deep as the violet.'
'My child, the letter-writer, who mentions her death, describes them as
light blue. I know of no other record of her beauty.'
'I wish they had been dark,' said Ferdinand recovering himself;
'however, I am glad there was a Henrietta Armine; 'tis a beautiful
name.'
'I think that Armine makes any name sound well,' said Glastonbury. 'No
more wine indeed, my child. Nay! if I must,' continued he, with a most
benevolent smile, 'I will drink to the health of Miss Grandison!'
'Ah!' exclaimed Ferdinand.
'My child, what is the matter?' inquired Glastonbury.
'A gnat, a fly, a wasp! something stung me,' said Ferdinand.
'Let me fetch my oil of lilies,' said Glastonbury; ''tis a specific'
'Oh, no! 'tis nothing, only a fly: sharp at the moment; nothing more.'
The dinner was over; they retired to the library. Ferdinand walked
about the room restless and moody; at length he bethought himself of the
piano, and, affecting an anxiety to hear some old favourite compositions
of Glastonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. In time, however,
his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello and join him in a
concerto. Ferdinand of course complied with his invitation, but the
result was not satisfactory. After a series of blunders, which were the
natural result of his thoughts being occupied on other subjects, he was
obliged to plead a headache, and was glad when he could escape to his
chamber.
Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillow. It was at first
delightful to escape from the restraint upon his reverie which he had
lately experienced. He leant for an hour over his empty fireplace in
mute abstraction. The cold, however, in time drove him to bed, but
he could not sleep; his eyes indeed were closed, but the vision of
Henrietta Temple was not less apparent to him. He recalled every feature
of her countenance, every trait of her conduct, every word that she had
expressed. The whole series of her observations, from the moment he
had first seen her until the moment they had parted, were accurately
repeated, her very tones considered, and her very attitudes pondered
over. Many were the hours that he heard strike; he grew restless and
feverish. Sleep would not be commanded; he jumped out of bed, he opened
the casement, he beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of which
he had presented her a flower. This consoling spectacle assured him that
he had not been, as he had almost imagined, the victim of a dream. He
knelt down and invoked all heavenly and earthly blessings on Henrietta
Temple and his love. The night air and the earnest invocation together
cooled his brain, and Nature soon delivered him, exhausted, to repose.
CHAPTER VI.
_In Which Captain Armine Pays His First Visit to
Ducie_.
YES! it is the morning. Is it possible? Shall he again behold her? That
form of surpassing beauty: that bright, that dazzling countenance; again
are they to bless his entranced vision? Shall he speak to her again?
That musical and thrilling voice, shall it again sound and echo in his
enraptured ear?
Ferdinand had reached Armine so many days before his calculated arrival,
that he did not expect his family and the Grandisons to arrive for at
least a week. What a respite did he not now feel this delay! if ever he
could venture to think of the subject at all. He drove it indeed
from his thoughts; the fascinating present completely engrossed his
existence. He waited until the post arrived; it brought no letters,
letters now so dreaded! He jumped upon his horse and galloped towards
Ducie.
Mr. Temple was the younger son of a younger branch of a noble family.
Inheriting no patrimony, he had been educated for the diplomatic
service, and the influence of his family had early obtained him
distinguished appointments. He was envoy to a German court when a change
of ministry occasioned his recall, and he retired, after a long career
of able and assiduous service, comforted by a pension and glorified by a
privy-councillorship. He was an acute and accomplished man, practised
in the world, with great self-control, yet devoted to his daughter, the
only offspring of a wife whom he had lost early and loved much.
Deprived at a tender age of that parent of whom she would have become
peculiarly the charge, Henrietta Temple found in the devotion of her
father all that consolation of which her forlorn state was susceptible.
She was not delivered over to the custody of a governess, or to the even
less sympathetic supervision of relations. Mr. Temple never permitted
his daughter to be separated from him; he cherished her life, and he
directed her education. Resident in a city which arrogates to itself,
not without justice, the title of the German Athens, his pupil availed
herself of all those advantages which were offered to her by the
instruction of the most skilful professors. Few persons were more
accomplished than Henrietta Temple even at an early age; but her rare
accomplishments were not her most remarkable characteristics. Nature,
which had accorded to her that extraordinary beauty we have attempted
to describe, had endowed her with great talents and a soul of sublime
temper.
It was often remarked of Henrietta Temple (and the circumstance may
doubtless be in some degree accounted for by the little interference
and influence of women in her education) that she never was a girl. She
expanded at once from a charming child into a magnificent woman. She had
entered life very early, and had presided at her father's table for a
year before his recall from his mission. Few women in so short a period
had received so much homage; but she listened to compliments with a
careless though courteous ear, and received more ardent aspirations with
a smile. The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold and heartless;
but men should remember that fineness of taste, as well as apathy of
temperament, may account for an unsuccessful suit. Assuredly Henrietta
Temple was not deficient in feeling; she entertained for her father
sentiments almost of idolatry, and those more intimate or dependent
acquaintances best qualified to form an opinion of her character spoke
of her always as a soul of infinite tenderness.
Notwithstanding their mutual devotion to each other, there were not
many points of resemblance between the characters of Mr. Temple and
his daughter; she was remarkable for a frankness of demeanour and a
simplicity yet strength of thought which contrasted with the artificial
manners and the conventional opinions and conversation of her sire. A
mind at once thoughtful and energetic permitted Henrietta Temple to form
her own judgments; and an artless candour, which her father never could
eradicate from her habit, generally impelled her to express them. It
was indeed impossible even for him long to find fault with these
ebullitions, however the diplomatist might deplore them; for Nature had
so imbued the existence of this being with that indefinable charm which
we call grace, that it was not in your power to behold her a moment
without being enchanted. A glance, a movement, a sunny smile, a word of
thrilling music, and all that was left to you was to adore. There was
indeed in Henrietta Temple that rare and extraordinary combination of
intellectual strength and physical softness which marks out the woman
capable of exercising an irresistible influence over mankind. In the
good old days she might have occasioned a siege of Troy or a battle of
Actium. She was one of those women who make nations mad, and for whom a
man of genius would willingly peril the empire of the world.
So at least deemed Ferdinand Armine, as he cantered through the park,
talking to himself, apostrophising the woods, and shouting his passion
to the winds. It was scarcely noon when he reached Ducie Bower. This was
a Palladian pavilion, situated in the midst of beautiful gardens, and
surrounded by green hills. The sun shone brightly, the sky was without
a cloud; it appeared to him that he had never beheld a more graceful
scene. It was a temple worthy of the divinity it enshrined. A facade of
four Ionic columns fronted an octagon hall, adorned with statues, which
led into a salon of considerable size and fine proportion. Ferdinand
thought that he had never in his life entered so brilliant a chamber.
The lofty walls were covered with an Indian paper of vivid fancy, and
adorned with several pictures which his practised eye assured him were
of great merit. The room, without being inconveniently crowded, was
amply stored with furniture, every article of which bespoke a refined
and luxurious taste: easy chairs of all descriptions, most inviting
couches, cabinets of choice inlay, and grotesque tables covered with
articles of vertu; all those charming infinite nothings, which a person
of taste might some time back have easily collected during a long
residence on the continent. A large lamp of Dresden china was suspended
from the painted and gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened on
the gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and various, that Ferdinand
could easily believe the fair mistress, as she told him, was indeed a
lover of flowers. A light bridge in the distant wood, that bounded the
furthest lawn, indicated that a stream was at hand. What with the beauty
of the chamber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the bright
sun that painted every object with its magical colouring, and made
everything appear even more fair and brilliant, Ferdinand stood for some
moments quite entranced. A door opened, and Mr. Temple came forward and
welcomed him with cordiality.
After they had passed a half-hour in looking at the pictures and
in conversation to which they gave rise, Mr. Temple, proposing an
adjournment to luncheon, conducted Ferdinand into a dining-room, of
which the suitable decorations wonderfully pleased his taste. A subdued
tint pervaded every part of the chamber: the ceiling was painted in
grey tinted frescoes of a classical and festive character, and the side
table, which stood in a recess supported by four magnificent columns,
was adorned with choice Etruscan vases. The air of repose and
stillness which distinguished this apartment was heightened by the vast
conservatory into which it led, blazing with light and beauty, groups
of exotic trees, plants of radiant tint, the sound of a fountain, and
gorgeous forms of tropic birds.
'How beautiful!' exclaimed Ferdinand.
''Tis pretty,' said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, 'but we are very humble
people, and cannot vie with the lords of Gothic castles.'
'It appears to me,' said Ferdinand, 'that Ducie Bower is the most
exquisite place I ever beheld.'
'If you had seen it two years ago you would have thought differently,'
said Mr. Temple; 'I assure you I dreaded becoming its tenant. Henrietta
is entitled to all the praise, as she took upon herself the whole
responsibility. There is not on the banks of the Brenta a more dingy and
desolate villa than Ducie appeared when we first came; and as for the
gardens, they were a perfect wilderness. She made everything. It was
one vast, desolate, and neglected lawn, used as a sheep-walk when we
arrived. As for the ceilings, I was almost tempted to whitewash them,
and yet you see they have cleaned wonderfully; and, after all, it only
required a little taste and labour. I have not laid out much money here.
I built the conservatory, to be sure. Henrietta could not live without a
conservatory.'
'Miss Temple is quite right,' pronounced Ferdinand. 'It is impossible to
live without a conservatory.'
At this moment the heroine of their conversation entered the room, and
Ferdinand turned pale. She extended to him her hand with a graceful
smile; as he touched it, he trembled from head to foot.
'You were not fatigued, I hope, by your ride, Miss Temple?' at length he
contrived to say.
'Not in the least! I am an experienced horsewoman. Papa and I take very
long rides together.'
As for eating, with Henrietta Temple in the room, Ferdinand found
that quite impossible. The moment she appeared, his appetite vanished.
Anxious to speak, yet deprived of his accustomed fluency, he began to
praise Ducie.
'You must see it,' said Miss Temple: 'shall we walk round the grounds?'
'My dear Henrietta,' said her father, 'I dare say Captain Armine is at
this moment sufficiently tired; besides, when he moves, he will like
perhaps to take his gun; you forget he is a sportsman, and that he
cannot waste his morning in talking to ladies and picking flowers.'
'Indeed, sir, I assure you,' said Ferdinand, 'there is nothing I like so
much as talking to ladies and picking flowers; that is to say, when
the ladies have as fine taste as Miss Temple, and the flowers are as
beautiful as those at Ducie.'
'Well, you shall see my conservatory, Captain Armine,' said Miss Temple,
'and you shall go and kill partridges afterwards.' So saying, she
entered the conservatory, and Ferdinand followed her, leaving Mr. Temple
to his pasty.
'These orange groves remind me of Palmero,' said Ferdinand.
'Ah!' said Miss Temple, 'I have never been in the sweet south.'
'You seem to me a person born to live in a Sicilian palace,' said
Ferdinand, 'to wander in perfumed groves, and to glance in a moonlight
warmer than this sun.'
'I see you pay compliments,' said Miss Temple, looking at him archly,
and meeting a glance serious and soft.
'Believe me, not to you.'
'What do you think of this flower?' said Miss Temple, turning away
rather quickly and pointing to a strange plant. 'It is the most singular
thing in the world: but if it be tended by any other person than myself
it withers. Is it not droll?'
'I think not,' said Ferdinand.
'I excuse you for your incredulity; no one does believe it; no one can;
and yet it is quite true. Our gardener gave it up in despair. I wonder
what it can be.'
'I think it must be some enchanted prince,' said Ferdinand.
'If I thought so, how I should long for a wand to emancipate him!' said
Miss Temple.
'I would break your wand, if you had one,' said Ferdinand.
'Why?' said Miss Temple.
'Oh! I don't know,' said Ferdinand; 'I suppose because I believe you are
sufficiently enchanting without one.'
'I am bound to consider that most excellent logic,' said Miss Temple.
'Do you admire my fountain and my birds?' she continued, after a short
pause. 'After Armine, Ducie appears a little tawdry toy.'
'Ducie is Paradise,' said Ferdinand. 'I should like to pass my life in
this conservatory.'
'As an enchanted prince, I suppose?' said Miss Temple.
'Exactly,' said Captain Armine; 'I would willingly this instant become a
flower, if I were sure that Miss Temple would cherish my existence.'
'Cut off your tendrils and drown you with a watering-pot,' said Miss
Temple; 'you really are very Sicilian in your conversation, Captain
Armine.'
'Come,' said Mr. Temple, who now joined them, 'if you really should like
to take a stroll round the grounds, I will order the keeper to meet us
at the cottage.'
'A very good proposition,' said Miss Temple.
'But you must get a bonnet, Henrietta; I must forbid your going out
uncovered.'
'No, papa, this will do,' said Miss Temple, taking a handkerchief,
twisting it round her head, and tying it under her chin.
'You look like an old woman, Henrietta,' said her father, smiling.
'I shall not say what you look like, Miss Temple,' said Captain Armine,
with a glance of admiration, 'lest you should think that I was this time
even talking Sicilian.'
'I reward you for your forbearance with a rose,' said Miss Temple,
plucking a flower. 'It is a return for your beautiful present of
yesterday.'
Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips.
They went forth; they stepped into a Paradise, where the sweetest
flowers seemed grouped in every combination of the choicest forms;
baskets, and vases, and beds of infinite fancy. A thousand bees and
butterflies filled the air with their glancing shapes and cheerful
music, and the birds from the neighbouring groves joined in the chorus
of melody. The wood walks through which they now rambled admitted at
intervals glimpses of the ornate landscape, and occasionally the view
extended beyond the enclosed limits, and exhibited the clustering and
embowered roofs of the neighbouring village, or some woody hill studded
with a farmhouse, or a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, he strolled
along, full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling fancies, in a dreamy
state which had banished all recollection or consciousness but of the
present. He was happy; positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He was
happy for the first time in his life, He had no conception that life
could afford such bliss as now filled his being. What a chain of
miserable, tame, factitious sensations seemed the whole course of his
past existence. Even the joys of yesterday were nothing to these;
Armine was associated with too much of the commonplace and the gloomy
to realise the ideal in which he now revelled. But now all circumstances
contributed to enchant him. The novelty, the beauty of the scene,
harmoniously blended with his passion. The sun seemed to him a more
brilliant sun than the orb that illumined Armine; the sky more clear,
more pure, more odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the trees, and
every flower reminded him of his mistress. And then he looked around and
beheld her. Was he positively awake? Was he in England? Was he in the
same globe in which he had hitherto moved and acted? What was this
entrancing form that moved before him? Was it indeed a woman?
_O dea certe!_
That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, now low and hushed,
yet always sweet; where was he, what did he listen to, what did he
behold, what did he feel? The presence of her father alone restrained
him from falling on his knees and expressing to her his adoration.
At length our friends arrived at a picturesque and ivy-grown cottage,
where the keeper, with their guns and dogs, awaited Mr. Temple and his
guest. Ferdinand, although a keen sportsman, beheld the spectacle with
dismay. He execrated, at the same time, the existence of partridges and
the invention of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, was impossible;
he took his gun and turned to bid his hostess adieu.
'I do not like to quit Paradise at all,' he said in a low voice: 'must I
go?'
'Oh! certainly,' said Miss Temple. 'It will do you a great deal of
good.'
Never did anyone at first shoot more wildly. In time, however, Ferdinand
sufficiently rallied to recover his reputation with the keeper, who,
from his first observation, began to wink his eye to his son, an
attendant bush-beater, and occasionally even thrust his tongue inside
his cheek, a significant gesture perfectly understood by the imp. 'For
the life of me, Sam,' he afterwards profoundly observed, 'I couldn't
make out this here Captain by no manner of means whatsomever. At first
I thought as how he was going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang me
if ever I see sich a gentleman. He missed everything; and at last if he
didn't hit the longest flying shots without taking aim. Hang me if ever
I see sich a gentleman. He hit everything. That ere Captain puzzled me,
surely.'
The party at dinner was increased by a neighbouring squire and his wife,
and the rector of the parish. Ferdinand was placed at the right hand of
Miss Temple. The more he beheld her the more beautiful she seemed. He
detected every moment some charm before unobserved. It seemed to him
that he never was in such agreeable society, though, sooth to say, the
conversation was not of a very brilliant character. Mr. Temple recounted
the sport of the morning to the squire, whose ears kindled at a
congenial subject, and every preserve in the county was then discussed,
with some episodes on poaching. The rector, an old gentleman, who had
dined in old days at Armine Place, reminded Ferdinand of the agreeable
circumstance, sanguine perhaps that the invitation might lead to a
renewal of his acquaintance with that hospitable board. He was painfully
profuse in his description of the public days of the famous Sir
Ferdinand. From the service of plate to the thirty servants in livery,
nothing was omitted.
'Our friend deals in Arabian tales,' whispered Ferdinand to Miss Temple;
'you can be a witness that we live quietly enough now.'
'I shall certainly never forget my visit to Armine,' replied Miss
Temple; 'it was one of the agreeable days of life.'
'And that is saying a great deal, for I think your life must have
abounded in agreeable days.'
'I cannot indeed lay any claim to that misery which makes many people
interesting,' said Miss Temple; 'I am a very commonplace person, for I
have been always happy.'
When the ladies withdrew there appeared but little inclination on the
part of the squire and the rector to follow their example; and Captain
Armine, therefore, soon left Mr. Temple to his fate, and escaped to
the drawing-room. He glided to a seat on an ottoman, by the side of
his hostess, and listened in silence to the conversation. What a
conversation! At any other time, under any other circumstances,
Ferdinand would have been teased and wearied with its commonplace
current: all the dull detail of county tattle, in which the squire's
lady was a proficient, and with which Miss Temple was too highly bred
not to appear to sympathise; and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand,
appeared quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's sounded like
wit; and when she bent her head in assent to her companion's obvious
deductions, there was about each movement a grace so ineffable, that
Ferdinand could have sat in silence and listened, entranced, for ever:
and occasionally, too, she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed on
some point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed to him that he had
never listened to sounds so sweetly thrilling as her voice. It was a
birdlike burst of music, that well became the sparkling sunshine of her
violet eyes.
His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose from his seat; the windows
of the salon were open; he stepped forth into the garden. He felt the
necessity of being a moment alone. He proceeded a few paces beyond the
ken of man, and then leaning on a statue, and burying his face in his
arm, he gave way to irresistible emotion. What wild thoughts dashed
through his impetuous soul at that instant, it is difficult to
conjecture. Perhaps it was passion that inspired that convulsive
reverie; perchance it might have been remorse. Did he abandon himself
to those novel sentiments which in a few brief hours had changed all his
aspirations and coloured his whole existence; or was he tortured by that
dark and perplexing future, from which his imagination in vain struggled
to extricate him?
He was roused from his reverie, brief but tumultuous, by the note of
music, and then by the sound of a human voice. The stag detecting the
huntsman's horn could not have started with more wild emotion. But one
fair organ could send forth that voice. He approached, he listened; the
voice of Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breathing with a
thousand odours. In a moment he was at her side, the squire's lady was
standing by her; the gentlemen, for a moment arrested from a political
discussion, formed a group in a distant part of the room, the rector
occasionally venturing in a practised whisper to enforce a disturbed
argument. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by the fair performer. Miss
Temple not only possessed a voice of rare tone and compass, but
this delightful gift of nature had been cultivated with refined art.
Ferdinand, himself a musician, and passionately devoted to vocal melody,
listened with unexaggerated rapture.
'Oh! beautiful!' exclaimed he, as the songstress ceased.
'Captain Armine!' cried Miss Temple, looking round with a wild,
bewitching smile. 'I thought you were meditating in the twilight.'
'Your voice summoned me.'
'You care for music?'
'For little else.'
'You sing?'
'I hum.'
'Try this.'
'With you?'
Ferdinand Armine was not unworthy of singing with Henrietta Temple. His
mother had been his able instructress in the art even in his childhood,
and his frequent residence at Naples and other parts of the south had
afforded him ample opportunities of perfecting a talent thus early
cultivated. But to-night the love of something beyond his art inspired
the voice of Ferdinand. Singing with Henrietta Temple, he poured forth
to her in safety all the passion which raged in his soul. The squire's
lady looked confused; Henrietta herself grew pale; the politicians
ceased even to whisper, and advanced from their corner to the
instrument; and when the duet was terminated, Mr. Temple offered his
sincere congratulations to his guest. Henrietta also turned with
some words of commendation to Ferdinand; but the words were faint
and confused, and finally requesting Captain Armine to favour them by
singing alone, she rose and vacated her seat.
Ferdinand took up the guitar, and accompanied himself to a Neapolitan
air. It was gay and festive, a _Ritornella_ which might summon your
mistress to dance in the moonlight. And then, amid many congratulations,
he offered the guitar to Miss Temple.
'No one will listen to a simple melody after anything so brilliant,'
said Miss Temple, as she touched a string, and, after a slight prelude,
sang these words:--
THE DESERTED.
I.
Yes, weeping is madness,
Away with this tear,
Let no sign of sadness
Betray the wild anguish I fear.
When we meet him to-night,
Be mute then my heart!
And my smile be as bright,
As if we were never to part.
II.
Girl! give me the mirror
That said I was fair;
Alas! fatal error,
This picture reveals my despair.
Smiles no longer can pass
O'er this faded brow,
And I shiver this glass,
Like his love and his fragile vow!
'The music,' said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, 'is-----'
'Henrietta's,' replied her father.
'And the words?'
'Were found in my canary's cage,' said Henrietta Temple, rising and
putting an end to the conversation.
CHAPTER VII.
_In Which Captain Armine Indulges in a Reverie_.
THE squire's carriage was announced, and then came his lady's shawl. How
happy was Ferdinand when he recollected that he was to remain at Ducie.
Remain at Ducie!
Remain under the same roof as Henrietta Temple. What bliss! what
ravishing bliss! All his life, and his had not been a monotonous one; it
seemed that all his life could not afford a situation so adventurous and
so sweet as this. Now they have gone. The squire and his lady, and the
worthy rector who recollected Armine so well; they have all departed,
all the adieus are uttered; after this little and unavoidable bustle,
silence reigns in the salon of Ducie. Ferdinand walked to the window.
The moon was up; the air was sweet and hushed; the landscape clear,
though soft. Oh! what would he not have given to have strolled in that
garden with Henrietta Temple, to have poured forth his whole soul to
her, to have told her how wondrous fair she was, how wildly bewitching,
and how he loved her, how he sighed to bind his fate with hers, and live
for ever in the brilliant atmosphere of her grace and beauty.
'Good night, Captain Armine,' said Henrietta Temple.
He turned hastily round, he blushed, he grew pale. There she stood, in
one hand a light, the other extended to her father's guest. He pressed
her hand, he sighed, he looked confused; then suddenly letting go her
hand, he walked quickly towards the door of the salon, which he opened
that she might retire.
'The happiest day of my life has ended,' he muttered.
'You are so easily content then, that I think you must always be happy.'
'I fear I am not so easily content as you imagine.'
She has gone. Hours, many and long hours, must elapse before he sees her
again, before he again listens to that music, watches that airy grace,
and meets the bright flashing of that fascinating eye. What misery was
there in this idea? How little had he seemed hitherto to prize the joy
of being her companion. He cursed the hours which had been wasted away
from her in the morning's sport; he blamed himself that he had not even
sooner quitted the dining-room, or that he had left the salon for a
moment, to commune with his own thoughts in the garden. With difficulty
he restrained himself from reopening the door, to listen for the distant
sound of her footsteps, or catch, perhaps, along some corridor, the
fading echo of her voice. But Ferdinand was not alone; Mr. Temple still
remained. That gentleman raised his face from the newspaper as Captain
Armine advanced to him; and, after some observations about the day's
sport, and a hope that he would repeat his trial of the manor to-morrow,
proposed their retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, and in a moment
he was ascending with his host the noble and Italian staircase: and he
then was ushered from the vestibule into his room.
His previous visit to the chamber had been so hurried, that he had
only made a general observation on its appearance. Little inclined to
slumber, he now examined it more critically. In a recess was a French
bed of simple furniture. On the walls, which were covered with a rustic
paper, were suspended several drawings, representing views in the
Saxon Switzerland. They were so bold and spirited that they arrested
attention; but the quick eye of Ferdinand instantly detected the
initials of the artist in the corner. They were letters that made his
heart tremble, as he gazed with admiring fondness on her performances.
Before a sofa, covered with a chintz of a corresponding pattern with
the paper of the walls, was placed a small French table, on which
were writing materials; and his toilet-table and his mantelpiece were
profusely ornamented with rare flowers; on all sides were symptoms of
female taste and feminine consideration.
Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the flower that Henrietta had
given him in the morning, and which he had worn the whole day. He kissed
it, he kissed it more than once; he pressed its somewhat faded form to
his lips with cautious delicacy; then tending it with the utmost care,
he placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his hand, he threw
himself into an easy chair, with his eyes fixed on the gift he most
valued in the world.
An hour passed, and Ferdinand Armine remained fixed in the same
position. But no one who beheld that beautiful and pensive countenance,
and the dreamy softness of that large grey eye, could for a moment
conceive that his thoughts were less sweet than the object on which they
appeared to gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, no memory
of the past, no fear of the future. The delicious present monopolised
his existence. The ties of duty, the claims of domestic affection, the
worldly considerations that by a cruel dispensation had seemed, as it
were, to taint even his innocent and careless boyhood, even the urgent
appeals of his critical and perilous situation; all, all were forgotten
in one intense delirium of absorbing love.
Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room for some minutes, with
his eyes fixed on the ground. Then throwing off his clothes, and taking
the flower from the vase, which he had previously placed on the table,
he deposited it in his bosom. 'Beautiful, beloved flower,' exclaimed
he; 'thus, thus will I win and wear your mistress!'
CHAPTER VIII.
_A Strange Dream_.
RESTLESS are the dreams of the lover that is young. Ferdinand Armine
started awake from the agony of a terrible slumber. He had been walking
in a garden with Henrietta Temple, her hand was clasped in his, her
eyes fixed on the ground, as he whispered delicious words. His face
was flushed, his speech panting and low. Gently he wound his vacant arm
round her graceful form; she looked up, her speaking eyes met his, and
their trembling lips seemed about to cling into a------
When lo! the splendour of the garden faded, and all seemed changed and
dim; instead of the beautiful arched walks, in which a moment before
they appeared to wander, it was beneath the vaulted roof of some temple
that they now moved; instead of the bed of glowing flowers from which
he was about to pluck an offering for her bosom, an altar rose, from the
centre of which upsprang a quick and lurid tongue of fire. The dreamer
gazed upon his companion, and her form was tinted with the dusky hue of
the flame, and she held to her countenance a scarf, as if pressed by the
unnatural heat. Great fear suddenly came over him. With haste, yet
with tenderness, he himself withdrew the scarf from the face of his
companion, and this movement revealed the visage of Miss Grandison.
Ferdinand Armine awoke and started up in his bed. Before him still
appeared the unexpected figure. He jumped out of bed, he gazed upon the
form with staring eyes and open mouth. She was there, assuredly she was
there; it was Katherine, Katherine his betrothed, sad and reproachful.
The figure faded before him; he advanced with outstretched hand; in his
desperation he determined to clutch the escaping form: and he found
in his grasp his dressing-gown, which he had thrown over the back of a
chair.
'A dream, and but a dream, after all,' he muttered to himself; 'and yet
a strange one.'
His brow was heated; he opened the casement. It was still night; the
moon had vanished, but the stars were still shining. He recalled with an
effort the scene with which he had become acquainted yesterday for the
first time. Before him, serene and still, rose the bowers of Ducie.
And their mistress? That angelic form whose hand he had clasped in his
dream, was not then merely a shadow. She breathed, she lived, and under
the same roof. Henrietta Temple was at this moment under the same roof
as himself: and what were her slumbers? Were they wild as his own, or
sweet and innocent as herself? Did his form flit over her closed vision
at this charmed hour, as hers had visited his? Had it been scared away
by an apparition as awful? Bore anyone to her the same relation as
Katherine Grandison to him? A fearful surmise, that had occurred to him
now for the first time, and which it seemed could never again quit his
brain. The stars faded away, the breath of morn was abroad, the chant
of birds arose. Exhausted in body and in mind, Ferdinand Armine flung
himself upon his bed, and soon was lost in slumbers undisturbed as the
tomb.
CHAPTER IX.
_Which I Hope May Prove as Agreeable to the Reader as to Our
Hero_.
FERDINAND'S servant, whom he had despatched the previous evening to
Armine, returned early with his master's letters; one from his 'mother,
and one from Miss Grandison.
They were all to arrive at the Place on the day after the morrow.
Ferdinand opened these epistles with a trembling hand. The sight of
Katherine's, his Katherine's, handwriting was almost as terrible as
his dream. It recalled to him, with a dreadful reality, his actual
situation, which he had driven from his thoughts. He had quitted his
family, his family who were so devoted to him, and whom he so loved,
happy, nay, triumphant, a pledged and rejoicing bridegroom. What had
occurred during the last eight-and-forty hours seemed completely to have
changed all his feelings, all his wishes, all his views, all his hopes!
He had in that interval met a single human being, a woman, a girl, a
young and innocent girl; he had looked upon that girl and listened to
her voice, and his soul was changed as the earth by the sunrise. As
lying in his bed he read these letters, and mused over their contents,
and all the thoughts that they suggested, the strangeness of life,
the mystery of human nature, were painfully impressed upon him.
His melancholy father, his fond and confiding mother, the devoted
Glastonbury, all the mortifying circumstances of his illustrious race,
rose in painful succession before him. Nor could he forget his own
wretched follies and that fatal visit to Bath, of which the consequences
clanked upon his memory like degrading and disgraceful fetters. The
burden of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love which had so
solaced his existence, recalled now only the most painful associations.
In the wildness of his thoughts he wished himself alone in the world, to
struggle with his fate and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave
and a sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his broken
fortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life without Henrietta
Temple. But even supposing that he could extricate himself from his
rash engagement; even admitting that all worldly considerations might
be thrown aside, and the pride of his father, and his mother's love, and
Glastonbury's pure hopes, might all be outraged; what chance, what
hope was there of obtaining his great object? What was he, what was he,
Ferdinand Armine, free as the air from the claims of Miss Grandison,
with all sense of duty rooted out of his once sensitive bosom, and
existing only for the gratification of his own wild fancies? A beggar,
worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possibility of a home
to offer the lady of his passion; nay, not even secure that the harsh
process of the law might not instantly claim its victim, and he himself
be hurried from the altar to the gaol!
Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the salon; he beheld Henrietta
Temple, and the cloud left his brow, and lightness came to his heart.
Never had she looked so beautiful, so fresh and bright, so like a fair
flower with the dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul; her
sunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too with kindness,
and inquired after his slumbers, which he assured Mr. Temple had been
satisfactory.
'I find,' continued Mr. Temple, 'that the post has brought me some
business to-day which, I fear, claims the morning to transact; but I
hope you will not forget your promise. The keeper will be ready whenever
you summon him.'
Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intrusion, and the
expected arrival of his family; but Miss Temple begged him to accept the
offer, and refusal was impossible.
After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, and Ferdinand found
himself alone for the first time with Henrietta Temple.
She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Ferdinand looked over
her shoulder.
'A melancholy countenance!' he observed.
'It is a favourite one of mine,' she replied.
'Yet you are always gay.'
'Always.'
'I envy you, Miss Temple.'
'What, are you melancholy?'
'I have every cause.'
'Indeed, I should have thought the reverse.'
'I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human beings,' replied
Ferdinand.
He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter feeling,
that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her companion. His
countenance was gloomy.
'You surprise me,' said Miss Temple; 'I think that few people ought to
be unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer are than we imagine.'
'All I wish is,' replied he, 'that the battle of Newbury had witnessed
the extinction of our family as well as our peerage.'
'A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing,' said
Henrietta Temple, 'a very fine thing; but I would not grieve, if I were
you, for that. I would sooner be an Armine without a coronet than many a
brow I wot of with.'
'You misconceived a silly phrase,' rejoined Ferdinand. 'I was not
thinking of the loss of our coronet, though that is only part of the
system. Our family, I am sure, are fated. Birth without honour, estates
without fortune, life without happiness, that is our lot.'
'As for the first,' said Miss Temple, 'the honourable are always
honoured; money, in spite of what they say, I feel is not the greatest
thing in the world; and as for misery, I confess I do not very readily
believe in the misery of youth.'
'May you never prove it!' replied Ferdinand; 'may you never be, as I am,
the victim of family profligacy and family pride!' So saying, he turned
away, and, taking up a book, for a few minutes seemed wrapped in his
reflections.
He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone. Holding a
volume of Petrarch in his hand, he touched lightly, but with grace, on
Italian poetry; then diverged into his travels, recounted an adventure
with sprightliness, and replied to Miss Temple's lively remarks with
gaiety and readiness. The morning advanced; Miss Temple closed her
portfolio and visited her flowers, inviting him to follow her. Her
invitation was scarcely necessary, his movements were regulated by hers;
he was as faithful to her as her shadow. From the conservatory they
entered the garden; Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as Miss Temple.
She praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some account of its
principal creator. The character of Glastonbury highly interested Miss
Temple. Love is confidential; it has no fear of ridicule. Ferdinand
entered with freedom and yet with grace into family details, from which,
at another time and to another person, he would have been the first to
shrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was greatly interested by his
simple, and, to her, affecting account of this ancient line living
in their hereditary solitude, with all their noble pride and haughty
poverty. The scene, the circumstances, were all such as please a
maiden's fancy; and he, the natural hero of this singular history,
seemed deficient in none of those heroic qualities which the wildest
spirit of romance might require for the completion of its spell.
Beautiful as his ancestors, and, she was sure, as brave, young,
spirited, graceful, and accomplished, a gay and daring spirit blended
with the mournful melody of his voice, and occasionally contrasted with
the somewhat subdued and chastened character of his demeanour.
'Well, do not despair,' said Henrietta Temple; 'riches did not make Sir
Ferdinand happy. I feel confident the house will yet flourish.'
'I have no confidence,' replied Ferdinand; 'I feel the struggle with our
fate to be fruitless. Once indeed I felt like you; there was a time when
I took even a fancied pride in all the follies of my grandfather. But
that is past; I have lived to execrate his memory.'
'Hush! hush!'
'Yes, to execrate his memory! I repeat, to execrate his memory! His
follies stand between me and my happiness.'
'Indeed, I see not that.'
'May you never! I cannot disguise from myself that I am a slave, and a
wretched one, and that his career has entailed this curse of servitude
upon me. But away with this! You must think me, Miss Temple, the most
egotistical of human beings; and yet, to do myself justice, I never
remember having spoken of myself so much before.'
'Will you walk with me?' said Miss Temple, after a moment's silence;
'you seem little inclined to avail yourself of my father's invitation
to solitary sport. But I cannot stay at home, for I have visits to pay,
although I fear you will consider them rather dull ones.' 'Why so?'
'My visits are to cottages.'
'I love nothing better. I used ever to be my mother's companion on such
occasions.'
So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of considerable
extent, which formed the boundary of the grounds, and, after some time
passed in agreeable conversation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary
extent or beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty
timber, while in others the furze and fern gave richness and variety
to the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely marked, except by the
light hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey.
'It is not so grand as Armine Park,' said Miss Temple; 'but we are proud
of our common.'
The thin grey smoke that rose in different directions was a beacon to
the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was evident that she was a
visitor both habitual and beloved. Each cottage-door was familiar to her
entrance. The children smiled at her approach; their mothers rose and
courtesied with affectionate respect. How many names and how many wants
had she to remember! yet nothing was forgotten. Some were rewarded for
industry, some were admonished not to be idle; but all were treated with
an engaging suavity more efficacious than gifts or punishments. The
aged were solaced by her visit; the sick forgot their pains; and, as
she listened with sympathising patience to long narratives of rheumatic
griefs, it seemed her presence in each old chair, her tender enquiries
and sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than her plenteous
promises of succour from the Bower, in the shape of arrowroot and gruel,
port wine and flannel petticoats.
This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days and old places to
the memory of Ferdinand Armine. He thought of the time when he was a
happy boy at his innocent home; his mother's boy, the child she so loved
and looked after, when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his
eye, and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired reward.
The last night he had passed at Armine, before his first departure, rose
up to his recollection; all his mother's passionate fondness, all her
wild fear that the day might come when her child would not love her so
dearly as he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back, ay! but
a few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone in the world, and had
felt those domestic ties which had been the joy of his existence a
burthen and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek; he stepped forth from
the cottage to conceal his emotion. He seated himself on the trunk of
a tree, a few paces withdrawn; he looked upon the declining sun that
gilded the distant landscape with its rich yet pensive light. The
scenes of the last five years flitted across his mind's eye in fleet
succession; his dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hollow
worldliness. Why, oh! why had he ever left his unpolluted home? Why
could he not have lived and died in that sylvan paradise? Why, oh! why
was it impossible to admit his beautiful companion into that sweet and
serene society? Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to
his hearth? Money! horrible money! It seemed to him that the contiguous
cottage and the labour of his hands, with her, were preferable to
palaces and crowds of retainers without her inspiring presence. And why
not screw his courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence
with his parents? They loved him; yes, they idolised him! For him, for
him alone, they sought the restoration of their house and fortunes.
Why, Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any his ancestors had
counted. Let them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe
as he had done in her enchantment; and could they wonder, could they
murmur, at his conduct? Would they not, oh! would they not, rather
admire, extol it! But, then, his debts, his overwhelming debts. All
the rest might be faced. His desperate engagement might be broken; his
family might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty: but, ruin! what
was to grapple with his impending ruin? Now his folly stung him; now the
scorpion entered his soul. It was not the profligacy of his ancestor,
it was not the pride of his family then, that stood between him and his
love; it was his own culpable and heartless career! He covered his face
with his hands; something touched him lightly; it was the parasol of
Miss Temple.
'I am afraid,' she said, 'that my visits have wearied you; but you have
been very kind and good.'
He rose rapidly, with a slight blush. 'Indeed,' he replied, 'I have
passed a most delightful morning, and I was only regretting that life
consisted of anything else but cottages and yourself.'
They were late; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie as they
re-entered the wood. 'We must hurry on,' said Miss Temple; 'dinner is
the only subject on which papa is a tyrant. What a sunset! I wonder if
Lady Armine will return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will
make her call upon us, for I want to copy the pictures in your gallery.'
'If they were not heir-looms, I would give them you,' said Ferdinand;
'but, as it is, there is only one way by which I can manage it.'
'What way?' enquired Miss Temple, very innocently.
'I forget,' replied Ferdinand, with a peculiar smile. Miss Temple looked
a little confused.
CHAPTER X.
_Evening Stroll_.
IN SPITE of his perilous situation, an indefinable sensation of
happiness pervaded the soul of Ferdinand Armine, as he made his hurried
toilet, and hastened to the domestic board of Ducie, where he was now
the solitary guest. His eye caught Miss Temple's as he entered the room.
It seemed to beam upon him with interest and kindness. His courteous
and agreeable host welcomed him with polished warmth. It seemed that a
feeling of intimacy was already established among them, and he fancied
himself already looked upon as an habitual member of their circle.
All dark thoughts were driven away. He was gay and pleasant, and duly
maintained with Mr. Temple that conversation in which his host excelled.
Miss Temple spoke little, but listened with evident interest to her
father and Ferdinand. She seemed to delight in their society, and to be
gratified by Captain Armine's evident sense of her father's agreeable
qualities. When dinner was over they all rose together and repaired to
the salon.
'I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here,' said Miss Temple, as Ferdinand
opened the instrument. 'You must bring him some day, and then our
concert will be perfect.'
Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury made him shudder. His
countenance changed at the future plans of Miss Temple. 'Some day,'
indeed, when he might also take the opportunity of introducing his
betrothed! But the voice of Henrietta Temple drove all care from his
bosom; he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. She sang alone;
and then they sang together; and as he arranged her books, or selected
her theme, a thousand instances of the interest with which she inspired
him developed themselves. Once he touched her hand, and he pressed his
own, unseen, to his lips.
Though the room was lit up, the windows were open and admitted the
moonlight. The beautiful salon was full of fragrance and of melody;
the fairest of women dazzled Ferdinand with her presence; his heart was
full, his senses ravished, his hopes were high. Could there be such a
demon as care in such a paradise? Could sorrow ever enter here? Was it
possible that these bright halls and odorous bowers could be polluted
by the miserable considerations that reigned too often supreme in his
unhappy breast? An enchanted scene had suddenly risen from the earth
for his delight and fascination. Could he be unhappy? Why, if all went
darker even than he sometimes feared, that man had not lived in vain who
had beheld Henrietta Temple! All the troubles of the world were folly
here; this was fairy-land, and he some knight who had fallen from a
gloomy globe upon some starry region flashing with perennial lustre.
The hours flew on; the servants brought in that light banquet whose
entrance in the country seems the only method of reminding our guests
that there is a morrow.
[Illustration: frontis-page146.jpg]
''Tis the last night,' said Ferdinand, smiling, with a sigh. 'One more
song; only one more. Mr. Temple, be indulgent; it is the last night. I
feel,' he added in a lower tone to Henrietta, 'I feel exactly as I did
when I left Armine for the first time.'
'Because you are going to return to it? That is wilful.'
'Wilful or not, I would that I might never see it again.'
'For my part, Armine is to me the very land of romance.'
'It is strange.'
'No spot on earth ever impressed me more. It is the finest combination
of art and nature and poetical associations I know; it is indeed
unique.'
'I do not like to differ with you on any subject.'
'We should be dull companions, I fear, if we agreed upon everything.'
'I cannot think it.'
'Papa,' said Miss Temple, 'one little stroll upon the lawn; one little,
little stroll. The moon is so bright; and autumn, this year, has brought
us as yet no dew.' And as she spoke, she took up her scarf and wound
it round her head. 'There,' she said, 'I look like the portrait of the
Turkish page in Armine Gallery.'
There was a playful grace about Henrietta Temple, a wild and brilliant
simplicity, which was the more charming because it was blended with
peculiarly high breeding. No person in ordinary society was more calm,
or enjoyed a more complete self-possession, yet no one in the more
intimate relations of life indulged more in those little unstudied
bursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind one of the playful child
rather than the polished woman; and which, under such circumstances,
are infinitely captivating. As for Ferdinand Armine, he looked upon the
Turkish page with a countenance beaming with admiration; he wished it
was Turkey wherein he then beheld her, or any other strange land, where
he could have placed her on his courser, and galloped away in pursuit of
a fortune wild as his soul.
Though the year was in decay, summer had lent this night to autumn, it
was so soft and sweet. The moonbeam fell brightly upon Ducie Bower, and
the illumined salon contrasted effectively with the natural splendour
of the exterior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a brilliant fete
which had been given at a Saxon palace, and which some circumstances of
similarity recalled to his recollection. Ferdinand could not speak,
but found himself unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to his
heart. The Saxon palace brought back to Miss Temple a wild melody which
had been sung in the gardens on that night. She asked her father if he
recollected it, and hummed the air as she made the enquiry. Her gentle
murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those wild and natural
lyrics that spring up in mountainous countries, and which seem to mimic
the prolonged echoes that in such regions greet the ear of the pastor
and the huntsman.
Oh! why did this night ever have an end!
CHAPTER XI.
_A Morning Walk_.
IT WAS solitude that brought despair to Ferdinand Armine. The moment he
was alone his real situation thrust itself upon him; the moment he
had quitted the presence of Henrietta Temple he was as a man under the
influence of music when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of all
his inspiration failed him; this last night at Ducie was dreadful. Sleep
was out of the question; he did not affect even the mimicry of retiring,
but paced up and down his room the whole night, or flung himself, when
exhausted, upon a restless sofa. Occasionally he varied these monotonous
occupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings which bore her
name; then relapsing into a profound reverie, he sought some solace in
recalling the scenes of the morning, all her movements, every word
she had uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain he
endeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that he was not
altogether without interest in her eyes. Even the conviction that his
passion was returned, in the situation in which he was plunged, would,
however flattering, be rather a source of fresh anxiety and perplexity.
He took a volume from the single shelf of books that was slung against
the wall; it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid eloquence of the
poetess sublimated his passion; and without disturbing the tone of
his excited mind, relieved in some degree its tension, by busying his
imagination with other, though similar emotions. As he read, his mind
became more calm and his feelings deeper, and by the time his lamp grew
ghastly in the purple light of morning that now entered his chamber, his
soul seemed so stilled that he closed the volume, and, though sleep was
impossible, he remained nevertheless calm and absorbed.
When the first sounds assured him that some were stirring in the house,
he quitted his room, and after some difficulty found a maid-servant, by
whose aid he succeeded in getting into the garden. He took his way to
the common where he had observed the preceding day, a fine sheet of
water. The sun had not risen more than an hour; it was a fresh and ruddy
morn. The cottagers were just abroad. The air of the plain invigorated
him, and the singing of the birds, and all those rural sounds that rise
with the husbandman, brought to his mind a wonderful degree of freshness
and serenity. Occasionally he heard the gun of an early sportsman, to
him at all times an animating sound; but when he had plunged into the
water, and found himself struggling with that inspiring element, all
sorrow seemed to leave him. His heated brow became cool and clear, his
aching limbs vigorous and elastic, his jaded soul full of hope and joy.
He lingered in the liquid and vivifying world, playing with the stream,
for he was an expert and practised swimmer; and often, after nights of
southern dissipation, had recurred to this natural bath for health and
renovation.
The sun had now risen far above the horizon; the village clock had long
struck seven; Ferdinand was three miles from Ducie Bower. It was time
to return, yet he loitered on his way, the air was so sweet and
fresh, the scene so pretty, and his mind, in comparison with his recent
feelings, so calm, and even happy. Just as he emerged from the woods,
and entered the grounds of Ducie, he met Miss Temple. She stared, and
she had cause. Ferdinand indeed presented rather an unusual figure; his
head uncovered, his hair matted, and his countenance glowing with his
exercise, but his figure clothed with the identical evening dress in
which he had bid her a tender good night.
'Captain Armine!' exclaimed Miss Temple, 'you are an early riser, I
see.'
Ferdinand looked a little confused. 'The truth is,' he replied, 'I have
not risen at all. I could not sleep; why, I know not: the evening, I
suppose, was too happy for so commonplace a termination; so I escaped
from my room as soon as I could do so without disturbing your household;
and I have been bathing, which refreshes me always more than slumber.'
'Well, I could not resign my sleep, were it only for the sake of my
dreams.'
'Pleasant I trust they were. "Rosy dreams and slumbers light" are for
ladies as fair as you.'
'I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's wish; and what is more, I
wake only to gather roses: see here!'
She extended to him a flower.
'I deserve it,' said Ferdinand, 'for I have not neglected your first
gift;' and he offered her the rose she had given him the first day of
his visit. ''Tis shrivelled,' he added, 'but still very sweet, at least
to me.'
'It is mine now,' said Henrietta Temple.
'Ah! you will throw it away.'
'Do you think me, then, so insensible?'
'It cannot be to you what it is to me,' replied Ferdinand.
'It is a memorial,' said Miss Temple.
'Of what, and of whom?' enquired Ferdinand.
'Of friendship and a friend.'
''Tis something to be Miss Temple's friend.'
'I am glad you think so. I believe I am very vain, but certainly I like
to be-----liked.'
'Then you can always gain your wish without an effort.'
'Now I think we are very good friends,' said Miss Temple, 'considering
we have known each other so short a time. But then papa likes you so
much.'
'I am honoured as well as gratified by the kindly dispositions of so
agreeable a person as Mr. Temple. I can assure his daughter that the
feeling is mutual. Your father's opinion influences you?'
'In everything. He has been so kind a father, that it would be worse
than ingratitude to be less than devoted to him.'
'Mr. Temple is a very enviable person.'
'But Captain Armine knows the delight of a parent who loves him. I love
my father as you love your mother.'
'I have, however, lived to feel that no person's opinion could influence
me in everything; I have lived to find that even filial love, and God
knows mine was powerful enough, is, after all, but a pallid moonlight
beam, compared with------'
'See! my father kisses his hand to us from the window. Let us run and
meet him.'
CHAPTER XII.
_Containing an Ominous Incident_.
THE last adieus are bidden: Ferdinand is on his road to Armine,
flying from the woman whom he adores, to meet the woman to whom he is
betrothed. He reined in his horse as he entered the park. As he slowly
approached his home, he could not avoid feeling, that after so long
an absence, he had not treated Glastonbury with the kindness and
consideration he merited. While he was torturing his invention for an
excuse for his conduct he observed his old tutor in the distance; and
riding up and dismounting, he joined that faithful friend. Whether it
be that love and falsehood are, under any circumstances, inseparable,
Ferdinand Armine, whose frankness was proverbial, found himself involved
in a long and confused narrative of a visit to a friend, whom he had
unexpectedly met, whom he had known abroad, and to whom he was under
the greatest obligations. He even affected to regret this temporary
estrangement from Armine after so long a separation, and to rejoice at
his escape. No names were mentioned, and the unsuspicious Glastonbury,
delighted again to be his companion, inconvenienced him with no
cross-examination. But this was only the commencement of the system of
degrading deception which awaited him.
Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his time and feelings to his
companion; but in vain he struggled with the absorbing passion of his
soul. He dwelt in silence upon the memory of the last three days, the
most eventful period of his existence. He was moody and absent, silent
when he should have spoken, wandering when he should have listened,
hazarding random observations instead of conversing, or breaking into
hurried and inappropriate comments; so that to any worldly critic of his
conduct he would have appeared at the same time both dull and excited.
At length he made a desperate effort to accompany Glastonbury to the
picture gallery and listen to his plans. The scene indeed was not
ungrateful to him, for it was associated with the existence and the
conversation of the lady of his heart: he stood entranced before the
picture of the Turkish page, and lamented to Glastonbury a thousand
times that there was no portrait of Henrietta Armine.
'I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta Armine than the whole
gallery together,' said Ferdinand.
Glastonbury stared.
'I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of Henrietta Armine. Come
now, my dear Glastonbury,' he continued, with an air of remarkable
excitement, 'let us have a wager upon it. What are the odds? Will there
ever be a portrait of Henrietta Armine? I am quite fantastic to-day.
You are smiling at me. Now do you know, if I had a wish certain to be
gratified, it should be to add a portrait of Henrietta Armine to our
gallery?'
'She died very young,' remarked Glastonbury.
'But my Henrietta Armine should not die young,' said Ferdinand. 'She
should live, breathe, smile: she------'
Glastonbury looked very confused.
So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allusion to his secret
passion relieved and gratified the overcharged bosom of Ferdinand. He
pursued the subject with enjoyment. Anybody but Glastonbury might have
thought that he had lost his senses, he laughed so loud, and talked
so fast about a subject which seemed almost nonsensical; but the good
Glastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to the wanton spirit of youth,
and smiled out of sympathy, though he knew not why, except that his
pupil appeared happy.
At length they quitted the gallery; Glastonbury resumed his labours in
the hall, where he was copying an escutcheon; and after hovering a short
time restlessly around his tutor, now escaping into the garden that he
might muse over Henrietta Temple undisturbed, and now returning for
a few minutes to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury should feel
mortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away altogether and wandered
far into the pleasaunce.
He came to the green and shady spot where he had first beheld her.
There rose the cedar spreading its dark form in solitary grandeur, and
holding, as it were, its state among its subject woods. It was the same
scene, almost the same hour: but where was she? He waited for her form
to rise, and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta Temple, yet no fair
vision blessed his expectant sight. Was it all a dream? Had he been but
lying beneath these branches in a rapturous trance, and had he only
woke to the shivering dulness of reality? What evidence was there of the
existence of such a being as Henrietta Temple? If such a being did not
exist, of what value was life? After a glimpse of Paradise, could he
breathe again in this tame and frigid world? Where was Ducie? Where
were its immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fragrance, and the
celestial melody of its halls? That garden, wherein he wandered and hung
upon her accents; that wood, among whose shadowy boughs she glided like
an antelope, that pensive twilight, on which he had gazed with such
subdued emotion; that moonlight walk, when her voice floated, like
Ariel's, in the purple sky: were these all phantoms? Could it be that
this morn, this very morn, he had beheld Henrietta Temple, had conversed
with her alone, had bidden her a soft adieu? What, was it this day that
she had given him this rose?
He threw himself upon the turf, and gazed upon the flower. The flower
was young and beautiful as herself, and just expanding into perfect
life. To the fantastic brain of love there seemed a resemblance between
this rose and her who had culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenance
was brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. As he held it in
his hand, a bee came hovering round its charms, eager to revel in its
fragrant loveliness. More than once had Ferdinand driven the bee away,
when suddenly it succeeded in alighting on the rose. Jealous of his
rose, Ferdinand, in his haste, shook the flower, and the fragile head
fell from the stem!
A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, with which he found it in
vain to struggle, and which he could not analyse. He rose, and pressing
the flower to his heart, he walked away and rejoined Glastonbury, whose
task was nearly accomplished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one of the
high cases which had been stowed away in the hall, folding his arms,
swinging his legs, and whistling the German air which Miss Temple had
sung the preceding night.
'That is a wild and pretty air,' said Glastonbury, who was devoted to
music. 'I never heard it before. You travellers pick up choice things.
Where did you find it?'
'I am sure I cannot tell, my dear Glastonbury; I have been asking myself
the same question the whole morning. Sometimes I think I dreamt it.'
'A few more such dreams would make you a rare composer,' said
Glastonbury, smiling.
'Ah! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I know a musician, such a
musician, a musician whom I should like to introduce you to above all
persons in the world.'
'You always loved music, dear Ferdinand; 'tis in the blood. You come
from a musical stock on your mother's side. Is Miss Grandison musical?'
'Yes, no, that is to say, I forget: some commonplace accomplishment
in the art she has, I believe; but I was not thinking of that sort of
thing; I was thinking of the lady who taught me this air.'
'A lady!' said Glastonbury. 'The German ladies are highly cultivated.'
'Yes! the Germans, and the women especially, have a remarkably fine
musical taste,' rejoined Ferdinand, recovering from his blunder.
'I like the Germans very much,' said Glastonbury, 'and I admire that
air.'
'O! my dear Glastonbury, you should hear it sung by moonlight.'
'Indeed!' said Glastonbury.
'Yes, if you could only hear her sing it by moonlight, I venture to say,
my dear Glastonbury, that you would confess that all you had ever heard,
or seen, or imagined, of enchanted spirits floating in the air, and
filling the atmosphere with supernatural symphonies, was realised.'
'Indeed!' said Glastonbury, 'a most accomplished performer, no doubt!
Was she professional?' 'Who?' inquired Ferdinand. 'Your songstress.'
'Professional! oh! ah! yes! No! she was not a professional singer, but
she was fit to be one; and that is an excellent idea, too; for I would
sooner, after all, be a professional singer, and live by my art, than
marry against my inclination, or not marry according to it.'
'Marry!' said Glastonbury, rather astonished; 'what, is she going to be
married against her will? Poor devoted thing!'
'Devoted, indeed!' said Ferdinand; 'there is no greater curse on earth.'
Glastonbury shook his head.
'The affections should not be forced,' the old man added; 'our feelings
are our own property, often our best.'
Ferdinand fell into a fit of abstraction; then, suddenly turning round,
he said, 'Is it possible that I have been away from Armine only two
days? Do you know it really seems to me a year!'
'You are very kind to say so, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury.
CHAPTER XIII.
_In Which Captain Armine Finds Reason to Believe in the
Existence of Fairies._
IT IS difficult to describe the restlessness of Ferdinand Armine. His
solitary dinner was an excuse for quitting Glastonbury: but to eat is
as impossible as to sleep, for a man who is really in love. He took a
spoonful of soup, and then jumping up from his chair, he walked up and
down the room, thinking of Henrietta Temple. Then to-morrow occurred
to him, and that other lady that to-morrow was to bring. He drowned the
thought in a bumper of claret. Wine, mighty wine! thou best and surest
consolation! What care can withstand thy inspiring influence! from what
scrape canst thou not, for the moment, extricate the victim! Who can
deny that our spiritual nature in some degree depends upon our corporeal
condition? A man without breakfast is not a hero; a hero well fed is
full of audacious invention. Everything depends upon the circulation.
Let but the blood flow freely, and a man of imagination is never without
resources. A fine pulse is a talisman; a charmed life; a balance at
our bankers. It is good luck; it is eternity; it is wealth. Nothing can
withstand us; nothing injure us; it is inexhaustible riches. So felt
Ferdinand Armine, though on the verge of a moral precipice. To-morrow!
what of to-morrow? Did to-morrow daunt him? Not a jot. He would wrestle
with to-morrow, laden as it might be with curses, and dash it to the
earth. It should not be a day; he would blot it out of the calendar
of time; he would effect a moral eclipse of its influence. He loved
Henrietta Temple. She should be his. Who could prevent him? Was he not
an Armine? Was he not the near descendant of that bold man who passed
his whole life in the voluptuous indulgence of his unrestrained
volition! Bravo! he willed it, and it should be done. Everything yields
to determination. What a fool! what a miserable craven fool had he been
to have frightened himself with the flimsy shadows of petty worldly
cares! He was born to follow his own pleasure; it was supreme; it was
absolute; he was a despot; he set everything and everybody at defiance;
and, filling a huge tumbler to the health of the great Sir Ferdinand, he
retired, glorious as an emperor.
On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed so great an indiscretion as
the reader, of course shocked, might at first imagine. For the first
time for some days he slept, and slept soundly. Next to wine, a
renovating slumber perhaps puts us in the best humour with our destiny.
Ferdinand awoke refreshed and sanguine, full of inventive life, which
soon developed itself in a flow of improbable conclusions. His most
rational scheme, however, appeared to consist in winning Henrietta
Temple, and turning pirate, or engaging in the service of some distant
and disturbed state. Why might he not free Greece, or revolutionize
Spain, or conquer the Brazils? Others had embarked in these bold
enterprises; men not more desperate than himself, and not better
qualified for the career. Young, courageous, a warrior by profession,
with a name of traditionary glory throughout the courts of Christendom,
perhaps even remembered in Asia, he seemed just the individual to carve
out a glorious heritage with his sword. And as for his parents, they
were not in the vale of years; let them dream on in easy obscurity, and
maintain themselves at Armine until he returned to redeem his hereditary
domain. All that was requisite was the concurrence of his adored
mistress. Perhaps, after all his foolish fears and all his petty
anxiety, he might live to replace upon her brow the ancient coronet
of Tewkesbury! Why not? The world is strange; nothing happens that we
anticipate: when apparently stifled by the common-place, we are on the
brink of stepping into the adventurous. If he married Miss Grandison,
his career was closed: a most unnatural conclusion for one so young and
bold. It was evident that he must marry Henrietta Temple: and then? Why
then something would happen totally unexpected and unforeseen. Who could
doubt it? Not he!
He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped over to Ducie Common. Its
very aspect melted his heart. He called at the cottages he had visited
two days before. Without enquiring after Miss Temple, he contrived
to hear a thousand circumstances relating to her which interested and
charmed him. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie; he gazed upon
them as if he could never withdraw his sight from their deep and silent
forms. Oh, that sweet bower! Why was there any other world but Ducie?
All his brave projects of war, and conquest, and imperial plunder,
seemed dull and vain now. He sickened at the thought of action. He
sighed to gather roses, to listen to songs sweeter than the nightingale,
and wander for ever in moon-lit groves.
He turned his horse's head: slowly and sorrowfully he directed his
course to Armine. Had they arrived? The stern presence of reality was
too much for all his slight and glittering visions. What was he, after
all? This future conqueror was a young officer on leave, obscure except
in his immediate circle, with no inheritance, and very much in debt;
awaited with anxiety by his affectionate parents, and a young lady
whom he was about to marry for her fortune! Most impotent epilogue to a
magnificent reverie!
The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. As Ferdinand, nervous as
a child returning to school, tardily regained home, he recognised the
approaching postman. Hah! a letter? What was its import? The blessing of
delay? or was it the herald of their instant arrival? Pale and sick at
heart, he tore open the hurried lines of Katherine. The maiden aunt had
stumbled while getting out of a pony phaeton, and experienced a serious
accident; their visit to Armine was necessarily postponed. He read
no more. The colour returned to his cheek, reinforced by his heart's
liveliest blood. A thousand thoughts, a thousand wild hopes and wilder
plans, came over him. Here was, at least, one interposition in his
favour; others would occur. He felt fortunate. He rushed to the tower,
to tell the news to Glastonbury. His tutor ascribed his agitation to the
shock, and attempted to console him. In communicating the intelligence,
he was obliged to finish the letter; it expressed a hope that, if their
visit were postponed for more than a day or two, Katherine's dearest
Ferdinand would return to Bath.
Ferdinand wandered forth into the park to enjoy his freedom. A burden
had suddenly fallen from his frame; a cloud that had haunted his vision
had vanished. To-day, that was so accursed, was to be marked now in his
calendar with red chalk. Even Armine pleased him; its sky was brighter,
its woods more vast and green. They had not arrived; they would not
arrive to-morrow, that was certain; the third day, too, was a day of
hope. Why! three days, three whole days of unexpected, unhoped-for
freedom, it was eternity! What might not happen in three days! For three
days he might fairly remain in expectation of fresh letters. It could
not be anticipated, it was not even desired, that he should instantly
repair to them. Come, he would forget this curse, he would be happy. The
past, the future, should be nothing; he would revel in the auspicious
present.
Thus communing with himself, he sauntered along, musing over Henrietta
Temple, and building bright castles in the air. A man engaged with his
ideas is insensible of fatigue. Ferdinand found himself at the Park
gate that led to Ducie; intending only a slight stroll, he had already
rambled half way to his beloved. It was a delicious afternoon: the heat
of the sun had long abated; the air was sweet and just beginning to
stir; not a sound was heard, except the last blow of the woodman's
axe, or the occasional note of some joyous bird waking from its siesta.
Ferdinand passed the gate; he entered the winding road, the road that
Henrietta Temple had so admired; a beautiful green lane with banks
of flowers and hedges of tall trees. He strolled along, our happy
Ferdinand, indefinite of purpose, almost insensible whether he were
advancing or returning home. He plucked the wild flowers, and pressed
them to his lips, because she had admired them; rested on a bank,
lounged on a gate, cut a stick from the hedge, traced Henrietta Temple
in the road, and then turned the words into Henrietta Armine, and
so--and so--and so, he, at length, stared at finding himself on Ducie
Common.
Beautiful common! how he loved it! How familiar every tree and rustic
roof had become to him! Could he ever forget the morning he had bathed
in those fresh waters! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of the
midland ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basin! He drew
near to the woods of Ducie, glowing with the setting sun. Surely there
was no twilight like the twilight of this land! The woods of Ducie are
entered. He recognised the path over which she had glided; he knelt down
and kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the pleasure grounds, he
turned off into a side path that he might not be perceived; he caught,
through a vista, a distant glimpse of the mansion. The sight of that
roof wherein he had been so happy; of that roof that contained all that
he cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He leant against
a tree, and hid his face.
The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Ferdinand ventured in
the spreading gloom of night to approach the mansion. He threw himself
upon the turf, and watched the chamber where she lived. The windows
were open, there were lights within the room, but the thin curtains were
drawn, and concealed the inmates. Happy, happy chamber! All that was
bright and fair and sweet were concentrated in those charming walls!
The curtain is withdrawn; an arm, an arm which cannot be mistaken, pulls
back the drapery. Is she coming forth? No, she does not; but he sees,
distinctly he sees her. She sits in an old chair that he had often
praised; her head rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive; and in her
other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to read. Oh! may
he gaze upon her for ever! May this celestial scene, this seraphic
hour, never pass away. Bright stars! do not fade; thou summer wind that
playest upon his brow, perfumed by her flowers, refresh him for ever;
beautiful night be for ever the canopy of a scene so sweet and still;
let existence glide away in gazing on yon delicate and tender vision!
Dreams of fantastic love: the curtain closes; a ruder hand than hers has
shut her from his sight! It has all vanished; the stars seem dim, the
autumnal air is dank and harsh; and where he had gazed on heaven, a bat
flits wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how dull and
depressed our brave gallant has become! Was it her father who had closed
the curtain? Could he himself, thought Ferdinand, have been observed?
Hark! a voice softer and sweeter than the night breaks upon the air.
It is the voice of his beloved; and, indeed, with all her singular
and admirable qualities, there was not anything more remarkable about
Henrietta Temple than her voice. It was a rare voice; so that in
speaking, and in ordinary conversation, though there was no one whose
utterance was more natural and less unstudied, it forcibly affected you.
She could not give you a greeting, bid you an adieu, or make a routine
remark, without impressing you with her power and sweetness. It sounded
like a bell, sweet and clear and thrilling; it was astonishing what
influence a little word, uttered by this woman, without thought, would
have upon those she addressed. Of such fine clay is man made.
That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all his fading visions; it
renewed the spell which had recently enchanted him; it conjured up again
all those sweet spirits that had a moment since hovered over him with
their auspicious pinions. He could not indeed see her; her form was
shrouded, but her voice reached him; a voice attuned to tenderness, even
to love; a voice that ravished his ear, melted his soul, and blended
with his whole existence. His heart fluttered, his pulse beat high,
he sprang up, he advanced to the window! Yes! a few paces alone divide
them: a single step and he will be at her side. His hand is outstretched
to clutch the curtain, his------, when suddenly the music ceased. His
courage vanished with its inspiration. For a moment he lingered, but his
heart misgave him, and he stole back to his solitude.
What a mystery is Love! All the necessities and habits of our life sink
before it. Food and sleep, that seem to divide our being as day and
night divide Time, lose all their influence over the lover. He is a
spiritualised being, fit only to live upon ambrosia, and slumber in an
imaginary paradise. The cares of the world do not touch him; its most
stirring events are to him but the dusty incidents of bygone annals. All
the fortune of the world without his mistress is misery; and with her
all its mischances a transient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, the
change of governments, the fall of empires, are to him but childish
games, distasteful to a manly spirit. Men love in the plague, and forget
the pest, though it rages about them. They bear a charmed life, and
think not of destruction until it touches their idol, and then they die
without a pang, like zealots for their persecuted creed. A man in love
wanders in the world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem open to
those that watch him, yet in fact view nothing but their own inward
fancies.
Oh! that night at Ducie, through whose long hours Ferdinand Armine, in a
tumult of enraptured passion, wandered in its lawns and groves, feeding
on the image of its enchanting mistress, watching the solitary light in
her chamber that was to him as the pharos to a mariner in a tumultuous
voyage! The morning, the grey cold morning, came at last; he had
outwatched the stars, and listened to the matins of the waking birds. It
was no longer possible to remain in the gardens unobserved; he regained
the common.
What should he do! whither should he wend his course? To Armine? Oh!
not to Armine; never could he return to Armine without the heart of
Henrietta Temple. Yes! on that great venture he had now resolved; on
that mighty hazard all should now be staked. Reckless of consequences,
one vast object now alone sustained him. Existence without her was
impossible! Ay! a day, a day, a single, a solitary day, should not
elapse without his breathing to her his passion, and seeking his fate
from her dark eyes.
He strolled along to the extremity of the common. It was a great table
land, from whose boundary you look down on small rich valleys; and into
one of these, winding his way through fields and pastures, of which
the fertile soil was testified by their vigorous hedgerows, he now
descended. A long, low farmhouse, with gable ends and ample porch,
an antique building that in old days might have been some manorial
residence, attracted his attention. Its picturesque form, its angles and
twisted chimneys, its porch covered with jessamine and eglantine, its
verdant homestead, and its orchard rich with ruddy fruit, its vast barns
and long lines of ample stacks, produced altogether a rural picture
complete and cheerful. Near it a stream, which Ferdinand followed, and
which, after a devious and rapid course, emptied itself into a deep
and capacious pool, touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful to the
swimmer's eye. Here Ferdinand made his natural toilet; and afterwards
slowly returning to the farm-house, sought an agreeable refuge from the
sun in its fragrant porch.
The farmer's wife, accompanied by a pretty daughter with downcast eyes,
came forth and invited him to enter. While he courteously refused her
offer, he sought her hospitality. The good wife brought a table and
placed it in the porch, and covered it with a napkin purer than snow.
Her viands were fresh eggs, milk warm from the cow, and bread she had
herself baked. Even a lover might feed on such sweet food. This happy
valley and this cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the fancy of
Ferdinand. The season was mild and sunny, the air scented by the flowers
that rustled in the breeze, the bees soon came to rifle their sweetness,
and flights of white and blue pigeons ever and anon skimmed along the
sky from the neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. Ferdinand
made a salutary, if not a plenteous meal; and when the table
was removed, exhausted by the fatigue and excitement of the last
four-and-twenty hours, he stretched himself at full length in the porch,
and fell into a gentle and dreamless slumber.
Hours elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, and wonderfully
refreshed; but the sun had already greatly declined. To his
astonishment, as he moved, there fell from his breast a beautiful
nosegay. He was charmed with this delicate attention from his hostess,
or perhaps from her pretty daughter with those downcast eyes. There
seemed a refinement about the gift, and the mode of its offering, which
scarcely could be expected from these kind yet simple rustics. The
flowers, too, were rare and choice; geraniums such as are found only in
lady's bower, a cape jessamine, some musky carnations, and a rose that
seemed the sister of the one that he had borne from Ducie. They were
delicately bound together, too, by a bright blue riband, fastened by
a gold and turquoise pin. This was most strange; this was an adventure
more suitable to a Sicilian palace than an English farm-house; to the
gardens of a princess than the clustered porch of his kind hostess.
Ferdinand gazed at the bouquet with a glance of blended perplexity
and pleasure; then he entered the farmhouse and made enquiries of his
hostess, but they were fruitless. The pretty daughter with the downcast
eyes was there too; but her very admiration of the gift, so genuine and
unrestrained, proved, if testimony indeed were necessary, that she was
not his unknown benefactor: admirer, he would have said; but Ferdinand
was in love, and modest. All agreed no one, to their knowledge, had been
there; and so Ferdinand, cherishing his beautiful gift, was fain to quit
his new friends in as much perplexity as ever.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Containing an Incident Which Is the Termination of Most
Tales, though Almost the Beginning of the Present._
IT WAS about two hours before sunset that Captain Armine summoned up
courage to call at Ducie Bower. He enquired for Mr. Temple, and learned
to his surprise that Mr. Temple had quitted Ducie yesterday morning for
Scotland. 'And Miss Temple?' said Ferdinand. 'Is at home, Sir,' replied
the servant. Ferdinand was ushered into the salon. She was not there.
Our hero was very nervous; he had been bold enough in the course of
his walk from the farmhouse, and indulged in a thousand imaginary
conversations with his mistress; but, now that he was really about to
meet her, all his fire and fancy deserted him. Everything occurred to
him inauspicious to his suit; his own situation, the short time she had
known him, his uncertainty of the state of her affections. How did he
know she was not engaged to another? why should she not be betrothed as
well as himself? This contingency had occurred to him before, and yet
he had driven it from his thoughts. He began to be jealous; he began to
think himself a very great fool; at any rate, he resolved not to expose
himself any further. He was clearly premature; he would call to-morrow
or next day: to speak to her now was certainly impossible.
The door opened; she entered, radiant as the day! What a smile! what
dazzling teeth! what ravishing dimples! her eyes flashed like summer
lightning; she extended to him a hand white and soft as one of those
doves that had played about him in the morning. Surely never was anyone
endued with such an imperial presence. So stately, so majestic, and yet
withal so simply gracious; full of such airy artlessness, at one moment
she seemed an empress, and then only a beautiful child; and the hand and
arm that seemed fashioned to wave a sceptre, in an instant appeared only
fit to fondle a gazelle, or pluck a flower.
'How do you do?' she said; and he really fancied she was going to sing.
He was not yet accustomed to that marvellous voice. It broke upon the
silence, like a silver bell just touched by the summer air. 'It is kind
of you to come and see a lone maiden,' she continued; 'papa has deserted
me, and without any preparation. I cannot endure to be separated
from him, and this is almost the only time that he has refused my
solicitation to accompany him. But he must travel far and quickly. My
uncle has sent for him; he is very unwell, and papa is his trustee.
There is business; I do not know what it is, but I dare say not very
agreeable. By-the-bye, I hope Lady Armine is well?'
'My papa has deserted me,' said Ferdinand with a smile. 'They have not
yet arrived, and some days may yet elapse before they reach Armine.'
'Indeed! I hope they are well.'
'Yes; they are well.'
'Did you ride here?'
'No.'
'You did not walk?'
'I hardly know how I came; I believe I walked.'
'You must be very tired; and you are standing! pray sit down; sit in
that chair; you know that is your favourite chair.'
And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which he had watched
her the preceding night.
'This is certainly my favourite chair,' he said; 'I know no seat in the
world I prefer to this.'
'Will you take some refreshment? I am sure you will; you must be very
tired. Take some hock; papa always takes hock and soda water. I shall
order some hock and soda water for you.' She rose and rang the bell in
spite of his remonstrance.
'And have you been walking, Miss Temple?' enquired Ferdinand.
'I was thinking of strolling now,' she replied, 'but I am glad that you
have called, for I wanted an excuse to be idle.'
An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either side very
brilliantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, but, indeed, was only
moody, revolving in his mind many strange incidents and feelings, and
then turning for consolation in his perplexities to the enchanting
vision on which he still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple either in her
usually sparkling vein; her liveliness seemed an effort; she was more
constrained, she was less fluent than before. Ferdinand, indeed, rose
more than once to depart; yet still he remained. He lost his cap;
he looked for his cap; and then again seated himself. Again he rose,
restless and disquieted, wandered about the room, looked at a picture,
plucked a flower, pulled the flower to pieces.
'Miss Temple,' he at length observed, 'I am afraid I am very stupid!'
'Because you are silent?'
'Is not that a sufficient reason?'
'Nay! I think not; I think I am rather fond of silent people myself; I
cannot bear to live with a person who feels bound to talk because he
is my companion. The whole day passes sometimes without papa and myself
exchanging fifty words; yet I am very happy; I do not feel that we are
dull:' and Miss Temple pursued her work which she had previously taken
up.
'Ah! but I am not your papa; when we are very intimate with people,
when they interest us, we are engaged with their feelings, we do not
perpetually require their ideas. But an acquaintance, as I am, only an
acquaintance, a miserable acquaintance, unless I speak or listen, I
have no business to be here; unless I in some degree contribute to the
amusement or the convenience of my companion, I degenerate into a bore.'
'I think you are very amusing, and you may be useful if you like, very;'
and she offered him a skein of silk, which she requested him to hold.
It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him; a beautiful hand is
an excellent thing in woman; it is a charm that never palls, and better
than all, it is a means of fascination that never disappears. Women
carry a beautiful hand with them to the grave, when a beautiful face
has long ago vanished, or ceased to enchant. The expression of the
hand, too, is inexhaustible; and when the eyes we may have worshipped no
longer flash or sparkle, the ringlets with which we may have played are
covered with a cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetrical presence
which in our sonnets has reminded us so oft of antelopes and wild
gazelles, have all, all vanished, the hand, the immortal hand, defying
alike time and care, still vanquishes, and still triumphs; and small,
soft, and fair, by an airy attitude, a gentle pressure, or a new ring,
renews with untiring grace the spell that bound our enamoured and
adoring youth!
But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as the hand, locks
more glossy and luxuriant than Helen's of Troy, a cheek pink as a shell,
and breaking into dimples like a May morning into sunshine, and lips
from which stole forth a perfume sweeter than the whole conservatory.
Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with the extended
skein.
'Now this is better than doing nothing!' she said, catching his eye with
a glance half-kind, half-arch. 'I suspect, Captain Armine, that your
melancholy originates in idleness.'
'Ah! if I could only be employed every day in this manner!' ejaculated
Ferdinand.
'Nay! not with a distaff; but you must do something. You must get into
parliament.'
'You forget that I am a Catholic,' said Ferdinand.
Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather quickly about her work;
but her companion would not relinquish the subject.
'I hope you are not prejudiced against my faith,' said Ferdinand.
'Prejudiced! Dear Captain Armine, do not make me repent too seriously a
giddy word. I feel it is wrong that matters of taste should mingle with
matters of belief; but, to speak the truth, I am not quite sure that
a Howard, or an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself, would quite
please my fancy so much as in their present position, which, if a little
inconvenient, is very picturesque.'
Ferdinand smiled. 'My great grandmother was a Protestant,' said
Ferdinand, 'Margaret Armine. Do you think Margaret a pretty name?'
'Queen Margaret! yes, a fine name, I think; barring its abbreviation.'
'I wish my great grandmother's name had not been Margaret,' said
Ferdinand, very seriously.
'Now, why should that respectable dame's baptism disturb your fancy?'
enquired Miss Temple.
'I wish her name had been Henrietta,' replied Ferdinand. 'Henrietta
Armine. You know there was a Henrietta Armine once?'
'Was there?' said Miss Temple, rising. 'Our skein is finished. You have
been very good. I must go and see my flowers. Come.' And as she said
this little word, she turned her fair and finely-finished neck, and
looked over her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression of
countenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed, that clear,
sweet voice, and that quick graceful attitude, blended into a spell
which was irresistible. His heart yearned for Henrietta Temple, and rose
at the bidding of her voice.
From the conservatory they stepped into the garden. It was a delicious
afternoon; the sun had sunk behind the grove, and the air, which had
been throughout the day somewhat oppressive, was now warm, but mild. At
Ducie there was a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that bound
the valley in which the Bower was situate. These hills, a ridge of
moderate elevation, but of picturesque form, parted just opposite
the terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting sun, like inferior
existences that had, as it were, made way before the splendour of some
mighty lord or conqueror. The lofty and sloping bank which this terrace
crowned was covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of tall
trees sprang up among them, and broke the view with an interference
which was far from ungraceful, while plants, spreading forth from large
marble vases, had extended over their trunks, and sometimes, in their
play, had touched even their topmost branches. Between the terrace
and the distant hills extended a tract of pasture-land, green and
well-wooded by its rich hedgerows; not a roof was visible, though many
farms and hamlets were at hand; and, in the heart of a rich and populous
land, here was a region where the shepherd or the herdsman was the only
evidence of human existence. It was thither, a grateful spot at such an
hour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed their steps. The last
beam of the sun flashed across the flaming horizon as they gained the
terrace; the hills, well wooded, or presenting a bare and acute outline
to the sky, rose sharply defined in form; while in another direction
some more distant elevations were pervaded with a rich purple tint,
touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and flickering light. The
whole scene, indeed, from the humble pasture-land that was soon to
creep into darkness, to the proud hills whose sparkling crests were yet
touched by the living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and luminous
softness, and blended with the glowing canopy of the lustrous sky. But
on the terrace and the groves that rose beyond it, and on the glades and
vistas into which they opened, fell the full glory of the sunset. Each
moment a new shadow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shifting
tints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasure-grounds,
their groups of rare and noble trees, and their dim or glittering
avenues.
The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the last low of the
returning kine sounded over the lea, the tinkle of the sheep-bell
was heard no more, the thin white moon began to gleam, and Hesperus
glittered in the fading sky. It was the twilight hour!
That delicious hour that softens the heart of man, what is its magic?
Not merely its beauty; it is not more beautiful than the sunrise. It is
its repose. Our tumultuous passions sink with the sun, there is a
fine sympathy between us and our world, and the stillness of Nature is
responded to by the serenity of the soul.
At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly cares, all those
vulgar anxieties and aspirations that at other seasons hover like
vultures over our existence, vanish from the serene atmosphere of our
susceptibility. A sense of beauty and a sentiment of love pervade our
being. But if at such a moment solitude is full of joy, if, even when
alone, our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a tranquil
yet thrilling bliss, how doubly sweet, how multiplied must be our fine
emotions, when the most delicate influence of human sympathy combines
with the power and purity of material and moral nature, and completes
the exquisite and enchanting spell!
Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful world around him to gaze
upon a countenance sweeter than the summer air, softer than the gleaming
moon, brighter than the evening star. The shadowy light of purple
eve fell upon the still and solemn presence of Henrietta Temple.
Irresistible emotion impelled him; softly he took her gentle hand, and,
bending his head, he murmured to her, 'Most beautiful, I love thee!'
As, in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a single drop is
the refreshing harbinger of a slower that clears the heavens, so even
this slight expression relieved in an instant the intensity of his
over-burthened feelings, and warm, quick, and gushing flowed the words
that breathed his fervid adoration. 'Yes!' he continued, 'in this fair
scene, oh! let me turn to something fairer still. Beautiful, beloved
Henrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions that, since I first
beheld you, have vanquished my existence. I love you, I adore you; life
in your society is heaven; without you I cannot live. Deem me, oh! deem
me not too bold, sweet lady; I am not worthy of you, yet let me love!
I am not worthy of you, but who can be? Ah! if I dared but venture to
offer you my heart, if that humblest of all possessions might indeed be
yours, if my adoration, if my devotion, if the consecration of my life
to you, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if I might
live even but to hope------
'You do not speak. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable Henrietta, have I
offended you? Am I indeed the victim of hopes too high and fancies too
supreme? Oh! pardon me, most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it a
crime to feel, perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine,
dear lady? Ah! tell me I am forgiven; tell me indeed you do not hate me.
I will be silent, I will never speak again. Yet, let me walk with you.
Cease not to be my companion because I have been too bold. Pity me, pity
me, dearest, dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, if
you but knew the nights that brought no sleep, the days of fever that
have been mine since first we met, if you but knew how I have fed but
upon one sweet idea, one sacred image of absorbing life, since first
I gazed on your transcendent form, indeed I think that you would pity,
that you would pardon, that you might even------
'Tell me, is it my fault that you are beautiful! Oh! how beautiful, my
wretched and exhausted soul too surely feels! Is it my fault those eyes
are like the dawn, that thy sweet voice thrills through my frame, and
but the slightest touch of that light hand falls like a spell on my
entranced form! Ah! Henrietta, be merciful, be kind!'
He paused for a second, and yet she did not answer; but her cheek fell
upon his shoulder, and the gentle pressure of her hand was more eloquent
than language. That slight, sweet signal was to him as the sunrise on
the misty earth. Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her in
his arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and vowed to her his
eternal and almighty love!
He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the terrace. Still she was
silent; but her hand clasped his, and her head rested on his bosom. The
gleaming moon now glittered, the hills and woods were silvered by its
beam, and the far meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. Not a
single cloud curtained the splendour of the stars. What a rapturous soul
was Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that night on the old bench, on
Ducie Terrace, shrouding from the rising breeze the trembling form of
Henrietta Temple! And yet it was not cold that made her shiver.
The clock of Ducie Church struck ten. She moved, saying, in a faint
voice, 'We must go home, my Ferdinand!'
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
_In Which Captain Armine Proves Himself a Complete
Tactician_.
THE midnight moon flung its broad beams over the glades and avenues of
Armine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple's horse, re-entered the park.
His countenance was paler than the spectral light that guided him on his
way. He looked little like a pledged and triumphant lover; but in his
contracted brow and compressed lip might be read the determination
of his soul. There was no longer a contest between poverty and pride,
between the maintenance or destruction of his ancient house, between his
old engagement and his present passion; that was past. Henrietta Temple
was the light in the pharos amid all his stormy fortunes; thither he
directed all the energies of his being; and to gain that port, or sink,
was his unflinching resolution.
It was deep in the night before he again beheld the towers and turrets
of his castle, and the ivy-covered fragment of the old Place seemed
to sleep in peace under its protecting influence. A wild and beautiful
event had happened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And what
would be its influence upon them? But it is not for the passionate lover
to moralise. For him, the regrets of the past and the chances of the
future are alike lost in the ravishing and absorbing present. For a
lover that has but just secured the object of his long and tumultuous
hopes is as a diver who has just plucked a jewel from the bed of some
rare sea. Panting and wild he lies upon the beach, and the gem that he
clutches is the sole idea that engrosses his existence.
Ferdinand is within his little chamber, that little chamber where his
mother had bid him so passionate a farewell. Ah! he loves another woman
better than his mother now. Nay, even a feeling of embarrassment and
pain is associated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being,
whom he had recognised once as the model of all feminine perfection, and
who had been to him so gentle and so devoted. He drives his mother from
his thoughts. It is of another voice that he now muses; it is the
memory of another's glance that touches his eager heart. He falls into
a reverie; the passionate past is acted again before him; in his
glittering eye and the rapid play of his features may be traced the
tumult of his soul. A doubt crosses his brow. Is he indeed so happy;
is it not all a dream? He takes from his bosom the handkerchief of
Henrietta Temple. He recognises upon it her magical initials, worked in
her own fine dark hair. A smile of triumphant certainty irradiates
his countenance, as he rapidly presses the memorial to his lips, and
imprints upon it a thousand kisses: and holding this cherished testimony
of his felicity to his heart, sleep at length descended upon the
exhausted frame of Ferdinand Armine.
But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand Armine brought him not
visions more marvellous and magical than his waking life. He who loves
lives in an ecstatic trance. The world that surrounds him is not the
world of working man: it is fairy land. He is not of the same order as
the labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. They are to him but a
swarm of humble-minded and humble-mannered insects. For him, the human
species is represented by a single individual, and of her he makes an
idol. All that is bright and rare is but invented and devised to adorn
and please her. Flowers for her were made so sweet and birds so musical.
All nature seems to bear an intimate relation to the being we adore; and
as to us life would now appear intolerable, a burthen of insupportable
and wearying toil, without this transcendent sympathy, so we cannot
help fancying that were its sweet and subtle origin herself to quit
this inspired scene, the universe itself would not be unconscious of its
deprivation, and somewhat of the world's lustre might be missed even by
the most callous.
The morning burst as beautiful as such love. A rosy tint suffused the
soft and tremulous sky, and tinted with a delicate hue the tall trees
and the wide lawns, freshened with the light and vanishing dew. The air
was vocal with a thousand songs; all was bright and clear, cheerful and
golden. Ferdinand awoke from delicious dreams, and gazed upon the scene
that responded to his own bright and glad emotions, and inhaled the
balmy air, ethereal as his own soul. Love, that can illumine the dark
hovel and the dismal garret, that sheds a ray of enchanting light
over the close and busy city, seems to mount with a lighter and more
glittering pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its own plumes.
Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose existence is placed in a scene
befitting its fair and marvellous career; fortunate the passion that is
breathed in palaces, amid the ennobling creations of surrounding art,
and greets the object of its fond solicitude amid perfumed gardens,
and in the shade of green and silent woods! Whatever may be the harsher
course of his career, however the cold world may cast its dark shadows
upon his future path, he may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whom
this graceful destiny has fallen, and amid the storms and troubles of
after-life may look back to these hours, fair as the dawn, beautiful as
the twilight, with solace and satisfaction. Disappointment may wither
up his energies, oppression may bruise his spirit; but baulked, daunted,
deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sympathy, gloomy where all
was light, still he has not lived in vain.
Business, however, rises with the sun. The morning brings cares, and
although with rebraced energies and renovated strength, then is the
season that we are best qualified to struggle with the harassing brood,
still Ferdinand Armine, the involved son of a ruined race, seldom rose
from his couch, seldom recalled consciousness after repose, without a
pang. Nor was there indeed magic withal, in the sweet spell that now
bound him, to preserve him, from this black invasion. Anxiety was one
of the ingredients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own broken
fortunes, his audacious and sanguine spirit might have built up many
a castle for the future, as brave as that of Armine; but the very
inspiring recollection of Henrietta Temple, the very remembrance of
the past and triumphant eve, only the more forced upon his memory the
conviction that he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, and
bound to be married to two women.
Something must be done; Miss Grandison might arrive this very day. It
was an improbable incident, but still it might occur. While he was
thus musing, his servant brought him his letters, which had arrived the
preceding day, letters from his mother and Katherine, _his_ Katherine.
They brought present relief. The invalid had not amended; their
movements were still uncertain. Katherine, 'his own Kate,' expressed
even a faint fond wish that he would return. His resolution was taken in
an instant. He decided with the prescient promptitude of one who has
his dearest interests at stake. He wrote to Katherine that he would
instantly fly to her, only that he daily expected his attendance would
be required in town, on military business of urgent importance to their
happiness. This might, this must, necessarily delay their meeting. The
moment he received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he should
hurry off. In the meantime, she was to write to him here; and at all
events not to quit Bath for Armine, without giving him a notice of
several days. Having despatched this letter and another to his mother,
Ferdinand repaired to the tower to communicate to Glastonbury the
necessity of his immediate departure for London, but he also assured
that good old man of his brief visit to that city. The pang of this
unexpected departure was softened by the positive promise of returning
in a very few days, and returning with his family.
Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand now felt that, come what
might, he had at least secured for himself a certain period of unbroken
bliss. He had a faithful servant, an Italian, in whose discretion he
had justly unlimited confidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of
bringing, each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed upon
should be that same picturesque farm-house, in whose friendly porch he
had found the preceding day such a hospitable shelter, and where he
had experienced that charming adventure which now rather delighted than
perplexed him.
CHAPTER II.
_A Day of Love_.
MEANWHILE the beautiful Henrietta sat in her bower, her music neglected,
her drawing thrown aside. Even her birds were forgotten, and her flowers
untended. A soft tumult filled her frame: now rapt in reverie, she
leaned her head upon her fair hand in charmed abstraction; now rising
from her restless seat, she paced the chamber, and thought of his quick
coming. What was this mighty revolution that a few short days, a few
brief hours had occasioned? How mysterious, yet how irresistible, how
overwhelming! Her father was absent, that father on whose fond idea she
had alone lived; from whom the slightest separation had once been
pain; and now that father claims not even her thoughts. Another, and a
stranger's, image is throned in her soul. She who had moved in the world
so variously, who had received so much homage and been accustomed from
her childhood to all that is considered accomplished and fascinating in
man, and had passed through the ordeal with a calm clear spirit; behold,
she is no longer the mistress of her thoughts or feelings; she had
fallen before a glance, and yielded in an instant to a burning word!
But could she blame herself? Did she repent the rapid and ravishing
past? Did regret mingle with her wonder? Was there a pang of remorse,
however slight, blending its sharp tooth with all her bliss? No! Her
love was perfect, and her joy was full. She offered her vows to that
Heaven that had accorded her happiness so supreme; she felt only
unworthy of a destiny so complete. She marvelled, in the meekness and
purity of her spirit, why one so gifted had been reserved for her,
and what he could recognise in her imperfect and inferior qualities to
devote to them the fondness of his rare existence.
Ferdinand Armine! Did there indeed ever breathe, had the wit of poet
ever yet devised, a being so choice? So young, so beautiful, so lively
and accomplished, so deeply and variously interesting! Was that sweet
voice, indeed, only to sound in her enchanted ear, that graceful form
to move only for the pleasure of her watchful eye? That quick and airy
fancy but to create for her delight, and that soft, gentle heart to own
no solicitude but for her will and infinite gratification? And could it
be possible that he loved her, that she was indeed his pledged bride,
that the accents of his adoration still echoed in her ear, and his fond
embrace still clung to her mute and trembling lips! Would he always love
her? Would he always be so fond? Would he be as faithful as he was now
devoted? Ah! she would not lose him. That heart should never escape her.
Her life should be one long vigilant device to enchain his being.
What was she five days past? Is it possible that she lived before she
met him? Of what did she think, what do? Could there be pursuits without
this companion, plans or feelings without this sweet friend? Life
must have been a blank, vapid and dull and weary. She could not recall
herself before that morning ride to Armine. How rolled away the day!
How heavy must have been the hours! All that had been uttered before she
listened to Ferdinand seemed without point; all that was done before he
lingered at her side, aimless and without an object.
O Love! in vain they moralise; in vain they teach us thou art a
delusion; in vain they dissect thine inspiring sentiment, and would
mortify us into misery by its degrading analysis. The sage may announce
that gratified vanity is thine aim and end; but the lover glances with
contempt at his cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou art a
beautiful and sublime emotion; and, he answers, canst thou deprive the
sun of its heat because its ray may be decomposed; or does the diamond
blaze with less splendour because thou canst analyse its effulgence?
A gentle rustling sounded at the window: Henrietta looked up, but the
sight deserted her fading vision, as Ferdinand seized with softness her
softer hand, and pressed it to his lips.
A moment since, and she had longed for his presence as the infant for
its mother; a moment since, and she had murmured that so much of the
morn had passed without his society; a moment since, and it had seemed
that no time could exhaust the expression of her feelings. How she had
sighed for his coming! How she had hoped that this day she might convey
to him what last night she had so weakly, so imperfectly attempted!
And now she sat trembling and silent, with downcast eyes and changing
countenance!
'My Henrietta!' exclaimed Ferdinand, 'my beautiful Henrietta, it seemed
we never should meet again, and yet I rose almost with the sun.'
'My Ferdinand,' replied Miss Temple, scarcely daring to meet his glance,
'I cannot speak; I am so happy that I cannot speak.'
'Ah! tell me, have you thought of me? Did you observe I stole your
handkerchief last night? See! here it is; when I slept, I kissed it and
wore it next my heart.'
'Ah! give it me,' she faintly murmured, extending her hand; and then she
added, in a firmer and livelier tone, 'and did you really wear it near
your heart!'
'Near thine; for thine it is, love! Sweet, you look so beautiful to-day!
It seems to me you never yet looked half so fair. Those eyes are so
brilliant, so very blue, so like the violet! There is nothing like your
eyes!'
'Except your own.'
'You have taken away your hand. Give me back my hand, my Henrietta. I
will not quit it. The whole day it shall be clasped in mine. Ah! what a
hand! so soft, so very soft! There is nothing like your hand.'
'Yours is as soft, dear Ferdinand.'
'O Henrietta! I do love you so! I wish that I could tell you how I love
you! As I rode home last night it seemed that I had not conveyed to you
a tithe, nay, a thousandth part of what I feel.'
'You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I love you.'
'Say so again! Tell me very often, tell me a thousand times, how much
you love me. Unless you tell me a thousand times, Henrietta, I never can
believe that I am so blessed.'
They went forth into the garden. Nature, with the splendid sky and the
sweet breeze, seemed to smile upon their passion. Henrietta plucked the
most beautiful flowers and placed them in his breast.
'Do you remember the rose at Armine?' said Ferdinand, with a fond smile.
'Ah! who would have believed that it would have led to this?' said
Henrietta, with downcast eyes.
'I am not more in love now than I was then,' said Ferdinand.
'I dare not speak of my feelings,' said Miss Temple. 'Is it possible
that it can be but five days back since we first met! It seems another
era.'
'I have no recollection of anything that occurred before I saw
you beneath the cedar,' replied Ferdinand: 'that is the date of my
existence. I saw you, and I loved. My love was at once complete; I have
no confidence in any other; I have no confidence in the love that is
the creature of observation, and reflection, and comparison, and
calculation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from innate sympathy; it
should be superior to all situations, all ties, all circumstances.'
'Such, then, we must believe is ours,' replied Henrietta, in a somewhat
grave and musing tone: 'I would willingly embrace your creed. I know not
why I should be ashamed of my feelings. They are natural, and they are
pure. And yet I tremble. But so long as you do not think lightly of me,
Ferdinand, for whom should I care?'
'My Henrietta! my angel! my adored and beautiful! I worship you, I
reverence you. Ah! my Henrietta, if you only knew how I dote upon you,
you would not speak thus. Come, let us ramble in our woods.'
So saying, he withdrew her from the more public situation in which they
were then placed, and entered, by a winding walk, those beautiful bowers
that had given so fair and fitting a name to Ducie. Ah! that was a
ramble of rich delight, as, winding his arm round her light waist, he
poured into her palpitating ear all the eloquence of his passion. Each
hour that they had known each other was analysed, and the feelings
of each moment were compared. What sweet and thrilling confessions!
Eventually it was settled, to the complete satisfaction of both,
that both had fallen in love at the same time, and that they had been
mutually and unceasingly thinking of each other from the first instant
of their meeting.
The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. Hour glided away after
hour, as Ferdinand alternately expressed his passion and detailed the
history of his past life. For the curiosity of woman, lively at all
times, is never so keen, so exacting, and so interested, as in her
anxiety to become acquainted with the previous career of her lover. She
is jealous of all that he has done before she knew him; of every person
to whom he has spoken. She will be assured a thousand times that he
never loved before, yet she credits the first affirmation. She envies
the mother who knew him as a child, even the nurse who may have rocked
his cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished portraiture of his
character and life.
Why did he not give it? More than once it was upon his lips to reveal
all; more than once he was about to pour forth all his sorrows, all the
entanglements of his painful situation; more than once he was about
to make the full and mortifying confession, that, though his heart was
hers, there existed another, who even at that moment might claim the
hand that Henrietta clasped with so much tenderness. But he checked
himself. He would not break the charm that surrounded him; he would not
disturb the clear and brilliant stream in which his life was at this
moment flowing; he had not courage to change by a worldly word the scene
of celestial enchantment in which he now moved and breathed. Let us
add, in some degree for his justification, that he was not altogether
unmindful of the feelings of Miss Grandison. Sufficient misery remained,
at all events, for her, without adding the misery of making her
rival cognizant of her mortification. The deed must be done, and done
promptly; but, at least, there should be no unnecessary witnesses to its
harrowing achievement.
So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Henrietta, wreathed with
smiles of innocent triumph, sparkling with unalloyed felicity, and
beaming with unbroken devotion. Should the shade of a dark passion for
a moment cloud that heaven, so bright and so serene? Should even a
momentary pang of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and unsullied
breast? In the midst of contending emotions, he pressed her to his heart
with renewed energy, and, bending down his head, imprinted an embrace
upon her blushing forehead.
They seated themselves on a bank, which, it would seem, Nature had
created for the convenience of lovers. The softest moss, and the
brightest flowers decked its elastic and fragrant side. A spreading
beech tree shaded their heads from the sun, which now was on the
decline; and occasionally its wide branches rustled with the soft breeze
that passed over them in renovating and gentle gusts. The woods widened
before them, and at the termination of a well-contrived avenue, they
caught the roofs of the village and the tall grey tower of Ducie Church.
They had wandered for hours without weariness, yet the repose was
grateful, while they listened to the birds, and plucked wildflowers.
'Ah! I remember,' said Ferdinand, 'that it was not far from here, while
slumbering indeed in the porch of my pretty farm-house, that the fairy
of the spot dropped on my breast these beautiful flowers that I now
wear. Did you not observe them, my sweet Henrietta? Do you know that
I am rather mortified, that they have not made you at least a little
jealous?'
'I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand.'
'And yet I half believe that you are a fairy, my Henrietta.'
'A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. Is this a compliment to
my form?'
'Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I assure you, to my fancy;
perhaps the rosy Dryad of this fair tree; rambling in woods, and
bounding over commons, scattering beautiful flowers, and dreams as
bright.'
'And were your dreams bright yesterday morning?'
'I dreamed of you.'
'And when you awoke?'
'I hastened to the source of my inspiration.'
'And if you had not dreamt of me?'
'I should have come to have enquired the reason why.'
Miss Temple looked upon the ground; a blended expression of mirth and
sentiment played over her features, and then looking up with a smile
contending with her tearful eye, she hid her face in his breast and
murmured, 'I watched him sleeping. Did he indeed dream of me?'
'Darling of my existence!' exclaimed the enraptured Ferdinand,
'exquisite, enchanting being! Why am I so happy? What have I done
to deserve bliss so ineffable? But tell me, beauty, tell me how you
contrived to appear and vanish without witnesses? For my enquiries
were severe, and these good people must have been less artless than I
imagined to have withstood them successfully.'
'I came,' said Miss Temple, 'to pay them a visit, with me not uncommon.
When I entered the porch I beheld my Ferdinand asleep. I looked upon
him for a moment, but I was frightened and stole away unperceived. But I
left the flowers, more fortunate than your Henrietta.'
'Sweet love!'
'Never did I return home,' continued Miss Temple, 'more sad and more
dispirited. A thousand times I wished that I was a flower, that I might
be gathered and worn upon your heart. You smile, my Ferdinand. Indeed I
feel I am very foolish, yet I know not why, I am now neither ashamed nor
afraid to tell you anything. I was so miserable when I arrived home, my
Ferdinand, that I went to my room and wept. And he then came! Oh! what
heaven was mine! I wiped the tears from my face and came down to see
him. He looked so beautiful and happy!'
'And you, sweet child, oh! who could have believed, at that moment, that
a tear had escaped from those bright eyes!'
'Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdinand; for, a moment before,
I was so wearied that I was lying on my sofa quite wretched. And then,
when I saw him, I pretended that I had not been out, and was just
thinking of a stroll. Oh, my Ferdinand! will you pardon me?'
'It seems to me that I never loved you until this moment. Is it possible
that human beings ever loved each other as we do?'
Now came the hour of twilight. While in this fond strain the lovers
interchanged their hearts, the sun had sunk, the birds grown silent, and
the star of evening twinkled over the tower of Ducie. The bat and the
beetle warned them to return. They rose reluctantly and retraced their
steps to Ducie, with hearts softer even than the melting hour.
'Must we then part?' exclaimed Ferdinand. 'Oh! must we part! How can
I exist even an instant without your presence, without at least the
consciousness of existing under the same roof? Oh! would I were one of
your serving-men, to listen to your footstep, to obey your bell, and
ever and anon to catch your voice! Oh! now I wish indeed Mr. Temple were
here, and then I might be your guest.'
'My father!' exclaimed Miss Temple, in a somewhat serious tone. 'I ought
to have written to him to-day! Oh! talk not of my father, speak only of
yourself.'
They stood in silence as they were about to emerge upon the lawn, and
then Miss Temple said, 'Dear Ferdinand, you must go; indeed you must.
Press me not to enter. If you love me, now let us part. I shall retire
immediately, that the morning may sooner come. God bless you, my
Ferdinand. May He guard over you, and keep you for ever and ever. You
weep! Indeed you must not; you so distress me. Ferdinand, be good, be
kind; for my sake do not this. I love you; what can I do more? The time
will come we will not part, but now we must. Good night, my Ferdinand.
Nay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. Promise me you will
not remain here. Well then, when the light is out in my chamber, leave
Ducie. Promise me this, and early tomorrow, earlier than you think, I
will pay a visit to your cottage. Now be good, and to-morrow we will
breakfast together. There now!' she added in a gay tone, 'you see
woman's wit has the advantage.' And so without another word she ran
away.
CHAPTER III.
_Which on the Whole Is Found Very Consoling_.
THE separation of lovers, even with an immediate prospect of union,
involves a sentiment of deep melancholy. The reaction of our solitary
emotions, after a social impulse of such peculiar excitement, very much
disheartens and depresses us. Mutual passion is complete sympathy. Under
such an influence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so delicate,
that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart has no secrets, though
our life may. Under such an influence, each unconsciously labours to
enchant the other; each struggles to maintain the reality of that ideal
which has been reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then is the
season when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever bright, and every
movement of the frame airy and picturesque; each accent is full of
tenderness; each glance, of affection; each gesture, of grace. We live
in a heaven of our own creation. All happens that can contribute to our
perfect satisfaction, and can ensure our complete self-complacency. We
give and we receive felicity. We adore and we are adored. Love is the
May-day of the heart.
But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lustre of that soft and
brilliant sky when we are alone; when the soft voice no longer sighs,
and the bright eye no longer beams, and the form we worship no longer
moves before our enraptured vision. Our happiness becomes too much the
result of reflection. Our faith is not less devout, but it is not so
fervent. We believe in the miracle, but we no longer witness it.
And as the light was extinguished in the chamber of Henrietta Temple,
Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as if his sun had set for ever. There
seemed to be now no evidence of her existence. Would tomorrow ever come?
And if it came, would the rosy hours indeed bring her in their radiant
car? What if this night she died? He shuddered at this wild imagination.
Yet it might be; such dire calamities had been. And now he felt his
life was involved in hers, and that under such circumstances his instant
death must complete the catastrophe. There was then much at stake. Had
it been yet his glorious privilege that her fair cheek should have
found a pillow on his heart; could he have been permitted to have rested
without her door but as her guard; even if the same roof at any distance
had screened both their heads; such dark conceptions would not perhaps
have risen up to torture him; but as it was, they haunted him like evil
spirits as he took his lonely way over the common to gain his new abode.
Ah! the morning came, and such a morn! Bright as his love! Ferdinand had
passed a dreamy night, and when he woke he could not at first recognise
the locality. It was not Armine. Could it be Ducie? As he stretched his
limbs and rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a moment fancying
that all the happiness of yesterday was indeed a vision. He was, in
truth, sorely perplexed as he looked around the neat but humble chamber,
and caught the first beam of the sun struggling through a casement
shadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested a curl of dark
and flowing hair, and held together by that very turquoise of which he
fancied he had been dreaming. Happy, happy Ferdinand! Why shouldst thou
have cares? And may not the course even of thy true love run smooth?
He recks not of the future. What is the future to one so blessed? The
sun is up, the lark is singing, the sky is bluer than the love-jewel
at his heart. She will be here soon. No gloomy images disturb him now.
Cheerfulness is the dowry of the dawn.
Will she indeed be here? Will Henrietta Temple indeed come to visit him?
Will that consummate being before whom, but a few days back, he stood
entranced; to whose mind the very idea of his existence had not then
even occurred; will she be here anon to visit him? to visit her beloved!
What has he done to be so happy? What fairy has touched him and his
dark fortunes with her wand? What talisman does he grasp to call up
such bright adventures of existence? He does not err. He is an enchanted
being; a spell indeed pervades his frame; he moves in truth in a world
of marvels and miracles. For what fairy has a wand like love, what
talisman can achieve the deeds of passion?
He quitted the rustic porch, and strolled up the lane that led to Ducie.
He started at a sound: it was but the spring of a wandering bird. Then
the murmur of a distant wheel turned him pale; and he stopped and leant
on a neighbouring gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand? There is
not a moment when the heart palpitates with such delicate suspense as
when a lover awaits his mistress in the spring days of his passion. Man
watching the sun rise from a mountain awaits not an incident to him more
beautiful, more genial, and more impressive. With her presence it would
seem that both light and heat fall at the same time upon his heart: his
emotions are warm and sunny, that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid; a
thrilling sense of joy pervades his frame; the air is sweeter, and his
ears seem to echo with the music of a thousand birds.
The sound of the approaching wheel became more audible; it drew near,
nearer; but lost the delicacy that distance lent it. Alas! it did not
propel the car of a fairy, or the chariot of a heroine, but a cart,
whose taxed springs bowed beneath the portly form of an honest yeoman
who gave Captain Armine a cheerful good-morrow as he jogged by, and
flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexterity. The loudness of the
unexpected salute, the crack of the echoing thong, shook the fine nerves
of a fanciful lover, and Ferdinand looked so confused, that if the
honest yeoman had only stopped to observe him, the passenger might have
really been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the least, by
his guilty countenance.
This little worldly interruption broke the wings of Ferdinand's soaring
fancy. He fell to earth. Doubt came over him whether Henrietta would
indeed come. He was disappointed, and so he became distrustful. He
strolled on, however, in the direction of Ducie, yet slowly, as
there was more than one road, and to miss each other would have been
mortifying.
His quick eye was in every quarter; his watchful ear listened in every
direction: still she was not seen, and not a sound was heard except the
hum of day. He became nervous, agitated, and began to conjure up a
crowd of unfortunate incidents. Perhaps she was ill; that was very
bad. Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. Was that worse? Perhaps
something strange had happened. Perhaps------
Why! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his step so suddenly
arrested? Ah! Ferdinand Armine, is not thy conscience clear? That pang
was sharp. No, no, it is impossible; clearly, absolutely impossible;
this is weak indeed. See! he smiles! He smiles at his weakness. He
waves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with defiance, his idle
apprehensions. His step is more assured, and the colour returns to
his cheek. And yet her father must return. Was he prepared for that
occurrence? This was a searching question. It induced a long, dark
train of harassing recollections. He stopped to ponder. In what a web
of circumstances was he now involved! Howsoever he might act,
self-extrication appeared impossible. Perfect candour to Miss Temple
might be the destruction of her love; even modified to her father, would
certainly produce his banishment from Ducie. As the betrothed of Miss
Grandison, Miss Temple would abjure him; as the lover of Miss Temple,
under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would reject him. In what light
would he appear to Henrietta were he to dare to reveal the truth? Would
she not look upon him as the unresisting libertine of the hour, engaging
in levity her heart as he had already trifled with another's? For that
absorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primitive, and profound, to
which she now responded with an enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent, and as
immaculate, she would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a vain
and worldly spirit, eager to add another triumph to a long list of
conquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresistible influence.
What security was there for her that she too should not in turn be
forgotten for another? that another eye should not shine brighter than
hers, and another voice sound to his ear with a sweeter tone?
Oh, no! he dared not disturb and sully the bright flow of his present
existence; he shrank from the fatal word that would dissolve the spell
that enchanted them, and introduce all the calculating cares of a harsh
world into the thoughtless Eden in which they now wandered. And, for her
father, even if the sad engagement with Miss Grandison did not exist,
with what front could Ferdinand solicit the hand of his daughter?
What prospect could he hold out of worldly prosperity to the anxious
consideration of a parent? Was he himself independent? Was he not worse
than a beggar? Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe? Alas! it
would be an insult to both! In the meantime, every hour Mr. Temple
might return, or something reach the ear of Henrietta fatal to all his
aspirations. Armine with all its cares, Bath with all its hopes; his
melancholy father, his fond and sanguine mother, the tender-hearted
Katherine, the devoted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowded
on his tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he wished himself
alone in the world: he sighed for some earthquake to swallow up Armine
and all its fatal fortunes; and as for those parents, so affectionate
and virtuous, and to whom he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted,
he turned from their idea with a sensation of weariness, almost of
dislike.
He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried his face in his hands.
His reverie had lasted some time, when a gentle sound disturbed him.
He looked up; it was Henrietta. She had driven over the common in her
pony-chair and unattended. She was but a few steps from him; and as he
looked up, he caught her fond smile. He sprang from his seat; he was at
her side in an instant; his heart beat so tumultuously that he could
not speak; all dark thoughts were forgotten; he seized with a trembling
touch her extended hand, and gazed upon her with a glance of ecstasy.
For, indeed, she looked so beautiful that it seemed to him he had never
before done justice to her surpassing loveliness. There was a bloom
upon her cheek, as upon some choice and delicate fruit; her violet eyes
sparkled like gems; while the dimples played and quivered on her cheeks,
as you may sometimes watch the sunbeam on the pure surface of fair
water. Her countenance, indeed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed the
happiest thing on earth; the very personification of a poetic spring;
lively, and fresh, and innocent; sparkling, and sweet, and soft. When he
beheld her, Ferdinand was reminded of some gay bird, or airy antelope;
she looked so bright and joyous!
'He is to get in,' said Henrietta with a smile, and drive her to their
cottage. Have I not managed well to come alone? We shall have such a
charming drive to-day.'
'You are so beautiful!' murmured Ferdinand.
'I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me approach? What
were you doing? Plunged in meditation? Now tell me truly, were you
thinking of her?'
'Indeed, I have no other thought. Oh, my Henrietta! you are so beautiful
to-day. I cannot talk of anything but your beauty.'
'And how did you sleep? Are you comfortable? I have brought you some
flowers to make your room look pretty.'
They soon reached the farm-house. The good-wife seemed a little
surprised when she observed her guest driving Miss Temple, but far more
pleased. Henrietta ran into the house to see the children, spoke
some kind words to the little maiden, and asked if their guest had
breakfasted. Then, turning to Ferdinand, she said, 'Have you forgotten
that you are to give me a breakfast? It shall be in the porch. Is it
not sweet and pretty? See, here are your flowers, and I have brought you
some fruit.'
The breakfast was arranged. 'But you do not play your part, sweet
Henrietta,' he said; 'I cannot breakfast alone.'
She affected to share his repast, that he might partake of it; but,
in truth, she only busied herself in arranging the flowers. Yet
she conducted herself with so much dexterity, that Ferdinand had an
opportunity of gratifying his appetite, without being placed in a
position, awkward at all times, insufferable for a lover, that of eating
in the presence of others who do not join you in the occupation.
'Now,' she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing a rose in
his dress, 'I have a little plan today, which I think will be quite
delightful. You shall drive me to Armine.'
Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury.
His miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter drop in
the cup; yes! in the very plenitude of his rare felicity he expressed a
pang. His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Temple; for she was very
quick in her perception; but she could not comprehend it. It did
not rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to her
proposition, but added, 'I forgot that Armine is more interesting to
you than to me. All my associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is my
delight.'
'Ah! my romance is at Armine; yours at Ducie. What we live among, we
do not always value. And yet I love my home,' she added, in a somewhat
subdued, even serious tone; 'all my associations with Ducie are sweet
and pleasant. Will they always be so?'
She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of Ferdinand too
completely responded, but he restrained the mood of his mind. As she
grew grave, he affected cheerfulness. 'My Henrietta must always be
happy,' he said, 'at least, if her Ferdinand's love can make her so.'
She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. Then, after a moment's
silence, she said, 'My Ferdinand must not be low-spirited about dear
Armine. I have confidence in our destiny; I see a happy, a very happy
future.'
Who could resist so fair a prophet? Not the sanguine mind of the
enamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, and
dwelt with delight on the tender accents of her animating sympathy.
'I never shall be low-spirited with you,' he replied; 'you are my good
genius. O Henrietta! what heaven it is to be together!'
'I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine to-day. Let us
walk. And to speak the truth, for I am not ashamed of saying anything
to you, it would be hardly discreet, perhaps, to be driving about the
country in this guise. And yet,' she added, after a moment's hesitation,
'what care I for what people say? O Ferdinand! I think only of you!'
That was a delicious ramble which these young and enamoured creatures
took that sunny morn! The air was sweet, the earth was beautiful,
and yet they were insensible to everything but their mutual love.
Inexhaustible is the converse of fond hearts! A simple story, too, and
yet there are so many ways of telling it!
'How strange that we should have ever met!' said Henrietta Temple.
'Indeed, I think it most natural,' said Ferdinand; 'I will believe it
the fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all that I have sighed for now I
meet, and more, much more than my imagination could ever hope for.'
'Only think of that morning drive,' resumed Henrietta, 'such a little
time ago, and yet it seems an age! Let us believe in destiny, dear
Ferdinand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which I would not
wish.'
'My own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the noblest and the
sweetest of beings. My love is ever equalled by my gratitude!'
'My Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, but did not believe in them.
I did not believe, at least, that they were reserved for me. And yet I
have met many persons, and seen something more, much more than falls to
the lot of women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto been
undazzled, and my heart untouched.' He pressed her hand.
'And then,' she resumed, 'in a moment; but it seemed not like common
life. That beautiful wilderness, that ruinous castle! As I gazed around,
I felt not as is my custom. I felt as if some fate were impending, as if
my life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange and silent
scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld him, so unlike all other
men, so beautiful, so pensive! O Ferdinand! pardon me for loving you!'
and she gently turned her head, and hid her face on his breast.
'Darling Henrietta,' lowly breathed the enraptured lover, 'best, and
sweetest, and loveliest of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, was
not less moved than you were. Speechless and pale I had watched my
Henrietta, and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate my
existence.'
'I shall never forget the moment when I stood before the portrait of
Sir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was prophetic; I wanted not that
confirmation of a strange conjecture. I felt that you must be an Armine.
I had heard so much of your grandfather, so much of your family. I loved
them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows.'
'Ah! my Henrietta, 'tis that alone which galls me. It is bitter to
introduce my bride to our house of cares.'
'You shall never think it so,' she replied with animation. 'I will
prove a true Armine. Happier in the honour of that name, than in the
most rich possessions! You do not know me yet. Your wife shall not
disgrace you or your lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, Ferdinand;
at least, I dare to hope so. I can break, but I will not bend. We will
wrestle together with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, animated by his
Henrietta, shall restore the house.'
'Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits us. I can
offer you only love.'
'Is there anything else in this world?'
'But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have been cherished
from your cradle, with all that ministers to the delicate delights
of woman, to--oh! my Henrietta, you know not the disheartening and
depressing burthen of domestic cares.' His voice faltered as he recalled
his melancholy father; and the disappointment, perhaps the destruction,
that his passion was preparing for his roof.
'There shall be no cares; I will endure everything; I will animate all.
I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferdinand. I have, young as I may be,
I have often inspirited, often urged on my father. Sometimes, he says,
that had it not been for me, he would not have been what he is. He is my
father, the best and kindest parent that ever loved his child; yet, what
are fathers to you, my Ferdinand? and, if I could assist him, what may I
not do for-----'
'Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. You forget our
creed.'
'It was the great Sir Ferdinand's. He made a theatre.'
'My Henrietta is ambitious,' said Ferdinand, smiling.
'Dearest, I would be content, nay! that is a weak phrase, I would, if
the choice were in my power now to select a life most grateful to my
views and feelings, choose some delightful solitude, even as Armine,
and pass existence with no other aim but to delight you. But we were
speaking of other circumstances. Such happiness, it is said, is not for
us. And I wished to show you that I have a spirit that can struggle with
adversity, and a soul prescient of overwhelming it.'
'You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I worship, nor is there a
happier being in the world this moment than Ferdinand Armine. With such
a woman as you every fate must be a triumph. You have touched upon a
chord of my heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was
but the wind that played on it before; but now that tone rings with a
purpose. This is glorious sympathy. Let us leave Armine to its fate.
I have a sword, and it shall go hard if I do not carve out a destiny
worthy even of Henrietta Temple.'
CHAPTER IV.
_Henrietta Visits Armine, Which Leads to a Rather
Perplexing Encounter_.
THE communion of this day, of the spirit of which the conversation just
noticed may convey an intimation, produced an inspiriting effect on the
mind of Ferdinand. Love is inspiration; it encourages to great deeds,
and develops the creative faculty of our nature. Few great men have
flourished who, were they candid, would not acknowledge the vast
advantages they have experienced in the earlier years of their career
from the spirit and sympathy of woman. It is woman whose prescient
admiration strings the lyre of the desponding poet whose genius is
afterwards to be recognised by his race, and which often embalms
the memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced him in less
glorious hours. How many an official portfolio would never have been
carried, had it not been for her sanguine spirit and assiduous love! How
many a depressed and despairing advocate has clutched the Great Seal,
and taken his precedence before princes, borne onward by the breeze
of her inspiring hope, and illumined by the sunshine of her prophetic
smile! A female friend, amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possession
more valuable than parks and palaces; and, without such a muse, few men
can succeed in life, none be content.
The plans and aspirations of Henrietta had relieved Ferdinand from
a depressing burthen. Inspired by her creative sympathy, a new scene
opened to him, adorned by a magnificent perspective. His sanguine
imagination sought refuge in a triumphant future. That love for which
he had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly advantage
appeared suddenly to be transformed into the very source of earthly
success. Henrietta Temple was to be the fountain, not only of his bliss,
but of his prosperity. In the revel of his audacious fancy he seemed, as
it were, by a beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for having
devoted, with such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon the altar
of disinterested affection. Lying on his cottage-couch, he indulged
in dazzling visions; he wandered in strange lands with his beautiful
companion, and offered at her feet the quick rewards of his unparalleled
achievements.
Recurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose no time in
bringing his affairs to a crisis. He was even working himself up to his
instant departure, solaced by the certainty of his immediate return,
when the arrival of his servant announced to him that Glastonbury had
quitted Armine on one of those antiquarian rambles to which he was
accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power to comply with the
wish of Henrietta to visit his home, and perhaps, in truth, not
very much mortified that so reasonable an excuse had arisen for the
postponement of his intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as
speedily as possible took his way to Ducie.
He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, perhaps, earlier than
he was expected; yet what joy to see him! And when he himself proposed
an excursion to Armine, her grateful smile melted his very heart.
Indeed, Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, that his
excessive merriment might almost have been as suspicious as his passing
gloom the previous day. Not less tender and fond than before, his
sportive fancy indulged in infinite expressions of playful humour
and delicate pranks of love. When he first recognised her gathering
a nosegay, too, for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on
tiptoe, and suddenly clasping her delicate waist, and raising her gently
in the air, 'Well, lady-bird,' he exclaimed, 'I, too, will pluck a
flower!'
Ah! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of charming
confusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond astonishment, as she caught
his bright glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine's, as he felt
this enchanting creature was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and
throbbing form!
'Perhaps this time next year, we may be travelling on mules,' said
Ferdinand, as he flourished his whip, and the little pony trotted along.
Henrietta smiled. 'And then,' continued he, 'we shall remember our
pony-chair that we turn up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to
death over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky sierras, will
be a very different person from Miss Temple, of Ducie Bower. I hope you
will not be very irritable, my child; and pray vent your spleen upon
your muleteer, and not upon your husband.'
'Now, Ferdinand, how can you be so ridiculous?'
'Oh! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the blame. "You brought
me here," it will be: "Ungrateful man, is this your love? not even
post-horses!"'
'As for that,' said Henrietta, 'perhaps we shall have to walk. I can
fancy ourselves, you with an Andalusian jacket, a long gun, and, I fear,
a cigar; and I with all the baggage.'
'Children and all,' added Ferdinand.
Miss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned away her face a little, but
said nothing.
'But what think you of Vienna, sweetest?' enquired Ferdinand in a more
serious tone; 'upon my honour, I think we might do great things there. A
regiment and a chamberlainship at the least!'
'In mountains or in cities I shall be alike content, provided you be my
companion,' replied Miss Temple.
Ferdinand let go the reins, and dropped his whip. 'My Henrietta,' he
exclaimed, looking in her face, 'what an angel you are!'
This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss Temple; she experienced
so much gratification in wandering about the park and over the old
castle, and gazing on Glastonbury's tower, and wondering when she should
see him, and talking to her Ferdinand about every member of his family,
that Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresistible current,
postponed from day to day his decisive visit to Bath, and, confident
in the future, would not permit his soul to be the least daunted by any
possible conjuncture of ill fortune. A week, a whole happy week glided
away, and spent almost entirely at Armine. Their presence there was
scarcely noticed by the single female servant who remained; and, if her
curiosity had been excited, she possessed no power of communicating it
into Somersetshire. Besides, she was unaware that her young master was
nominally in London. Sometimes an hour was snatched by Henrietta from
roaming in the pleasaunce, and interchanging vows of mutual love and
admiration, to the picture-gallery, where she had already commenced a
miniature copy of the portrait of the great Sir Ferdinand. As the
sun set they departed in their little equipage. Ferdinand wrapped his
Henrietta in his fur cloak, for the autumn dews began to rise, and, thus
protected, the journey of ten miles was ever found too short. It is the
habit of lovers, however innocent their passion, to grow every day less
discreet; for every day their almost constant companionship becomes more
a necessity. Miss Temple had almost unconsciously contrived at first
that Captain Armine, in the absence of her father, should not be
observed too often at Ducie; but now Ferdinand drove her home every
evening, and drank tea at the Bower, and the evening closed with music
and song. Each night he crossed over the common to his farmhouse more
fondly and devotedly in love.
One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone in the gallery busied with
her drawing, Ferdinand having left her for a moment to execute some
slight commission for her, she heard some one enter, and, looking up
to catch his glance of love, she beheld a venerable man, of a mild and
benignant appearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if a little
surprised, at some distance. Herself not less confused, she nevertheless
bowed, and the gentleman advanced with hesitation, and with a faint
blush returned her salute, and apologised for his intrusion. 'He thought
Captain Armine might be there.'
'He was here but this moment,' replied Miss Temple; 'and doubtless will
instantly return.' Then she turned to her drawing with a trembling hand.
'I perceive, madam,' said the gentleman, advancing and speaking in a
soft and engaging tone, while looking at her labour with a mingled air
of diffidence and admiration, 'that you are a fine artist.'
'My wish to excel may have assisted my performance,' replied Miss
Temple.
'You are copying the portrait of a very extraordinary personage,' said
the stranger.
'Do you think that it is like Captain Armine?' enquired Miss Temple with
some hesitation.
'It is always so considered,' replied the stranger. Henrietta's hand
faltered; she looked at the door of the gallery, then at the portrait;
never was she yet so anxious for the reappearance of Ferdinand. There
was a silence which she was compelled to break, for the stranger was
both mute and motionless, and scarcely more assured than herself.
'Captain Armine will be here immediately, I have no doubt.'
The stranger bowed. 'If I might presume to criticise so finished a
performance,' he remarked, 'I should say that you had conveyed, madam, a
more youthful character than the original presents.'
Henrietta did not venture to confess that such was her intention.
She looked again at the door, mixed some colour, and then cleared it
immediately off her palette. 'What a beautiful gallery is this!' she
exclaimed, as she changed her brush, which was, however, without a
fault.
'It is worthy of Armine,' said the stranger.
'Indeed there is no place so interesting,' said Miss Temple.
'It pleases me to hear it praised,' said the stranger.
'You are well acquainted with it?' enquired Miss Temple.
'I have the happiness to live here,' said the stranger.
'I am not then mistaken in believing that I speak to Mr. Glastonbury.'
'Indeed, madam, that is my name,' replied the gentleman; 'I fancy we
have often heard of each other. This a most unexpected meeting, madam,
but for that reason not less delightful. I have myself just returned
from a ramble of some days, and entered the gallery little aware that
the family had arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on the road.
Ah! you wonder, perhaps, at my familiar expression, madam. He has been
my Ferdinand so many years, that I cannot easily school myself no longer
to style him so. But I am aware that there are now other claims------'
'My dearest Glastonbury,' exclaimed Ferdinand Armine, starting as he
re-entered the gallery, and truly in as great a fright as a man could
well be, who perhaps, but a few hours ago, was to conquer in Spain or
Germany. At the same time, pale and eager, and talking with excited
rapidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinised the countenance of
Henrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret had been discovered.
That countenance was fond, and, if not calm, not more confused than the
unexpected appearance under the circumstances might account for. 'You
have often heard me mention Mr. Glastonbury,' he said, addressing
himself to Henrietta. 'Let me now have the pleasure of making you
acquainted. My oldest, my best friend, my second father; an admirable
artist, too, I can assure you. He is qualified to decide even upon your
skill. And when did you arrive, my dearest friend? and where have you
been? Our old haunts? Many sketches? What abbey have you explored, what
antique treasures have you discovered? I have such a fine addition for
your herbal! The Barbary cactus, just what you wanted; I found it in
my volume of Shelley; and beautifully dried, beautifully; it will quite
charm you. What do you think of this drawing? Is it not beautiful? quite
the character, is it not?' Ferdinand paused for lack of breath.
'I was just observing as you entered,' said Glastonbury, very quietly,
'to Miss------'
'I have several letters for you,' said Ferdinand, interrupting him, and
trembling from head to foot lest he might say Miss _Grandison_. 'Do
you know you are just the person I wanted to see? How fortunate that you
should just arrive! I was annoyed to find you were away. I cannot tell
you how much I was annoyed!'
'Your dear parents?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Are quite well,' said Ferdinand, 'perfectly well. They will be so
glad to see you, so very glad. They do so long to see you, my dearest
Glastonbury. You cannot imagine how they long to see you.'
'I shall find them within, think you?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Oh! they are not here,' said Ferdinand; 'they have not yet arrived.
I expect them every day. Every day I expect them. I have prepared
everything for them, everything. What a wonderful autumn it has been!'
And Glastonbury fell into the lure and talked about the weather, for he
was learned in the seasons, and prophesied by many circumstances a hard
winter. While he was thus conversing, Ferdinand extracted from Henrietta
that Glastonbury had not been in the gallery more than a very few
minutes; and he felt assured that nothing fatal had transpired. All
this time Ferdinand was reviewing his painful situation with desperate
rapidity and prescience. All that he aspired to now was that Henrietta
should quit Armine in as happy ignorance as she had arrived: as for
Glastonbury, Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, or ultimately
discover. These were future evils that subsided into insignificance
compared with any discovery on the part of Miss Temple.
Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now suggested to Henrietta to quit
her drawing, which indeed was so advanced that it might be finished at
Ducie; and, never leaving her side, and watching every look, and hanging
on every accent of his old tutor, he even ventured to suggest that
they should visit the tower. The proposal, he thought, might lull any
suspicion that might have been excited on the part of Miss Temple.
Glastonbury expressed his gratification at the suggestion, and they
quitted the gallery, and entered the avenue of beech trees.
'I have heard so much of your tower, Mr. Glastonbury,' said Miss Temple,
'I am sensible, I assure you, of the honour of being admitted.'
The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glastonbury preserved
Ferdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. It never for an instant
entered Glastonbury's mind that Henrietta was not Miss Grandi-He thought
it a little extraordinary, indeed, that she should arrive at Armine
only in the company of Ferdinand; but much might be allowed to plighted
lovers; besides, there might be some female companion, some aunt or
cousin, for aught he knew, at the Place. It was only his parents that
Ferdinand had said had not yet arrived. At all events, he felt at this
moment that Ferdinand, perhaps, even because he was alone with
his intended bride, had no desire that any formal introduction or
congratulations should take place; and only pleased that the intended
wife of his pupil should be one so beautiful, so gifted, and so
gracious, one apparently so worthy in every way of his choice and her
lot, Glastonbury relapsed into his accustomed ease and simplicity,
and exerted himself to amuse the young lady with whom he had become so
unexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in all probability, it was
his destiny in future to be so intimate. As for Henrietta, nothing had
occurred in any way to give rise to the slightest suspicion in her mind.
The agitation of Ferdinand at this unexpected meeting between his tutor
and his betrothed was in every respect natural. Their engagement, as
she knew, was at present a secret to all; and although, under such
circumstances, she herself at first was disposed not to feel very much
at her ease, still she was so well acquainted with Mr. Glastonbury from
report, and he was so unlike the common characters of the censorious
world, that she was, from the first, far less annoyed than she otherwise
would have been, and soon regained her usual composure, and was even
gratified and amused with the adventure.
A load, however, fell from the heart of Ferdinand, when he and his
beloved bade Glastonbury a good afternoon. This accidental and almost
fatal interview terribly reminded him of his difficult and dangerous
position; it seemed the commencement of a series of misconceptions,
mortifications, and misfortunes, which it was absolutely necessary to
prevent by instantly arresting them with the utmost energy and decision.
It was bitter to quit Armine and all his joys, but in truth the arrival
of his family was very doubtful: and, until the confession of his real
situation was made, every day might bring some disastrous discovery.
Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a capital excuse for hurrying
Henrietta off to Ducie. They quitted Armine at an unusually early hour.
As they drove along, Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure of
the morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself to the exertion of
instantly repairing to Bath. But he had not courage to confide his
purpose to Henrietta. When, however, they arrived at Ducie, they were
welcomed with intelligence which rendered the decision, on his part,
absolutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the next chapter.
CHAPTER V.
_Which Contains Something Very Unexpected_.
MISS TEMPLE had run up stairs to take off her bonnet; Ferdinand stood
before the wood fire in the salon. Its clear, fragrant flame was
agreeable after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill drive. He
was musing over the charms of his Henrietta, and longing for her
reappearance, when she entered; but her entrance filled him with alarm.
She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An expression of
dread was impressed on her agitated countenance. Ere he could speak she
held forth her hand to his extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled.
'Good God! you are ill!' he exclaimed. 'No!' she faintly murmured, 'not
ill.' And then she paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head with
eyes fixed upon the ground.
The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had she heard------
But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. 'Pardon me, dearest,'
she said; 'I am agitated; I shall soon be better.'
He held her hand with firmness while she leant upon his shoulder. After
a few minutes of harrowing silence, she said in a smothered voice, 'Papa
returns to-morrow.'
Ferdinand turned as pale as she; the blood fled to his heart, his frame
trembled, his knees tottered, his passive hand scarcely retained hers;
he could not speak. All the possible results of this return flashed
across his mind, and presented themselves in terrible array to his
alarmed imagination. He could not meet Mr. Temple; that was out of the
question. Some explanation must immediately and inevitably ensue, and
that must precipitate the fatal discovery. The great object was to
prevent any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratcliffe before
Ferdinand had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished he
had not postponed his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted Armine
when first convinced of the hard necessity, the harrowing future would
now have been the past, the impending scenes, however dreadful, would
have ensued; perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, with
a clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no difficulties to
overcome but those which must necessarily arise from Mr. Temple's
natural consideration for the welfare of his child. These, however
difficult to combat, seemed light in comparison with the perplexities
of his involved situation. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hung
over her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathy
for her distress, but which, in truth, was rather to be attributed to
his own uncertain purpose, and to the confusion of an invention which he
now ransacked for desperate expedients.
While he was thus revolving in his mind the course which he must now
pursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressed
her hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid all the resources
of his imagination. It at length appeared to him that the only mode
by which he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerous
explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engagement. There
was great difficulty, he was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. Miss
Temple was devoted to her father; and though for a moment led away, by
the omnipotent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into a
compact without the sanction of her parent, her present agitation too
clearly indicated her keen sense that she had not conducted herself
towards him in her accustomed spirit of unswerving and immaculate duty;
that, if not absolutely indelicate, her behaviour must appear to him
very inconsiderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling! What,
to that father, that fond and widowed father, of whom she was the only
and cherished child! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all his
anxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, her
comfort, her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, his
pride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the smiles
and tears of long, long years, all passed before her, till at last she
released herself with a quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and,
clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so bitter, so profound,
so full of anguish, that Ferdinand started from his seat.
[Illustration: page226.jpg]
'Henrietta!' he exclaimed, 'my beloved Henrietta!'
'Leave me,' she replied, in a tone almost of sternness.
He rose and walked up and down the room, overpowered by contending
emotions. The severity of her voice, that voice that hitherto had
fallen upon his ear like the warble of a summer bird, filled him with
consternation. The idea of having offended her, of having seriously
offended her, of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinity
to whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devotion, in
whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration to say he lived and
had his being, the idea of being to her, even for a transient moment,
an object of repugnance, seemed something too terrible for thought,
too intolerable for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all his
impending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared with this unforeseen
and sudden visitation. Oh! what was future evil, what was tomorrow,
pregnant as it might be with misery, compared with the quick agony
of the instant? So long as she smiled, every difficulty appeared
surmountable; so long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness,
there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. Come what
may, throned in the palace of her heart, he was a sovereign who might
defy the world in arms; but, thrust from that great seat, he was a
fugitive without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, exhausted,
broken-hearted!
And she had bid him leave her. Leave her! Henrietta Temple had bid him
leave her! Did he live? Was this the same world in which a few hours
back he breathed, and blessed his God for breathing? What had happened?
What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work this awful, this
portentous change? Why, if she had known all, if she had suddenly shared
that sharp and perpetual woe ever gnawing at his own secret heart, even
amid his joys; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had betrayed to her
his distressing secret, could she have said more? Why, it was to shun
this, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, that he had
involved himself in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties.
Inextricable they must be now; for where, now, was the inspiration that
before was to animate him to such great exploits? How could he struggle
any longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny? All that
remained for him now was to die; and, in the madness of his sensations,
death seemed to him the most desirable consummation.
The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified and miserable,
at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of harassed love, might have
instantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him with
such unexpected and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the
morrow, the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity for
their undisturbed communion, the recollection that, at all events, their
temporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checked
his first impulse. Besides, it must not be concealed that more than once
it occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit Henrietta
to meet her father in her present mood. With her determined spirit
and strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feelings;
smarting, too, under the consciousness of having parted with Ferdinand
in anger, and of having treated him with injustice; and, therefore,
doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probability
would instantly ensue; and Ferdinand recoiled at present from the
consequences of any explanations.
Unhappy Ferdinand! It seemed to him that he had never known misery
before. He wrung his hands in despair; his mind seemed to desert him.
Suddenly he stopped; he looked at Henrietta; her face was still pale,
her eyes fixed upon the decaying embers of the fire, her attitude
unchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did not
choose to recognise it. What were her thoughts?
Still of her father? Perhaps she contrasted that fond and faithful
friend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt of
gratitude, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment of
insanity, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps,
in the spirit of self-torment, she conjured up against this too
successful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust,
and deceit; recalled to her recollection the too just and too frequent
tales of man's impurity and ingratitude; and tortured herself by her
own apparition, the merited victim of his harshness, his neglect, or his
desertion. And when she had at the same time both shocked and alarmed
her fancy by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted by these
imaginary vexations, and eager for consolation in her dark despondency,
she may have recurred to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow and
apprehension, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty and injustice for
visiting on his head the mere consequences of her own fitful and morbid
temper. She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, his unceasing
admiration; she may have recollected those impassioned accents that
thrilled her heart, those glances of rapturous affection that fixed her
eye with fascination. She may have conjured up that form over which of
late she had mused in a trance of love, that form bright with so much
beauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned with so much intelligence,
and hallowed by every romantic association that could melt the heart or
mould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured up this form, that was
the god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy of
devotion.
The shades of evening were fast descending, the curtains of the chamber
were not closed, the blaze of the fire had died away. The flickering
light fell upon the solemn countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buried
in the shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame.
On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to be heard, knelt
at her side, and, not venturing to touch her hand, pressed his lips to
her arm, and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive tenderness,
murmured, 'What have I done?'
She turned, her eyes met his, a wild expression of fear, surprise,
delight, played over hen countenance; then, bursting into tears, she
threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast.
He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emotions. His
throbbing heart responded to her tumultuous soul. At length, when the
strength of her passionate affections had somewhat decreased, when the
convulsive sobs had subsided into gentle sighs, and ever and anon he
felt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful love and her
charming repentance upon his bosom, he dared to say, 'Oh! my Henrietta,
you did not doubt your Ferdinand?'
'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I am
very wicked.'
Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, but
very low voice, 'Now tell me, why were you unhappy?'
'Papa,' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day should come when I
should grieve to meet him!'
'And why should my darling grieve?' said Ferdinand.
'I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It is
no crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almost
felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can be
either wrong or unhappy to love you.'
'Bless you, for such sweet words,' replied Ferdinand. 'If my heart can
make you happy, felicity shall be your lot.'
'It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness.'
'And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand when
he said this]--he will be happy too?'
'So I would hope.'
'If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,' continued Ferdinand,
'Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law.'
'Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear you
call him father.'
'Then what alarms my child?'
'I hardly know,' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. 'I think--I think
it is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went,
he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is
a life to us; to him, I fear,' and she hid her face, 'it is only------a
fortnight.'
'We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in this
fortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued a
life.'
'That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we know
it. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel like
us. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though
the dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he has
no thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papa
naturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man of
the world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of men
and life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean in
our favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not think
they are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility.
There is no person more clever and more judicious than papa. No person
is more considerate. But there are characters so rare, that men of the
world do not admit them into their general calculations, and such is
yours, Ferdinand.'
Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but he pressed her hand,
though he said nothing.
'He will think we have known each other too short a time,' continued
Miss Temple. 'He will be mortified, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him I
am no longer his.'
'Then do not inform him,' said Ferdinand.
She started.
'Let me inform him,' continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to his
meaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye.
'Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every burthen!' exclaimed
Miss Temple. 'How generous and good you are! No, it would be better for
me to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from
you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. This
is the truth; I do not repent the past, I glory in it; I am yours, and
I am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would not
falter. But I cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my father is
concerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, with
respect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were he
to regret, he could not blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, he
will blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing more
than love you--my engagement--without his advice, his sanction, his
knowledge, or even his suspicion!'
'You take too refined a view of our situation,' replied Ferdinand. 'Why
should you not spare your father the pain of such a communication, if
painful it would be? What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to
be between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand,
and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enough?'
'I have never concealed anything from papa,' said Henrietta, 'but I will
be guided by you.'
'Leave, then, all to me,' said Ferdinand; 'be guided but by the judgment
of your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, and believe me all will go right.
I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?' he
continued enquiringly.
'It shall be so.'
'Then arises the question,' said Ferdinand, 'when it would be most
advisable for me to make the communication. Now your father, Henrietta,
who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I do
make it, I shall be prepared to speak definitely to him upon all matters
of business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling with him. To
go and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man of
the world like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, without
showing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining a
family, is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, he
would be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, settle something
first with Sir Ratcliffe.
Much, you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still,
sweet love, there must at least be an appearance of providence and
management. We must not disgust your father with our union.'
'Oh! how can he be disgusted?'
'Dear one! This, then, is what I propose; that, as to-morrow we must
comparatively be separated, I should take advantage of the next few
days, and get to Bath, and bring affairs to some arrangement. Until my
return I would advise you to say nothing to your father.'
'How can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances?'
exclaimed Miss Temple; 'how can I meet his eye, how can I speak to him
with the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollection
that, all the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heart
is yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of future
companionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal separation!'
'Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted you
last night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had once
thought of, and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I had
returned to make my communication: would you style your silence, under
such circumstances, a secret engagement? No, no, dear love; this is
an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent's
feelings.'
'O Ferdinand! would we were united, and had no cares!'
'You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if,
after passing to-morrow with your father, you expected me on the
next day to communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secret
engagement because six or seven days are to elapse before this
communication takes place, instead of one? My Henrietta is indeed
fighting with shadows!'
'Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappy when I think of
this.'
'Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, the
day will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flow
smoothly yet, and we shall all yet live at Armine, Mr. Temple and all.'
'Papa likes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if you
offended him.'
'Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to Sir Ratcliffe
first.'
'Do you, indeed, think so?'
'Indeed I am certain.'
'But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? Must you really go?
Must we, indeed, be separated? I cannot believe it; it is inconceivable;
it is impossible; I cannot endure it.'
'It is, indeed, terrible,' said Ferdinand. 'This consideration alone
reconciles me to the necessity: I know my father well; his only answer
to a communication of this kind would be an immediate summons to his
side. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place when
we must necessarily be much less together than before, than at a later
period, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanction
of our parents?'
'O Ferdinand! you reason, I only feel.'
Such an observation from one's mistress is rather a reproach than
a compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whose
principal characteristic was, perhaps, a too dangerous susceptibility;
a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender
temper; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse of
sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration to
his heart. The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for however short
a period, was absolute agony to him; he found difficulty in conceiving
existence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their parting
even for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. The only
process, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for the
impending sorrow would have been the frank indulgence of the feelings
which it called forth. Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of
circumstances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being whom
he idolised; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart,
lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head; and,
while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps,
existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged to
endure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute to him a
deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much; he covered his eyes with
his hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, 'Alas! my Henrietta, if
you knew all, you would not say this!'
'My Ferdinand,' she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholy
tone, 'why, what is this? you weep! What have I said, what done? Dearest
Ferdinand, do not do this.' And she threw herself on her knees before
him, and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection.
He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. 'O
Henrietta!' he exclaimed, 'we have been so happy!'
'And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I am
so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shall
think of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It
was so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good.'
'Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together to-morrow,
Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for a
moment escape from your memory.'
'Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be at
every hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a little
word; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!'
'And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?'
Henrietta looked perplexed. 'Papa opens the bag every morning, and every
morning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done'?'
'I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for your
letters.'
'I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look
so--so--so--clandestine.'
'I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante.'
'Ferdinand!'
''Tis only for a week.'
'O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things.'
'My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate we
should be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall write
to you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believe
only in evil!'
'Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longer
to regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible for
all that affects my honour or my heart.'
'A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory of
my ancestors.'
The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. 'It is so late, and we
in darkness here! What will they think? Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse
the fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then------' Her voice
faltered.
'And then------' echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he could
not command his voice.
''Tis your guitar,' said Henrietta; 'I am happy that it is left behind.'
The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire,
arranged the room, and withdrew.
'Little knows he our misery,' said Henrietta. 'It seemed strange, when I
felt my own mind, that there could be anything so calm and mechanical in
the world.'
Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeed
arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did not
speak. She reclined on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed her
handkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearly
tempted to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, and
await his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, and
then he remembered that, at all events, tomorrow he must not appear at
Ducie. 'Henrietta!' he at length said.
'A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute,' she exclaimed in an excited tone;
'do not speak, I am preparing myself.'
He remained in his leaning posture; and in a few moments Miss Temple
rose and said, 'Now, Ferdinand, I am ready.' He looked round. Her
countenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm.
'Let us embrace,' she said, 'but let us say nothing.'
He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He imprinted a thousand kisses
on her cold lips; she received them with no return. Then she said in a
low voice, 'Let me leave the room first;' and, giving him one kiss upon
his forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared.
When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggering step quitted
Ducie, he found the night so dark that it was with extreme difficulty
he traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove. The absolute
necessity of watching every step he took in some degree diverted his
mind from his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was so
close, that he congratulated himself when he had gained its skirts; but
just as he was about to emerge upon the common, and was looking forward
to the light of some cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, a
flash of lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to descend
like a flight of fiery steps from the highest heavens to the lowest
earth, revealed to him for a moment the whole broad bosom of the common,
and showed to him that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbed
as his own heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald of
Doomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers. They began to moan and
low to the rising wind, and cluster under the trees, that sent forth
with their wailing branches sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild.
Avoiding the woods, and striking into the most open part of the country,
Ferdinand watched the progress of the tempest.
For the wind had now risen to such a height that the leaves and branches
of the trees were carried about in vast whirls and eddies, while the
waters of the lake, where in serener hours Ferdinand was accustomed
to bathe, were lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouring
settlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, and then the
forked lightning, pouring down at the same time from opposite quarters
of the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour,
the wide-spreading scene of danger and devastation.
Now descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, that it was as
if a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand gasped for breath beneath its
oppressive power; while the blaze of the variegated lightning, the
crash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind, all simultaneously
in movement, indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that
strange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the unruly
and disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, and seem to
concentrate their energies for an increased and final explosion. It
came at last; and the very earth seemed to rock in the passage of the
hurricane.
Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one solitary being alone
beheld them without terror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm,
as nature became more disturbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind.
He contrasted the present tumult and distraction with the sweet and
beautiful serenity which the same scene had presented when, a short time
back, he first beheld it. His love, too, had commenced in stillness and
in sunshine; was it, also, to end in storm and in destruction?
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
_Which Contains a Love-Letter_.
LET us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the preceding portion
of this history, the development of that passion which is at once the
principle and end of our existence; that passion compared to whose
delights all the other gratifications of our nature--wealth, and power,
and fame, sink into insignificance; and which, nevertheless, by the
ineffable beneficence of our Creator, is open to his creatures of all
conditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever be the lot of man, however
unfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he must
strike a balance in favour of existence; for love can illumine the dark
roof of poverty, and can lighten the fetters of the slave.
But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with its
support, so also the most splendid situations of our life are wearisome
without its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress as
magnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds and the
breath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of
woman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would never have
been gained: it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, that
animates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides our
brain in the august toils of stately councils.
But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in its
dispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes a power so
vast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experienced
for the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting,
fascinating and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings that
life may develop, there is no one, however callous or constrained he may
have become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory of _first
love_.
The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It is
the dark conviction that feelings the most ardent may yet grow cold, and
that emotions the most constant and confirmed are, nevertheless, liable
to change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though
they may spring from a heart that has lost little of its original
freshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotion
than was our first idol. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that for
ever we must behold it with the same adoration; that those eyes, in
whose light we live, will for ever meet ours with mutual glances of
rapture and devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation with
others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless expression
of our affection; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice; and to
believe that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world,
pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast;
oh! must this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no hope for
them so full of hope? no pity for them so abounding with love?
And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when the former
votaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and engrossing can meet each
other with indifference, almost with unconsciousness, and recall with
an effort their vanished scenes of felicity, that quick yet profound
sympathy, that ready yet boundless confidence, all that charming
abandonment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness that
anticipates all our wants and all our wishes? It makes the heart ache
but to picture such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are images
full of distress, and misery, and gloom. The knowledge that such changes
can occur flits over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring
all our gay fancies with its bat-like wing, and tainting the healthy
atmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. It is not so
much ruined cities that were once the capital glories of the world, or
mouldering temples breathing with oracles no more believed, or arches
of triumph which have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up to
celebrate, that fill the mind with half so mournful an expression of
the instability of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of exhausted
affections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired passion.
The morning, which broke sweet, and soft, and clear, brought Ferdinand,
with its first glimmer, a letter from Henrietta.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand._
Mine own! I have not lain down the whole night. What a terrible, what
an awful night! To think that he was in the heart of that fearful storm!
What did, what could you do? How I longed to be with you! And I could
only watch the tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at every flash
of lightning, in the vain hope that it might reveal him! Is he well, is
he unhurt? Until my messenger return I can imagine only evil. How often
I was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I thought it
must be useless, and might displease him! I knew not what to do. I beat
about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, my
Ferdinand; conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you feel
the least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write to me one line,
only one line, to tell me you are well. I shall be in despair until I
hear from you. Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on my pony.
He promises to return in a very, very short time. I pray for you, as I
prayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it would never
end. God bless you, my Ferdinand! Write only one word to your own
Henrietta.
_Ferdinand to Henrietta_.
Sweetest, dearest Henrietta!
I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever.
Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand! A wet jacket, and I
experienced no greater evil, does not frighten me. The storm was
magnificent; I would not have missed it for the world. But I regret it
now, because my Henrietta did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come on
to you! Your page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line.
God bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless Henrietta! Words
cannot tell you how I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. Thy
Ferdinand.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand._
No! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it would be silly.
We could only be together a moment, and, though a moment with you is
heaven, I cannot endure again the agony of parting. O Ferdinand! what
has that separation not cost me! Pangs that I could not conceive any
human misery could occasion. My Ferdinand, may we some day be happy! It
seems to me now that happiness can never come again. And yet I ought to
be grateful that he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess to
you before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so foolish that
I thought every flash of lightning must descend on your head. I dare
not now own how foolish I was. God be praised that he is well. But is he
sure that he is _quite_ well? If you have the slightest cold, dearest,
do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed.
Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me; you are a man and a soldier; you
laugh at a woman's caution.
Ohl my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you were
ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisite
happiness, would that be!
Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealing
our engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear not
that; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit;
but I feel the burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, more
than I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can annoy
you, especially at this moment, when I feel from my own heart how you
must require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I have
such confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convinced
you have acted wisely; but come back as soon as you can. I know it must
be more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out by
your affection. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath; and I know,
Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess.
But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to me at the
post-office, as you settled.
If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The consciousness
that you are so near makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papa
will be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command.
Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too evident. See, they
fall upon the page. Think of me always. Never let your Henrietta be
absent from your thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is! Your
guitar is on the sofa; a ghost of departed joy!
Farewell, Ferdinand! I cannot write, I cannot restrain my tears. I know
not what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to see
him. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you
here!
Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish you, and bless you.
Think always of me. Would that this pen could express the depth and
devotion of my feelings!
Henrietta.
CHAPTER II.
_Which, Supposing the Reader Is Interested in the
Correspondence, Pursues It_.
DEAREST! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thousand blessings,
for your letter from Armine, dear, dear Armine, where some day we shall
be so happy! It was such a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so
_clear_. How could you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would not
be able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting! Always cross, dearest:
your handwriting is so beautiful that I never shall find the slightest
difficulty in making it out, if your letters were crossed a thousand
times. Besides, to tell the truth, I should rather like to experience
a little difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so often,
over and over again, till I get them by heart, and it is such a delight
every now and then to find out some new expression that escaped me in
the first fever of perusal; and then it is sure to be some darling word,
fonder than all the rest!
Oh! my Ferdinand, how shall I express to you my love? It seems to me
now that I never loved you until this separation, that I have never been
half grateful enough to you for all your goodness. It makes me weep to
remember all the soft things you have said, all the kind things you have
done for me, and to think that I have not conveyed to you at the time
a tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. You are so gentle,
Ferdinand! I think that is the greatest charm of your character. My
gentle, gentle love! so unlike all other persons that I have met with!
Your voice is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have the
kindest heart that ever existed: and then it is a daring spirit, too,
and that I love!
Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, all will go well. I am full of hope,
and would be of joy, if you were here, and yet I am joyful, too, when I
think of all your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is
so sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine yesterday, and
knew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked in our woods, and sat
down on the very bank we loved so, and read your letter over and over
again; and then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange; I think
I could repeat every word you have uttered since we first knew each
other. The morning that began so miserably wore away before I dreamed it
could be noon.
Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and good! And why
should he not be? I was ashamed of myself afterwards for seeming
surprised that he was the same as ever. He asked me if your family had
returned to Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then he
asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that you had now
gone to Bath, as their return had been prevented by the illness of a
relative. Did I right in this? I looked as unconcerned as I could when
I spoke of you, but my heart throbbed, oh! how it throbbed! I hope,
however, I did not change colour; I think not; for I had schooled myself
for this conversation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa
really likes you, and is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a
tone of genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the shooting at
Armine; that you regretted his unexpected departure had prevented you
from speaking before, but that it was at his entire command, only that,
after Ducie, all you could hope was, that the extent of the land might
make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. Adieu! All
good angels guard over you. I will write every day to the post-office,
Bath. Think of me very much. Your own faithful
Henrietta.
Letter II.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.
O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read your
letters! This morning brought me two; the one from London, and the few
lines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the road. Do you know, you
will think me very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I
must confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. It was
so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like my Ferdinand, to
snatch the few minutes that should have been given to rest and food to
write to his Henrietta. I love you for it a thousand times more than
ever! I hope you are really well: I hope you tell me truth. This is a
great fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules that we once
talked of. Does he recollect? Oh! what joyous spirits my Ferdinand was
in that happy day! I love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my
heart with those pensive eyes of his!
Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I mentioned you
first. I took up your guitar, and said to whom it belonged. I thought it
more natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really
likes you, and I am sure will love you very much when he knows all,
and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken of with
kindness by those I love. I have, of course, little to say about myself.
I visit my birds, tend my flowers, and pay particular attention to all
those I remember that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to
them, and tell them that you will soon return, for, indeed, they seem
to miss you, and to droop their heads like their poor mistress. Oh! my
Ferdinand, shall we ever again meet? Shall I, indeed, ever again listen
to that sweet voice, and will it tell me again that it loves me with the
very selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear?
O Ferdinand! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I cannot sleep; I
can scarcely countenance my father at his meals. I am wild and restless;
but I am happy, happy in the consciousness of your fond devotion.
To-morrow I purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shoot
to-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our porch. God bless
my own love; the idol of his fond and happy
Henrietta.
Letter III.
_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.
Dearest! No letter since the few lines on the road, but I suppose it was
impossible. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose, from Bath. I know
not why I tremble when I write that word. All is well here, papa most
kind, the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day, a very
little, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armine hare! Oh! what a
morning have I spent; so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears and
smiles! I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. That dear,
dear farm-house! And then they all talked of you. How they do love my
Ferdinand! But so must everyone. The poor woman has lost her heart to
you, I suspect, and I am half inclined to be a little jealous. She did
so praise you! So kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I
fear, so much too generous! Exactly like my Ferdinand; but, really, this
was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence.
Do you know, I went into your room? I contrived to ascend alone; the
good woman followed me, but I was there alone a moment, and, and, and,
what do you think I did? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not
help it; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so often and
so lately, I could not refrain from pressing my lips to that favoured
resting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides.
When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. How I pray that
you may find all your family well and happy! I hope they will love me. I
already love them, and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to
go there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing this
in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its influence, but I feel
depressed. Oh, that I were at your side! This house is so desolate
without you. Everything reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can
I express to you what I feel--the affection, the love, the rapture,
the passionate joy, with which your image inspires me? I will not be
miserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I am loved by one so rare
and gifted. Your portrait is before me; I call it yours; it is so like!
'Tis a great consolation. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think
of you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I am going
to pray for you. Thine own
Henrietta.
*****
Letter IX.
My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing of
returning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read your
dear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feel
in the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiest
person in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. You
say that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? There
are difficulties; I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that
your Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon
our affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense.
I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myself
to think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I am
jealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them.
Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myself
if I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; God
knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel
wretched when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips are
sealed until you give me permission to open them.
Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid to
tell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery so long as we love;
so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face,
nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless you,
Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta.
Letter X.
Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am so
sorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond,
so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you
even a shade of annoyance. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! There
is nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to
convince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will be
calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you are
sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dear
father? your mother? Be not afraid to speak.
You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is a
blank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, save
papa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to be with him.
This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted
place since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted,
and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now.
They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot
walk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I
have never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearest
Ferdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, for
it brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. They
are my only joy and solace, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, no
complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!
that my weak pen could express a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand,
I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit's
strength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea.
Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged.
It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld that
fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand,
thousand loves. Your devoted
Henrietta.
Letter XI.
Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought me no letter.
I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought me
mad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too,
at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence,
Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to this
clandestine method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, few
days, and then----- But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! will
to-morrow ever come?
Henrietta.
Letter XII.
Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me very
serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It is
fond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have melted
over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we
separated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge only
from your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to your
father; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves of
our union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then,
and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in the
dark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should share
our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Let
us make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal anything from one so
kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my
folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to console
me. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It was
painful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this life
no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I will
not say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and write
definitely, to your unhappy
Henrietta.
*****
Letter XVIII.
You tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will write
definitely. You tell me that circumstances have occurred, since your
arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that
they retard that settlement with your father that you had projected and
partly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters;
and assuring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious to
preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can you
withhold like that you have occasioned me? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand,
I will, I must still believe that you are faultless; but, believe me, a
want of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every situation, is
a want of common sense. Never conceal anything from your Henrietta.
I now take it for granted that your father has forbidden our union;
indeed this is the only conclusion that I can draw from your letter.
Ferdinand, I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your affection, I
will trust to time, to events, to the kindness of my friends, and to
that overruling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure as
ours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. Confident in
your love, I can live in solitude, and devote myself to your memory,
I------
O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell them
all, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them your
Henrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them she
will be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our
union, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let them
return to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa;
let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trust
not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant, not quite unprepared
to act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in its
splendour or its proud humility; and, if not worthy of their son (as who
can be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing of
his affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Do
this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come.
But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, remember
your Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; but
remember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy life
I have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in a
private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him;
be just to your Henrietta! Return, I beseech you on my knees; return
instantly to Ducie; reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious; he
will be our best friend; in his hand and bosom we shall find solace and
support. God bless you, Ferdinand! All will yet go well, mine own, own
love. I smile amid my tears when I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh!
what misery can there be in this world if we may but share it together?
Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted
Henrietta.
CHAPTER III.
_Containing the Arrival at Ducie of a Distinguished Guest_.
IT WAS about three weeks after Ferdinand Armine had quitted Ducie that
Mr. Temple entered the breakfast-room one morning, with an open note in
his hand, and told Henrietta to prepare for visitors, as her old friend,
Lady Bellair, had written to apprise him of her intention to rest the
night at Ducie, on her way to the North.
'She brings with her also the most charming woman in the world,' added
Mr. Temple, with a smile.
'I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her companion so at present,'
said Miss Temple, 'whoever she may be; but, at any rate, I shall be glad
to see her ladyship, who is certainly one of the most amusing women in
the world.'
This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair made some bustle
in the household of Ducie Bower; for her ladyship was in every respect a
memorable character, and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr.
Temple before his residence at Ducie, very much interested the
curiosity of his fellow-servants by his intimations of her ladyship's
eccentricities.
'You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary,' said the butler;
'and you, Susan, must look after the page. We shall all be well
cross-examined as to the state of the establishment; and so I advise you
to be prepared. Her ladyship is a rum one, and that's the truth.'
In due course of time, a handsome travelling chariot, emblazoned with a
viscount's coronet, and carrying on the seat behind a portly man-servant
and a lady's maid, arrived at Ducie. They immediately descended, and
assisted the assembled household of the Bower to disembark the contents
of the chariot; but Mr. Temple and his daughter were too well acquainted
with Lady Bellair's character to appear at this critical moment.
First came forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceedingly
magnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme of gorgeous fashion,
and who, after being landed on the marble steps, was for some moments
absorbed in the fluttering arrangement of her plumage; smoothing her
maroon pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, and
adjusting the glittering pelerine of point device, that shaded the fall
of her broad but well-formed shoulders. In one hand the stately dame
lightly swung a bag that was worthy of holding the Great Seal itself,
so rich and so elaborate were its materials and embroidery; and in the
other she at length took a glass which was suspended from her neck by
a chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flashing eye, as dark as her
ebon curls and as brilliant as her well-rouged cheek, at the surrounding
scene.
The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed next, and then came
forth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best-dressed, and, stranger
than all, oldest little lady in the world. Lady Bellair was of childlike
stature, and quite erect, though ninety years of age; the tasteful
simplicity of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her grey
silk dress, her apron, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella shoes,
all admirably contrasted with the vast and flaunting splendour of
her companion, not less than her ladyship's small yet exquisitely
proportioned form, her highly-finished extremities, and her keen
sarcastic grey eye. The expression of her countenance now, however, was
somewhat serious. An arrival was an important moment that required all
her practised circumspection; there was so much to arrange, so much to
remember, and so much to observe.
The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his little mistress in
his arms, as he would a child, had planted her on the steps. And then
her ladyship's clear, shrill, and now rather fretful voice was heard.
'Here! where's the butler? I don't want you, stupid [addressing her
own servant], but the butler of the house, Mister's butler; what is his
name, Mr. Twoshoes' butler? I cannot remember names. Oh! you are there,
are you? I don't want you. How is your master? How is your charming
lady? Where is the parrot? I don't want it. Where's the lady? Why don't
you answer? Why do you stare so? Miss Temple! no! not Miss Temple! The
lady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd! To be sure so; why did
not you say so before? But she has got two names. Why don't you say
both names? My dear,' continued Lady Bellair, addressing her travelling
companion, 'I don't know your name. Tell all these good people your
name; your two names! I like people with two names. Tell them, my dear,
tell them; tell them your name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it is, Mrs.
Thingabob Twoshoes.'
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, though rather annoyed by this appeal, still
contrived to comply with the request in the most dignified manner; and
all the servants bowed to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.
To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady Bellair, after
scanning everything and everybody with the utmost scrutiny, indicated
some intention of entering, when suddenly she turned round:
'Man, there's something wanting. I had three things to take charge of.
The parrot and my charming friend; that is only two. There is a third.
What is it? You don't know! Here, you man, who are you? Mr. Temple's
servant. I knew your master when he was not as high as that cage. What
do you think of that?' continued her ladyship, with a triumphant smile.
'What do you laugh at, sir? Did you ever see a woman ninety years
old before? That I would wager you have not. What do I want? I want
something. Why do you tease me by not remembering what I want? Now, I
knew a gentleman who made his fortune by once remembering what a very
great man wanted. But then the great man was a minister of state. I dare
say if I were a minister of state, instead of an old woman ninety years
of age, you would contrive somehow or other to find out what I wanted.
Never mind, never mind. Come, my charming friend, let me take your
arm. Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, the most
innocent and charming lady in the world. She is my greatest favourite.
She is always my favourite. You are my favourite, too; but you are only
my favourite for the moment. I always have two favourites: one for the
moment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet Henrietta
Temple. You see I can remember her name, though I couldn't yours. But
you are a good creature, a dear good soul, though you live in a bad
set, my dear, a very bad set indeed; vulgar people, my dear; they may
be rich, but they have no _ton_. This is a fine place. Stop, stop,' Lady
Bellair exclaimed, stamping her little foot and shaking her little arm,
'Don't drive away; I remember what it was. Gregory! run, Gregory! It is
the page! There was no room for him behind, and I told him to lie under
the seat. Poor dear boy! He must be smothered. I hope he is not dead.
Oh! there he is. Has Miss Temple got a page? Does her page wear a
feather? My page has not got a feather, but he shall have one, because
he was not smothered. Here! woman, who are you? The housemaid. I thought
so. I always know a housemaid. You shall take care of my page. Take him
at once, and give him some milk and water; and, page, be very good, and
never leave this good young woman, unless I send for you. And, woman,
good young woman, perhaps you may find an old feather of Miss Temple's
page. Give it to this good little boy, because he was not smothered.'
CHAPTER IV.
_Containing Some Account of the Viscountess Dowager
Bellair_.
THE Viscountess Dowager Bellair was the last remaining link between the
two centuries. Herself born of a noble family, and distinguished both
for her beauty and her wit, she had reigned for a quarter of a century
the favourite subject of Sir Joshua; had flirted with Lord Carlisle,
and chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable quality of her
ladyship's destiny was her preservation. Time, that had rolled on nearly
a century since her birth, had spared alike her physical and mental
powers. She was almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind,
as when seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone Gardens, or
puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night Club at Mrs. Cornely's
masquerades. These wonderful seventy years indeed had passed to Lady
Bellair like one of those very masked balls in which she had formerly
sparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange and brilliant
characters. All that had been famous for beauty, rank, fashion, wit,
genius, had been gathered round her throne; and at this very hour
a fresh and admiring generation, distinguished for these qualities,
cheerfully acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. The
heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even of her old age,
had vanished; brilliant orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards,
ripe scholars, illustrious warriors; beauties whose dazzling charms
had turned the world mad; choice spirits, whose flying words or whose
fanciful manners made every saloon smile or wonder--all had disappeared.
She had witnessed revolutions in every country in the world; she
remembered Brighton a fishing-town, and Manchester a village; she had
shared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of loan-mongers; she had
stimulated the early ambition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised with
the last aspirations of George Canning; she had been the confidant of
the loves alike of Byron and Alfieri; had worn mourning for General
Wolfe, and given a festival to the Duke of Wellington; had laughed with
George Selwyn, and smiled at Lord Alvanley; had known the first
macaroni and the last dandy; remembered the Gunnings, and introduced the
Sheridans! But she herself was unchanged; still restless for novelty,
still eager for amusement; still anxiously watching the entrance on the
stage of some new stream of characters, and indefatigable in
attracting the notice of everyone whose talents might contribute to her
entertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. And, really,
when one recollected Lady Bel-lair's long career, and witnessed at the
same time her diminutive form and her unrivalled vitality, he might
almost be tempted to believe, that if not absolutely immortal, it was at
least her strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow like
the heroine of the fairy tale, each year smaller and smaller,
'Fine by degrees, and beautifully less,'
until her ladyship might at length subside into airy nothingness, and so
rather vanish than expire.
It was the fashion to say that her ladyship had no heart; in most
instances an unmeaning phrase; in her case certainly an unjust one.
Ninety years of experience had assuredly not been thrown away on a mind
of remarkable acuteness; but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quick
and warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so lively, that her
attention was soon engaged; her taste so refined, that her affection
was not so easily obtained. Hence she acquired a character for caprice,
because she repented at leisure those first impressions which with her
were irresistible; for, in truth, Lady Bellair, though she had nearly
completed her century, and had passed her whole life in the most
artificial circles, was the very creature of impulse. Her first homage
she always declared was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her third
to blood. The favoured individual who might combine these three splendid
qualifications, was, with Lady Bellair, a nymph, or a demi-god. As for
mere wealth, she really despised it, though she liked her favourites to
be rich.
Her knowledge of human nature, which was considerable, her acquaintance
with human weaknesses, which was unrivalled, were not thrown away upon
Lady Bellair. Her ladyship's perception of character was fine and quick,
and nothing delighted her so much as making a person a tool. Capable,
where her heart was touched, of the finest sympathy and the most
generous actions, where her feelings were not engaged she experienced no
compunction in turning her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimes
in honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But if you had
the skill to detect her plots, and the courage to make her aware of your
consciousness of them, you never displeased her, and often gained her
friendship. For Lady Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when she
chose to be candid, an indulgence which was not rare with her, she
could dissect her own character and conduct with equal spirit and
impartiality. In her own instance it cannot be denied that she comprised
the three great qualifications she so much prized: for she was very
witty; had blood in her veins, to use her own expression; and was the
prettiest woman in the world, for her years. For the rest, though no
person was more highly bred, she could be very impertinent; but if you
treated her with servility, she absolutely loathed you.
Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two or three
months at Bath, and then proceeded to her great grandson's, the present
viscount's, seat in the North, where she remained until London was
again attractive. Part of her domestic diplomacy was employed each year,
during her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or making some
new acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and save her harmless
from all expenses and dangers of the road, to Northumberland; and she
displayed often in these arrangements talents which Talleyrand might
have envied. During the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the widow
of a rich East Indian, whose intention it was to proceed to her estate
in Scotland at the end of the autumn, had been presented to Lady Bellair
by a friend well acquainted with her ladyship's desired arrangements.
What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for Lady Bellair! Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd, very rich and very anxious to be fashionable,
was intoxicated with the flattering condescension and anticipated
companionship of Lady Bellair. At first Lady Bellair had quietly
suggested that they should travel together to Northumberland. Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd was enchanted with the proposal. Then Lady Bellair
regretted that her servant was very ill, and that she must send her to
town immediately in her own carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd
insisted, in spite of the offers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyship
should take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant hear
of Lady Bellair defraying, under such circumstances, any portion of the
expense. Lady Bellair held out to the dazzled vision of Mrs. Montgomery
Floyd a brilliant perspective of the noble lords and wealthy squires
whose splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they were
to make their resting-places during their progress; and in time Lady
Bellair, who had a particular fancy for her own carriage, proposed
that her servants should travel in that of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd smiled a too willing assent. It ended by Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, where their
mistress was to meet them, in that lady's own carriage, and Lady Bellair
travelling in her own chariot with her own servants, and Mrs. Montgomery
Floyd defraying the expenditure of both expeditions.
CHAPTER V.
_In Which Lady Bellair Gives Some Account of Some of Her
Friends_.
LADY BELLAIR really loved Henrietta Temple. She was her prime and her
permanent favourite, and she was always lamenting that Henrietta would
not come and stay with her in London, and marry a duke. Lady Bellair
was a great matchmaker. When, therefore, she was welcomed by the fair
mistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was as genuine as she was profuse
in her kind phrases. 'My sweet, sweet young friend,' she said, as
Henrietta bowed her head and offered her lips to the little old lady,
'it is something to have such a friend as you. What old woman has such a
sweet friend as I have! Now let me look at you. It does my heart good to
see you. I feel younger. You are handsomer than ever, I declare you are.
Why will you not come and stay with me, and let me find you a husband?
There is the Duke of Derandale, he is in love with you already; for I
do nothing but talk of you. No, you should not marry him, he is not good
enough. He is not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but I
love a duke that is refined more. You shall marry Lord Fitzwarrene.
He is my favourite; he is worthy of you. You laugh; I love to see
you laugh. You are so fresh and innocent! There is your worthy father
talking to my friend Mrs. Twoshoes; a very good creature, my love, a
very worthy soul, but no _ton_; I hate French words, but what other can
I use? And she will wear gold chains, which I detest. You never wear
gold chains, I am sure. The Duke of------would not have me, so I came
to you,' continued her ladyship, returning the salutation of Mr. Temple.
'Don't ask me if I am tired; I am never tired. There is nothing I hate
so much as being asked whether I am well; I am always well. There, I
have brought you a charming friend; give her your arm; and you shall
give me yours,' said the old lady, smiling, to Henrietta. 'We make a
good contrast; I like a good contrast, but not an ugly one. I cannot
bear anything that is ugly; unless it is a very ugly man indeed, who is
a genius and very fashionable. I liked Wilkes, and I liked Curran; but
they were famous, the best company in the world. When I was as young
as you, Lady Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because she was
tall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. Pretty women, my sweet
child, should never be alone. Not that I was very pretty, but I was
always with pretty women, and at last the men began to think that I was
pretty too.'
'A superbly pretty place,' simpered the magnificent Mrs. Montgomery
Floyd to Mr. Temple, 'and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met,
I assure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. Such a favourite too
with Lady Bellair! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite,'
added the lady, with a playful smile.
The ladies were ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, for the hour
of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxiety
not to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might
have been matter of marvel how she could have effected such a complete
transformation in so short a period. Except a train, she was splendid
enough for a birthday at St. James's, and wore so many brilliants
that she glittered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair loved a
contrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; for certainly her ladyship,
in her simple costume which had only been altered by the substitution
of a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or Gerard Douw,
afforded one not a little startling to her sumptuous fellow-traveller.
'Your dinner is very good,' said Lady Bellair to Mr. Temple. 'I eat
very little and very plainly, but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfies
everybody else, and they are all dull. The best dinners now are a new
man's; I forget his name; the man who is so very rich. You never heard
of him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) knows
nobody. What is his name? Gregory, what is the name of the gentleman
I dine with so often? the gentleman I send to when I have no other
engagement, and he always gives me a dinner, but who never dines with
me. He is only rich, and I hate people who are only rich; but I must ask
him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, mind; I don't care
about them; but I will not have stupid people, who are only rich, at my
dinners. Gregory, what is his name?'
'Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady.'
'Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have no deer, have you?'
enquired her ladyship of Mr. Temple. 'I thought not. I wish you had
deer. You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. Million de Stockville,
and that would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, the
duke, had received me, I should have sent it from thence. I will tell
you what I will do; I will write a note from this place to the duke, and
get him to do it for me. He will do anything for me. He loves me, the
duke, and I love him; but his wife hates me.'
'And you have had a gay season in town this year, Lady Bellair?'
enquired Miss Temple. 'My dear, I always have a gay season.' 'What
happiness!' softly exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'I think nothing is
more delightful than gaiety.'
'And how is our friend Mr. Bonmot this year?' said Mr. Temple.
'My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the same stories over
again, and therefore I never see him. I cannot bear wits that have run
to seed: I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and I told him the reason
why; but I said I was at home every morning from two till six, and that
he might come then, for he does not go out to evening parties, and he is
huffy, and so we have quarrelled.'
'Poor Mr. Bonmot,' said Miss Temple.
'My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, I forget his
name, but everybody is mad to have him. He is quite the fashion. I have
him to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody
has Bonmot; but my man is new, and I love something new. Lady Frederick
Berrington brought him to me. Do you know Lady Frederick Berrington?
Oh! I forgot, poor dear, you are buried alive in the country; I must
introduce you to Lady Frederick. She is charming, she will taste you,
she will be your friend; and you cannot have a better friend, my dear,
for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got blood in her veins. I
won't introduce you to Lady Frederick,' continued Lady Bellair to. Mrs.
Montgomery Floyd; 'she is not in your way. I shall introduce you to Lady
Splash and Dashaway; she is to be your friend.'
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid future of being
the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, and easily to endure, with such
a compensation, the 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 to him her heart, dedicated to him
her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections,
worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring upon
its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It was
not life; it was frenzy!
Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feigned
sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut and
her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step
approached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she had
herself deceived. She knew it was her father.
Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressed
his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved
her. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand without
opening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his.
'Henrietta,' he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness.
'Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause to
reproach me. Spare me; spare your child.'
'I came to console, not to reproach,' said Mr. Temple. 'But if it please
you, I will not speak; let me, however, remain.'
'Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion,
my fatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I know not, I feel that you
know all!'
'I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all.'
'And if you knew all, you would not hate me?'
'Hate you, my Henrietta! These are strange words to use to a father; to
a father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your
father loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me as
your earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend.'
She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not.
'Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question.'
'I tremble, sir.'
'Then we will speak to-morrow.'
'Oh! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me;
I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak; I
will answer any questions. My conscience is quite clear except to you;
no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my father.'
'He never will. But, dearest, tell me; summon up your courage to meet my
question. Are you engaged to this person?'
'I was.'
'Positively engaged?'
'Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. He
left me only to speak to his father.'
'This may be the idle tattle of women?'
'No, no,' said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; 'my fears had
foreseen this dark reality. This week has been a week of terror to me;
and yet I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Oh! what a fool have I been.'
'I know this person was your constant companion in my absence; that you
have corresponded with him. Has he written very recently?'
'Within two days.'
'And his letters?'
'Have been of late most vague. Oh! my father, indeed, indeed I have
not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from
this secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, this
clandestine correspondence; but it was only for a week, a single week;
and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas! alas!
all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexed in his
views and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with
contempt,--all is now too clear.'
'Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.'
'Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if you
only wish to spare me.'
'Cling to my heart, my child. A father's love has comfort. Is it not
so?'
'I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I never
can be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I have
a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear
father,' she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple's neck
and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful
voice, 'henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgrace
you; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour to
atone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.'
'My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness
only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to
stem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you,
my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you.
Try to sleep; try to compose yourself.'
'These people--to-morrow--what shall I do?'
'Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You need
appear no more.'
'Oh! that no human being might again see me!'
'Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy.
To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my own
Henrietta.'
Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in as
calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; and
then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait
of his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adorned
with her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some
time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance in
his hands. He sobbed convulsively.
CHAPTER VIII.
_In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_.
IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every
now and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissing
rain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled,
and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in
the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of
the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts
seemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell into
fits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of
anxiety than study.
The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, and
heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closed
his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet an
ancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his
Redeemer.
Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for the
soul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent from
his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated
his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the
sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of his
outer chamber.
Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and
enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing a
well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdinand
Armine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him.
Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire,
retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat.
'You are wet; I fear thoroughly?'
'It matters not,' said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice.
'From Bath?' enquired Glastonbury.
But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter
wretchedness, 'Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of
human beings.'
The good father started.
'Yes!' continued Ferdinand; 'this is the end of all your care, all your
affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house is
fated; my life draws to an end.'
'Speak, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have
relapsed into moody silence, 'speak to your friend and father. Disburden
your mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope,
and, while this remains,' pointing to the crucifix, 'never without
consolation.'
'I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under the
effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelings
with which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. O
Glastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace.'
'Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priest
of our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the
humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the falling
and make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; nor
shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I can
sympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them.'
Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, and
shot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance of
Glastonbury was placid, though serious.
'You remember,' Ferdinand at length murmured, 'that we met, we met
unexpectedly, some six weeks back.'
'I have not forgotten it,' replied Glastonbury.
'There was a lady,' Ferdinand continued in a hesitating tone.
'Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison,' observed Glastonbury, 'but who, it
turned out, bore another name.'
'You know it?'
'I know all; for her father has been here.'
'Where are they?' exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, starting from his seat
and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. 'Only tell me where they are, only
tell me where Henrietta is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will
restore me to life, to hope, to heaven.'
'I cannot,' said Glastonbury, shaking his head. 'It is more than ten
days ago that I saw this lady's father for a few brief and painful
moments; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From the
unexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent
misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not so
unprepared for this interview with him as I otherwise might have been.
Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistent
with my duty to my God and to my neighbour.'
'You betrayed me, then,' said Ferdinand.
'Ferdinand!' said Glastonbury reproachfully, 'I trust that I am free
from deceit of any kind. In the present instance I had not even to
communicate anything. Your own conduct had excited suspicion; some
visitors from Bath to this gentleman and his family had revealed
everything; and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I could
not refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in general, what
was already known to them in particular, what was not even doubted, and
alas! not dubitable.'
'Oh! my father, pardon me, pardon me; pardon the only disrespectful
expression that ever escaped the lips of your Ferdinand towards you;
most humbly do I ask your forgiveness. But if you knew all------God!
God! my heart is breaking! You have seen her, Glastonbury; you have
seen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her? So beautiful, so
highly-gifted, with a heart as fresh, as fragrant as the dawn of Eden;
and that heart mine; and all lost, all gone and lost! Oh! why am I
alive?' He threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face and
wept.
'I would that deed or labour of mine could restore you both to peace,'
said Glastonbury, with streaming eyes.
'So innocent, so truly virtuous!' continued Ferdinand. 'It seemed to me
I never knew what virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous! I
think I see her now, with that dear smile of hers that never more may
welcome me!'
'My child, I know not what to say; I know not what advice to give;
I know not what even to wish. Your situation is so complicated, so
mysterious, that it passes my comprehension. There are others whose
claims, whose feelings should be considered. You are not, of course,
married?'
Ferdinand shook his head.
'Does Miss Grandison know all?'
'Nothing.'
'Your family?'
Ferdinand shook his head again.
'What do you yourself wish? What object are you aiming at? What game
have you yourself been playing? I speak not in harshness; but I
really do not understand what you have been about. If you have your
grandfather's passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever suppose
that you were "infirm of purpose."'
'I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first saw Henrietta, my
heart and resolution have never for an instant faltered; and if I do not
now succeed in them I am determined not to live.'
'The God of all goodness have mercy on this distracted house!' exclaimed
Glastonbury, as he piously lifted his hands to heaven.
'You went to Bath to communicate this great change to your father,' he
continued. 'Why did you not? Painful as the explanation must be to Miss
Grandison, the injustice of your conduct towards her is aggravated by
delay.'
'There were reasons,' said Ferdinand, 'reasons which I never intended
anyone to know; but now I have no secrets. Dear Glastonbury, even amid
all this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when I confess to you that
I have, and have had for years, private cares of my own of no slight
nature.'
'Debts?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Debts,' replied Ferdinand, 'and considerable ones.'
'Poor child!' exclaimed Glastonbury. 'And this drove you to the
marriage?'
'To that every worldly consideration impelled me: my heart was free
then; in fact, I did not know I had a heart; and I thought the marriage
would make all happy. But now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh! I
would sooner be the commonest peasant in this county, with Henrietta
Temple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with all the
splendour of my ancestors.'
'Honour be to them; they were great men,' exclaimed Glastonbury.
'I am their victim,' replied Ferdinand. 'I owe my ancestors nothing,
nay, worse than nothing; I owe them------'
'Hush! hush!' said Glastonbury. 'If only for my sake, Ferdinand, be
silent.'
'For yours, then, not for theirs.'
'But why did you remain at Bath?' enquired Glastonbury.
'I had not been there more than a day or two, when my principal creditor
came down from town and menaced me. He had a power of attorney from an
usurer at Malta, and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The report
that I was going to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet, but
the delay and my absence from Bath had excited his suspicion. Instead,
therefore, of coming to an immediate explanation with Katherine, brought
about as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was obliged to
be constantly seen with her in public, to prevent myself from being
arrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in my energy
and skill. I thought that Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed or
suspicious; I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour of
my love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have supposed that
these infernal visitors would have come at such a moment to this retired
spot?'
'And now, is all known now?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Nothing,' replied Ferdinand; 'the difficulty of my position was so
great that I was about to cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving a
letter addressed to Katherine, confessing all. But the sudden silence of
Henrietta drove me mad. Day after day elapsed; two, three, four, five,
six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright; the mail was just
going off. I yielded to an irresistible impulse. I bid adieu to no one.
I jumped in. I was in London only ten minutes. I dashed to Ducie. It
was deserted. An old woman told me the family had gone, had utterly
departed; she knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. I sank
down; I tottered to a seat in that hall where I had been so happy. Then
it flashed across my mind that I might discover their course and pursue
them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found out their route.
I lost it for ever at the next stage. The clue was gone; it was
market-day, and in a great city, where horses are changed every minute,
there is so much confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. And
here I am, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Ferdinand, with a kind of mad smile.
'I have travelled four days, I have not slept a wink, I have tasted no
food; but I have drunk, I have drunk well. Here I am, and I have half
a mind to set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for my
funeral pyre.'
'Ferdinand, you are not well,' said Mr. Glastonbury, grasping his hand.
'You need rest. You must retire; indeed you must. I must be obeyed. My
bed is yours.'
'No! let me go to my own room,' murmured Ferdinand, in a faint voice.
'That room where my mother said the day would come--oh! what did my
mother say? Would there were only mother's love, and then I should not
be here or thus.'
'I pray you, my child, rest here.'
'No! let us to the Place, for an hour; I shall not sleep more than an
hour. I am off again directly the storm is over. If it had not been for
this cursed rain I should have caught them. And yet, perhaps, they are
in countries where there is no rain. Ah! who would believe what happens
in this world? Not I, for one. Now, give me your arm. Good Glastonbury!
you are always the same. You seem to me the only thing in the world that
is unchanged.'
Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, led his former
pupil down the stairs. The weather was more calm. There were some dark
blue rifts in the black sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand said
nothing in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked up to
the sky, and said, as it were to himself, 'She loved the stars.'
Glastonbury had some difficulty in rousing the man and his wife,
who were the inmates of the Place; but it was not very late, and,
fortunately, they had not retired for the night. Lights were brought
into Lady Armine's drawing-room. Glastonbury led Ferdinand to a sofa,
on which he rather permitted others to place him than seated himself.
He took no notice of anything that was going on, but remained with his
eyes open, gazing feebly with a rather vacant air.
Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arrangement of his
sleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the bed was well
aired and warmed, and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which soon
kindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with the aid of the good woman,
some hot potion that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhausted
charge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had come, as it
were, and thrown himself on the bosom of his earliest friend. When
all was arranged Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, whom he found in
exactly the same position as that in which he left him. He offered no
resistance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to his chamber.
He neither moved nor spoke, and yet seemed aware of all they were doing.
Glastonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his chamber, relieved
him from his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. When
Glastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, but
did not speak; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submitted
to their undressing him, and seemed incapable of affording them the
slightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hair
that was placed next to his heart.
CHAPTER IX.
_In Which Glastonbury Finds That a Serene Temper Does Not
Always Bring a Serene Life_.
THOSE quiet slumbers, that the regular life and innocent heart of the
good Glastonbury generally ensured, were sadly broken this night, as
he lay awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the of Armine
house. They seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded; and that
brilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly indulged,
offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor was it the menaced
disruption of those ties whose consummation was to restore the greatness
and splendour of the family, and all the pain and disappointment and
mortification and misery that must be its consequence, that alone made
him sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for that passion which sheds
such a lustre over existence, and is the pure and prolific source of
much of our better conduct; the time had been when he, too, had loved,
and with a religious sanctity worthy of his character and office; he had
been for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a passion almost
ideal, yet happy, though 'he never told his love;' and, indeed, although
the unconscious mistress of his affections had been long removed from
that world where his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passion
had not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her presence
were now cherished by her memory. His tender and romantic nature, which
his venerable grey hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made him
deeply sympathise with his unhappy pupil; the radiant image of Henrietta
Temple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, rose up before
him; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner of his Ferdinand's
bosom should be worthy of her destiny; he thought of this fair creature,
perchance in solitude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying and
miserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings thrown back
upon herself; deeming herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where she
had looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, and support; losing
all confidence in the world and the world's ways; but recently so lively
with expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, hopeless,
wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. The tears trickled down the pale cheek
of Glastonbury as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts; and
almost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his utter want of
power to remedy these sad and piteous circumstances. Yet he was not
absolutely hopeless. There was ever open to the pious Glastonbury one
perennial source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that was
ever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the world's harsh courses
and exhausting cares in its salutary flow and its refreshing shade,
when, kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinand
and his family to the superintending care of a merciful Omnipotence.
The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbury was at the Place at
an early hour, and found Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had not
slept an instant, was very excited, talked of departing immediately, and
rambled in his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left him
a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He endeavoured to soothe him;
assured him that if he would be calm all would yet go well; that they
would consult together what was best to be done; and that he would make
enquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime he despatched the
servant for the most eminent physician of the county; but as hours
must necessarily elapse before his arrival, the difficulty of keeping
Ferdinand still was very great. Talk he would, and of nothing but
Henrietta. It was really agonising to listen to his frantic appeals
to Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode; yet Glastonbury
never left his side; and with promises, expressions of confidence, and
the sway of an affected calmness, for in truth dear Glastonbury was
scarcely less agitated than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented from
rising, and the physician at length arrived.
After examining Ferdinand, with whom he remained a very short space,
this gentleman invited Glastonbury to descend, and they left the patient
in charge of a servant.
'This is a bad case,' said the physician.
'Almighty God preserve him!' exclaimed the agitated Glastonbury. 'Tell
me the worst!'
'Where are Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine?'
'At Bath.'
'They must be sent for instantly.'
'Is there any hope?'
'There is hope; that is all. I shall now bleed him copiously, and then
blister; but I can do little. We must trust to nature. I am afraid of
the brain. I cannot account for his state by his getting wet or his
rapid travelling. Has he anything on his mind?'
'Much,' said Glastonbury.
The physician shook his head.
'It is a precious life!' said Glastonbury, seizing his arm. 'My dear
doctor, you must not leave us.'
They returned to the bedchamber.
'Captain Armine,' said the physician, taking his hand and seating
himself on the bed, 'you have a bad cold and some fever; I think you
should lose a little blood.'
'Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am bled?' enquired Ferdinand, eagerly,
'for go I must!'
'I would not move to-day,' said the physician.
'I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will tell you I must.'
'If you set off early to-morrow you will get over as much ground in
four-and-twenty hours as if you went this evening,' said the physician,
fixing the bandage on the arm as he spoke, and nodding to Mr.
Glastonbury to prepare the basin.
'To-morrow morning?' said Ferdinand.
'Yes, to-morrow,' said the physician, opening his lancet.
'Are you sure that I shall be able to set off tomorrow?' said Ferdinand.
'Quite,' said the physician, opening the vein.
The dark blood flowed sullenly; the physician exchanged an anxious
glance with Glastonbury; at length the arm was bandaged up, a composing
draught, with which the physician had been prepared, given to his
patient, and the doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left
Armine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself for his painful
office of communicating to the parents the imminent danger of their only
child.
Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an individual than that
which now fell to the lot of the good Glastonbury, in conducting the
affairs of a family labouring under such remarkable misconceptions as to
the position and views of its various members. It immediately occurred
to him, that it was highly probable that Miss Grandison, at such a
crisis, would choose to accompany the parents of her intended husband.
What incident, under the present circumstances, could be more awkward
and more painful? Yet how to prevent its occurrence? How crude to
communicate the real state of such affairs at any time by letter! How
impossible at the moment he was preparing the parents for the alarming,
perhaps fatal illness of their child, to enter on such subjects at all,
much more when the very revelation, at a moment which required all
their energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning at Bath scenes
scarcely less distracting and disastrous than those occurring at Armine.
It was clearly impossible to enter into any details at present; and yet
Glastonbury, while he penned the sorrowful lines, and softened the
sad communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly postscript,
wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the advisability, for various
reasons, that she should only be accompanied by her husband.
CHAPTER X.
_In Which Ferdinand Armine Is Much Concerned_.
THE contingency which Glastonbury feared, surely happened; Miss
Grandison insisted upon immediately rushing to her Ferdinand; and as
the maiden aunt was still an invalid, and was incapable of enduring the
fatigues of a rapid and anxious journey, she was left behind. Within a
few hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter, Sir Ratcliffe and
Lady Armine, and their niece, were on their way. They found letters from
Glastonbury in London, which made them travel to Armine even through the
night.
In spite of all his remedies, the brain fever which the physician
foresaw had occurred; and when his family arrived, the life of Ferdinand
was not only in danger but desperate. It was impossible that even the
parents could see their child, and no one was allowed to enter his
chamber but his nurse, the physician, and occasionally Glastonbury; for
this name, with others less familiar to the household, sounded so often
on the frenzied lips of the sufferer, that it was recommended that
Glastonbury should often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, to
receive the wretched Sir Ratcliffe and his wife and their disconsolate
companion. Never was so much unhappiness congregated together under one
roof; and yet, perhaps Glastonbury, though the only one who retained
the least command over himself, was, with his sad secret, the most
woe-begone of the tribe.
As for Lady Armine, she sat without the door of her son's chamber the
whole day and night, clasping a crucifix in her hands, and absorbed
in silent prayer. Sir Ratcliffe remained below prostrate. The unhappy
Katherine in vain offered the consolation she herself so needed; and
would have wandered about that Armine of which she had heard so much,
and where she was to have been so happy, a forlorn and solitary being,
had it not been for the attentions of the considerate Glastonbury, who
embraced every opportunity of being her companion. His patience, his
heavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigilant care, his spiritual
consolation, occasionally even the gleams of agreeable converse with
which he attempted to divert her mind, consoled and maintained her. How
often did she look at his benignant countenance, and not wonder that the
Armines were so attached to this engaging and devoted friend?
For three days did the unhappy family expect in terrible anticipation
that each moment would witness the last event in the life of their son.
His distracted voice caught too often the vigilant and agonised ear of
his mother; yet she gave no evidence of the pang, except by clasping her
crucifix with increased energy. She had promised the physician that she
would command herself, that no sound should escape her lips, and she
rigidly fulfilled the contract on which she was permitted to remain.
On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never yet closed his
eyes, but who had become during the last twelve hours somewhat more
composed, fell into a slumber. The physician lightly dropped the hand
which he had scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room,
beckoned, his finger pressed to his lips, to Lady Armine to follow him.
Assured by the symbol that the worst had not yet happened, she followed
the physician to the end of the gallery, and he then told her that
immediate danger was past.
'And now, my dear madam,' said the physician to her, 'you must breathe
some fresh air. Oblige me by descending.'
Lady Armine no longer refused; she repaired with a slow step to Sir
Ratcliffe; she leant upon her husband's breast as she murmured to him
her hopes. They went forth together. Katherine and Glastonbury were in
the garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. There was a
faint smile on her face which needed not words to explain it. Katherine
sprang forward, and threw her arms round her aunt's neck.
'He may be saved! he may be saved,' whispered the mother; for in this
hushed house of impending death they had lost almost the power as well
as the habit, of speaking in any other tone.
'He sleeps,' said the physician; 'all present danger is past.'
'It is too great joy,' murmured Katherine; and Glastonbury advanced and
caught in his arms her insensible form.
CHAPTER XI.
_In Which Ferdinand Begins to Be a Little Troublesome_.
FROM the moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand continued to improve.
Each day the bulletin was more favourable, until his progress, though
slow, was declared certain, and even relapse was no longer apprehended.
But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. It
was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into his
room to gaze upon her beloved child; and, if he moved in the slightest
degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, she
instantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which she
had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she remain in this fond
lurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake,
listening to every breath, and envying the nurse that might gaze on him
undisturbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was ordered
to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; and she brought it
herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies to
the physician sufficiently attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he
indeed otherwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining,
and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length, one
morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of the
physician, immediately attended him.
When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to extend his hand.
It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it.
'I have given you much trouble,' he said, in a faint voice.
'I think only of the happiness of your recovery,' said Glastonbury.
'Yes, I am recovered,' murmured Ferdinand; 'it was not my wish.'
'Oh! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand.'
'You have heard nothing?' enquired Ferdinand.
Glastonbury shook his head.
'Fear not to speak; I can struggle no more. I am resigned. I am very
much changed.'
'You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, to whom this mood
gave hopes.
'Never,' he said, in a more energetic tone; 'never.'
'There are so many that love you,' said Glastonbury, leading his
thoughts to his family.
'Love!' exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almost
reproachful.
'Your dear mother,' said Glastonbury.
'Yes! my dear mother,' replied Ferdinand, musingly. Then in a quicker
tone, 'Does she know of my illness? Did you write to them?'
'She knows of it.'
'She will be coming, then. I dread her coming. I can bear to see no one.
You, dear Glastonbury, you; it is a consolation to see you, because you
have seen,' and here his voice faltered, 'you have seen--her.'
'My Ferdinand, think only of your health; and happiness, believe me,
will yet be yours.'
'If you could only find out where she is,' continued Ferdinand, 'and go
to her. Yes! my dear Glastonbury, good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her,'
he added in an imploring tone; 'she would believe you; everyone believes
you. I cannot go; I am powerless; and if I went, alas! she would not
believe me.'
'It is my wish to do everything you desire,' said Glastonbury, 'I should
be content to be ever labouring for your happiness. But I can do nothing
unless you are calm.'
'I am calm; I will be calm; I will act entirely as you wish; only I
beseech you see her.'
'On that head let us at present say no more,' replied Glastonbury, who
feared that excitement might lead to relapse; yet anxious to soothe
him, he added, 'Trust in my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a
merciful Providence.'
'I have had frightful dreams,' said Ferdinand. 'I thought I was in a
farm-house; everything was so clear, so vivid. Night after night she
seemed to me sitting on this bed. I touched her; her hand was in mine;
it was so burning hot! Once, oh! once, once I thought she had forgiven
me!'
'Hush! hush! hush!'
'No more: we will speak of her no more. When comes my mother?'
'You may see her to-morrow, or the day after.'
'Ah! Glastonbury, she is here.'
'She is.'
'Is she alone?'
'Your father is with her.'
'My mother and my father. It is well.' Then, after a minute's pause, he
added with some earnestness, 'Do not deceive me, Glastonbury; see what
deceit has brought me to. Are you sure that they are quite alone?'
'There are none here but your dearest friends; none whose presence
should give you the slightest care.'
'There is one,' said Ferdinand.
'Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your side in silence.
To-morrow you will see your mother.'
'To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow. Once to me tomorrow was brighter even than
to-day.' He turned his back and spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out of
the room.
CHAPTER XII.
_Containing the Intimation of a Somewhat Mysterious
Adventure_.
IT WAS absolutely necessary that Lady Armine's interview with her son
be confined merely to observations about his health. Any allusion to
the past might not only produce a relapse of his fever, but occasion
explanations, at all times most painful, but at the present full of
difficulty and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no common
anxiety that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first visit to
her son, and impressed upon her the absolute necessity of not making any
allusion at present to Miss Grandison, and especially to her presence in
the house. He even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of the
physician, who, in truth, had heard enough during the fever to excite
his suspicions; but this is a class of men essentially discreet, and it
is well, for few are the family secrets ultimately concealed from them.
The interview occurred without any disagreeable results. The next day,
Ferdinand saw his father for a few minutes. In a short time, Lady Armine
was established as nurse to her son; Sir Ratcliffe, easy in mind,
amused himself with his sports; and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss
Grandison. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of Ferdinand and his
intended bride became daily more complete, and Glastonbury was almost
her inseparable companion. She found him a very interesting one. He
was the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armine and its
neighbourhood, and drove her delightfully in Lady Armine's pony phaeton.
He could share, too, all her pursuits, and open to her many new ones.
Though time had stolen something of its force from the voice of Adrian
Glastonbury, it still was wondrous sweet; his musical accomplishments
were complete; and he could guide the pencil or prepare the herbal, and
indite fair stanzas in his fine Italian handwriting in a lady's album.
All his collections, too, were at Miss Grandison's service. She handled
with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choice drawings, and even
began to study heraldry. His interesting conversation, his mild and
benignant manners, his captivating simplicity, and the elegant purity of
his mind, secured her confidence and won her heart. She loved him as a
father, and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irresistible.
Every morning as soon as he awoke, every evening before he composed
himself again for the night's repose, Ferdinand sent for Glastonbury,
and always saw him alone. At first he requested his mother to leave
the room, but Lady Armine, who attributed these regular visits to a
spiritual cause, scarcely needed the expression of this desire. His
first questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. 'Had he heard
anything? Were there any letters? He thought there might be a letter,
was he sure? Had he sent to Bath; to London, for his letters?' When he
was answered in the negative, he usually dwelt no more upon the subject.
One morning he said to Glastonbury, 'I know Katherine is in the house.'
'Miss Grandison _is_ here,' replied Glastonbury.
'Why don't they mention her? Is all known?'
'Nothing is known,' said Glastonbury.
'Why don't they mention her, then? Are you sure all is not known?'
'At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. I was unaware how
you might receive the intelligence; but the true cause of my suggestion
is still a secret.'
'I must see her,' said Ferdinand, 'I must speak to her.'
'You can see her when you please,' replied Glastonbury; 'but I would not
speak upon the great subject at present.'
'But she is existing all this time under a delusion. Every day makes my
conduct to her more infamous.'
'Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable young lady,' said
Glastonbury. 'I love her from the bottom of my heart; I would recommend
no conduct that could injure her, assuredly none that can disgrace you.'
'Dear Glastonbury, what shall I do?'
'Be silent; the time will come when you may speak. At present, however
anxious she may be to see you, there are plausible reasons for your not
meeting. Be patient, my Ferdinand.'
'Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too quick and fretful.
Pardon me, dear friend. You know not what I feel. Thank God, you do not;
but my heart is broken.'
When Glastonbury returned to the library, he found Sir Ratcliffe playing
with his dogs, and Miss Grandison copying a drawing.
'How is Ferdinand?' enquired the father.
'He mends daily,' replied Glastonbury. 'If only May-day were at hand
instead of Christmas, he would soon be himself again; but I dread the
winter.'
'And yet the sun shines.' said Miss Grandison.
Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. 'I think, my dear
lady, we might almost venture upon our promised excursion to the Abbey
today. Such a day as this may not quickly be repeated. We might take our
sketch-book.'
'It would be delightful,' said Miss Grandison; 'but before I go, I must
pick some flowers for Ferdinand.' So saying, she sprang from her seat,
and ran out into the garden.
'Kate is a sweet creature,' said Sir Ratcliffe to Glastonbury. 'Ah!
my dear Glastonbury, you know not what happiness I experience in the
thought that she will soon be my daughter.'
Glastonbury could not refrain from sighing. He took up the pencil and
touched her drawing.
'Do you know, dear Glastonbury,' resumed Sir Ratcliffe, 'I had little
hope in our late visitation. I cannot say I had prepared myself for
the worst, but I anticipated it. We have had so much unhappiness in our
family, that I could not persuade myself that the cup was not going to
be dashed from our lips.'
'God is merciful,' said Glastonbury.
'You are his minister, dear Glastonbury, and a worthy one. I know not
what we should have done without you in this awful trial; but, indeed,
what could I have done throughout life without you?'
'Let us hope that everything is for the best,' said Glastonbury.
'And his mother, his poor mother, what would have become of her? She
never could have survived his loss. As for myself, I would have quitted
England for ever, and gone into a monastery.'
'Let us only remember that he lives,' said Glastonbury.
'And that we shall soon all be happy,' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a more
animated tone. 'The future is, indeed, full of solace. But we must take
care of him; he is too rapid in his movements. He has my father's blood
in him, that is clear. I never could well make out why he left Bath so
suddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner to this place.'
'Youth is impetuous,' said Glastonbury.
'It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury.'
'I thank God that I was,' said Glastonbury, earnestly; then checking
himself, he added, 'that I have been of any use.'
'You are always of use. What should we do without you? I should long ago
have sunk. Ah! Glastonbury, God in his mercy sent you to us.'
'See here,' said Katherine, entering, her fair cheek glowing with
animation, 'only dahlias, but they will look pretty, and enliven his
room. Oh! that I might write him a little word, and tell him I am here!
Do not you think I might, Mr. Glastonbury?'
'He will know that you are here to-day,' said Glastonbury.
'To-morrow-----'
'Ah! you always postpone it,' said Miss Grandison, in a tone half
playful, half reproachful; 'and yet it is selfish to murmur. It is for
his good that I bear this bereavement, and that thought should console
me. Heigho!'
Sir Ratcliffe stepped forward and kissed his niece. Glastonbury was
busied on the drawing: he turned away his face.
Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. 'God bless you, dear Kate,' he said; 'a
pleasant drive and a choice sketch. We shall meet at dinner.'
'At dinner, dear uncle; and better sport than yesterday.'
'Ha! ha!' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'But Armine is not like Grandison. If
I were in the old preserves, you should have no cause to jeer at my
sportsmanship.'
Miss Grandison's good wishes were prophetic: Sir Ratcliffe found
excellent sport, and returned home very late, and in capital spirits. It
was the dinner-hour, and yet Katherine and Glastonbury had not returned.
He was rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descending, and
the distant lawns of Armine were already invisible; the low moan of the
rising wind might be just distinguished; and the coming night promised
to be raw and cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Ratcliffe stood before
the crackling fire in the dining-room, otherwise in darkness, but the
flame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the Snyders, so that the
figures seemed really to move in the shifting shades, the eye of the
infuriate boar almost to emit sparks of rage, and there wanted but
the shouts of the huntsmen and the panting of the dogs to complete the
tumult of the chase.
Just as Sir Ratcliffe was anticipating some mischance to his absent
friends, and was about to steal upon tip-toe to Lady Armine, who was
with Ferdinand, to consult her, the practised ear of a man who lived
much in the air caught the distant sound of wheels, and he went out to
welcome them.
'Why, you are late,' said Sir Ratcliffe, as the phaeton approached the
house. 'All right, I hope?'
He stepped forward to assist Miss Gr |
