CHAPTER IV.

Produced by David Widger

HENRIETTA TEMPLE

By Benjamin Disraeli

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TO THE COUNT ALFRED D’ORSAY

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED

BY

HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND.

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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 Cæsar 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 façade 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 certè!_

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 fête

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 Grandison. The darkness of the evening

prevented him from observing her swollen eyes and agitated countenance.

She sprang out of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up into

her room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very cold, and

entered the house with Sir Ratcliffe.

‘This fire is hearty,’ said Glastonbury, warming himself before it:

‘you have had good sport, I hope? We are not to wait dinner for Miss

Grandison, Sir Ratcliffe. She will not come down this evening; she is

not very well.’

‘Not very well: ah! the cold, I fear. You have been imprudent in staying

so late. I must run and tell Lady Armine.’

‘Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so,’ said Glastonbury; ‘Miss Grandison

most particularly requested that she should not be disturbed.’

It was with some difficulty that Glastonbury could contrive that Miss

Grandison’s wishes should be complied with; but at length he succeeded

in getting Sir Ratcliffe to sit down to dinner, and affecting a

cheerfulness which was far from his spirit, the hour of ten at length

arrived, and Glastonbury, before retiring to his tower, paid his evening

visit to Ferdinand.

CHAPTER XIII.

_In Which the Family Perplexities Rather Increase

than Diminish_.

IF EVER there were a man who deserved a serene and happy life it was

Adrian Glastonbury. He had pursued a long career without injuring or

offending a human being; his character and conduct were alike spotless;

he was void of guile; he had never told a falsehood, never been

entangled in the slightest deceit; he was easy in his circumstances;

he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his feelings; and, though

alone in the world, was blessed with such a sweet and benignant temper,

gifted with so many resources, and adorned with so many accomplishments,

that he appeared to be always employed, amused, and contented. And yet,

by a strange contrariety of events, it appeared that this excellent

person was now placed in a situation which is generally the consequence

of impetuous passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. That

breast, which heretofore would have shrunk from being analysed only

from the refined modesty of its nature, had now become the depository of

terrible secrets: the day could scarcely pass over without finding

him in a position which rendered equivocation on his part almost

a necessity, while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniary

embarrassments were forced upon his attention, and his feelings were

racked from sympathy with individuals who were bound to him by no other

tie, but to whose welfare he felt himself engaged to sacrifice all his

pursuits, and devote all his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur,

although he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light he

viewed coming events, they appeared ominous only of evil. All that

he aimed at now was to soothe and support, and it was his unshaken

confidence in Providence that alone forbade him to despair.

When he repaired to the Place in the morning he found everything in

confusion. Miss Grandison was very unwell; and Lady Armine, frightened

by the recent danger from which they had escaped, very alarmed. She

could no longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, and

perhaps Lady Armine was somewhat surprised at the calmness with which

her son received the intelligence. But Miss Grandison was not only very

unwell but very obstinate. She would not leave her room, but insisted

that no medical advice should be called in. Lady Armine protested,

supplicated, adjured; Miss Grandison appealed to Mr. Glastonbury; and

Glastonbury, who was somewhat of a physician, was called in, and was

obliged to assure Lady Armine that Miss Grandison was only suffering

from a cold and only required repose. A warm friendship subsisted

between Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been Katherine’s

favourite aunt, and during the past year there had been urgent reasons

why Lady Armine should have cherished this predisposition in her favour.

Lady Armine was a fascinating person, and all her powers had been

employed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had been quite

successful. Miss Grandi-son looked forward almost with as much pleasure

to being Lady Armine’s daughter as her son’s bride. The intended

mother-in-law was in turn as warmhearted as her niece was engaging; and

eventually Lady Armine loved Katherine for herself alone.

In a few days, however, Miss Grandison announced that she was quite

recovered, and Lady Armine again devoted her unbroken attention to her

son, who was now about to rise for the first time from his bed. But

although Miss Grandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certain

that if the attention of the other members of the family had not been so

entirely engrossed, a very great change in her behaviour could not have

escaped their notice. Her flowers and drawings seemed to have lost their

relish; her gaiety to have deserted her. She passed a great portion

of the morning in her room; and although it was announced to her that

Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate of the Place, and that in a

day or two they might meet, she scarcely evinced, at this prospect of

resuming his society, so much gratification as might have been expected;

and though she daily took care that his chamber should still be provided

with flowers, it might have been remarked that the note she had been so

anxious to send him was never written. But how much, under the commonest

course of circumstances, happens in all domestic circles that is never

observed or never remarked till the observation is too late!

At length the day arrived when Lady Armine invited her niece to visit

her son. Miss Grandison expressed her readiness to accompany her aunt,

but took an opportunity of requesting Glastonbury to join them; and all

three proceeded to the chamber of the invalid.

The white curtain of the room was drawn; but though the light was

softened, the apartment was by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sitting

in an easy-chair, supported by pillows. A black handkerchief was just

twined round his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few

curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. He was

so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks were so wan and hollow, that

it was scarcely credible that in so short a space of time a man could

have become such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily dropped

his eyes, but extended his hand to her with some effort of earnestness.

She was almost as pale as he, but she took his hand. It was so light and

cold, it felt so much like death, that the tears stole down her cheek.

‘You hardly know me, Katherine,’ said Ferdinand, feebly. ‘This is good

of you to visit a sick man.’

Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Armine made an observation to

break the awkward pause.

‘And how do you like Armine?’ said Ferdinand. ‘I wish I could be your

guide. But Glastonbury is so kind!’

A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, to make the

commonest observation, but it was in vain. She grew paler every moment;

her lips moved, but they sent forth no sound.

‘Kate is not well,’ said Lady Armine. ‘She has been very unwell. This

visit,’ she added in a whisper to Ferdinand, ‘is a little too much for

her.’

Ferdinand sighed.

‘Mother,’ he at length said, ‘you must ask Katherine to come and sit

here with you; if indeed she will not feel the imprisonment.’

Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her face with her

handkerchief.

‘My sweet child,’ said Lady Armine, rising and kissing her, ‘this is too

much for you. You really must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon be

himself again; he will indeed.’

Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much distressed, but

Ferdinand avoided catching his eye; and yet, at last, Ferdinand said

with an effort, and in a very kind voice, ‘Dear Kate, come and sit by

me.’

Miss Grandison went into hysterics; Ferdinand sprang from his chair and

seized her hand; Lady Armine tried to restrain her son; Glastonbury held

the agitated Katherine.

‘For God’s sake, Ferdinand, be calm,’ exclaimed Lady Armine. ‘This is

most unfortunate. Dear, dear Katherine, but she has such a heart! All

the women have in our family, and none of the men, ‘tis so odd. Mr.

Glastonbury, water if you please, that glass of water; sal volatile;

where is the sal volatile? My own, own Katherine, pray, pray restrain

yourself! Ferdinand is here; remember, Ferdinand is here, and he will

soon be well; soon quite well. Believe me, he is already quite another

thing. There, drink that, darling, drink that. You are better now?’

‘I am so foolish,’ said Miss Grandison, in a mournful voice. ‘I never

can pardon myself for this. Let me go.’

Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Armine turned to her son.

He was lying back in his chair, his hands covering his eyes. The mother

stole gently to him, and wiped tenderly his brow, on which hung the

light drops of perspiration, occasioned by his recent exertion.

‘We have done too much, my own dear Ferdinand. Yet who could have

expected that dear girl would have been so affected? Glastonbury was

indeed right in preventing you so long from meeting. And yet it is a

blessing to see that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, my

Ferdinand: you will indeed be happy with her.’

Ferdinand groaned.

‘I shall never be happy,’ he murmured.

‘Never happy, my Ferdinand! Oh! you must not be so low-spirited. Think

how much better you are; think, my Ferdinand, what a change there is for

the better. You will soon be well, dearest, and then, my love, you know

you cannot help being happy.’

‘Mother,’ said Ferdinand, ‘you are deceived; you are all deceived:

I--I------’

‘No! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am confident, and I praise God for

it, that you are getting better every day. But you have done too much,

that is the truth. I will leave you now, love, and send the nurse, for

my presence excites you. Try to sleep, love.’ And Lady Armine rang the

bell, and quitted the room.

CHAPTER XIV.

_In Which Some Light Is Thrown upon Some Circumstances Which

Were Before Rather Mysterious_.

LADY ARMINE now proposed that the family should meet in Ferdinand’s room

after dinner; but Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects generally

prevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. It was therefore but

once acted upon during the week that followed the scene described in

our last chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had so severe a

headache, that it was quite impossible for her to join the circle. At

length, however, Ferdinand made his appearance below, and established

himself in the library: it now, therefore, became absolutely necessary

that Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered state of

her betrothed, which had at first apparently so much affected her

sensibility, and, by the united influence of habit and Mr. Glastonbury,

it is astonishing what progress she made. She even at last could so

command her feelings, that she apparently greatly contributed to his

amusement. She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him.

Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often offered him her

arm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist observing a great difference

in her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted her at Bath.

Far from conducting herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as if

her claim to be his companion were irresistible, her carriage, on the

contrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; she annoyed him with

no expressions of fondness, and listened to the kind words which he

occasionally urged himself to bestow upon her with a sentiment of grave

regard and placid silence, which almost filled him with astonishment.

One morning, the weather being clear and fine, Ferdinand insisted that

his mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted his side, should drive out

with Sir Ratcliffe; and, as he would take no refusal, Lady Armine agreed

to comply. The carriage was ordered, was at the door; and as Lady Armine

bade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and took the arm of

Miss Grandison, who seemed on the point of retiring; for Glastonbury

remained, and therefore Ferdinand was not without a companion.

‘I will see you go off,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Adieu!’ said Lady Armine. ‘Take care of him, dear Kate,’ and the

phaeton was soon out of sight.

‘It is more like May than January,’ said Ferdinand to his cousin. ‘I

fancy I should like to walk a little.’

‘Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury?’ said Katherine.

‘Not if my arm be not too heavy for you,’ said Ferdinand. So they

walked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until they arrived at a

garden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose flowers Henrietta Temple so

much admired. It had no flowers now, but seemed as desolate as their

unhappy loves.

[Illustration: page323.jpg]

‘A moment’s rest,’ said Ferdinand, and sighed. ‘Dear Kate, I wish to

speak to you.’

Miss Grandison turned pale.

‘I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I would endeavour to

relieve myself.’

Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. ‘It concerns you,

Katherine.’

Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at this strange

address.

‘If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miserable and

broken-hearted man,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘I might shrink from this

communication; I might delegate to another this office, humiliating as

it then might be to me, painful as it must, under any circumstances,

be to you. But,’ and here his voice faltered, ‘but I am far beyond the

power of any mortification now. The world and the world’s ways touch me

no more. There is a duty to fulfil; I will fulfil it. I have offended

against you, my sweet and gentle cousin; grievously, bitterly,

infamously offended.’

‘No, no, no!’ murmured Miss Grandison.

‘Katherine, I am unworthy of you; I have deceived you. It is neither

for your honour nor your happiness that these ties which our friends

anticipate should occur between us. But, Katherine, you are avenged.’

‘Oh! I want no vengeance!’ muttered Miss Grandison, her face pale as

marble, her eyes convulsively closed. ‘Cease, cease, Ferdinand; this

conversation is madness; you will be ill again.’

‘No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is much to tell;

it must be told, if only that you should not believe that I was a

systematic villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another when I

breathed to you those vows.’

‘Oh! anything but that; speak of anything but that!’

Ferdinand took her hand.

‘Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle cousin, I admire, I

esteem you; I could die content if I could but see you happy. With your

charms and virtues I thought that we might be happy. My intentions were

as sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh! no, dear Katherine,

I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom.’

‘Have I accused you, Ferdinand?’

‘But you will when you know all.’

‘I do know all,’ said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice.

Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her cousin.

‘You do know all,’ he at length exclaimed. ‘And can you, knowing all,

live under the same roof with me? Can you see me? Can you listen to me?

Is not my voice torture to you? Do you not hate and despise me?’

‘It is not my nature to hate anything; least of all could I hate you.’

‘And could you, knowing all, still minister to my wants and watch my sad

necessities? This gentle arm of yours; could you, knowing all, let me

lean upon it this morning? O Katherine! a happy lot be yours, for you

deserve one!’

‘Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may be, some other

considerations prompted me. My feelings have not been so much considered

that they need now be analysed.’

‘Reproach me, Katherine, I deserve _your_ reproaches.’

‘Mine may not be the only reproaches that you have deserved, Ferdinand;

but permit me to remark, from me you have received none. I pity you, I

sincerely pity you.’

‘Glastonbury has told you?’ said Ferdinand.

‘That communication is among the other good offices we owe him,’ replied

Miss Grandison.

‘He told you?’ said Ferdinand enquiringly.

‘All that it was necessary I should know for your honour, or, as some

might think, for my own happiness; no more, I would listen to no more.

I had no idle curiosity to gratify. It is enough that your heart is

another’s; I seek not, I wish not, to know that person’s name.’

‘I cannot mention it,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but there is no secret from you.

Glastonbury may--should tell all.’

‘Amid the wretched she is not the least miserable,’ said Miss Grandison.

‘O Katherine!’ said Ferdinand, after a moment’s pause, ‘tell me that you

do not hate me; tell me that you pardon me; tell me that you think me

more mad than wicked!’

‘Ferdinand,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I think we are both unfortunate.’

‘I am without hope,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but you, Katherine, your life must

still be bright and fair.’

‘I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am alone in the

world. Your family are my only relations; I cling to them. Your mother

is my mother; I love her with the passion of a child. I looked upon our

union only as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound us

all. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family; theirs I feel

is staked upon you. It is the conviction of the total desolation that

must occur if our estrangement be suddenly made known to them, and you,

who are so impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, that

has induced me to sustain the painful part that I now uphold. This is

the reason that I would not reproach you, Ferdinand, that I would not

quarrel with you, that I would not desert them in this hour of their

affliction.’

‘Katherine, beloved Katherine!’ exclaimed the distracted Ferdinand, ‘why

did we ever part?’

‘No! Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For me, that separation,

however fruitful at the present moment in mortification and unhappiness,

must not be considered altogether an event of unmingled misfortune. In

my opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment than to

be neglected for a life.’

‘Despised! Katherine, for God’s sake, spare me; for God’s sake, do not

use such language! Despised! Katherine, at this moment I declare most

solemnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy I

am of you! Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot amend

it; but let me assure you that at this very hour there is no being on

earth I more esteem, more reverence than yourself.’

‘It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly believe that your feelings

towards me were otherwise than kind and generous. But let us understand

each other. I shall remain at present under this roof. Do not

misapprehend my views. I seek not to recall your affections. The past

has proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each other. I

have not those dazzling qualities that could enchain a fiery brain like

yours. I know myself; I know you; and there is nothing that would fill

me with more terror now than our anticipated union. And now, after

this frank conversation, let our future intercourse be cordial and

unembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. The feelings between us

should by nature be amiable: no incident has occurred to disturb them,

for I have not injured or offended you; and as for your conduct towards

me, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it.’

‘Katherine,’ said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, ‘kindest, most

generous of women! My heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, to

express what I feel. We are kinsfolk; let us be more. You say my mother

is your mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. Let me be

a brother to you; you shall find me, if I live, a faithful one.’

CHAPTER XV.

_Which Leaves Affairs in General in a Scarcely More

Satisfactory Position than the Former One_.

FERDINAND felt much calmer in his mind after this conversation with his

cousin. Her affectionate attention to him now, instead of filling him as

it did before with remorse, was really a source of consolation, if that

be not too strong a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughly

wretched as Captain Armine; for his terrible illness and impending death

had not in the slightest degree allayed or affected his profound passion

for Henrietta Temple. Her image unceasingly engaged his thoughts; he

still clung to the wild idea that she might yet be his. But his health

improved so slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily taking

any steps to induce such a result. All his enquiries after her, and

Glastonbury, at his suggestion, had not been idle, were quite fruitless.

He made no doubt that she had quitted England. What might not happen,

far away from him, and believing herself betrayed and deserted? Often

when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he regretted his

recovery.

Yet his family, thanks to the considerate conduct of his admirable

cousin, were still contented and happy. His slow convalescence was now

their only source of anxiety. They regretted the unfavourable season of

the year; they looked forward with hope to the genial influence of the

coming spring. That was to cure all their cares; and yet they might

well suspect, when they watched his ever pensive, and often suffering

countenance, that there were deeper causes than physical debility and

bodily pain to account for that moody and woe-begone expression. Alas!

how changed from that Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, and courage,

and youth, and beauty, that had burst on their enraptured vision on his

return from Malta. Where was that gaiety now that made all eyes sparkle,

that vivacious spirit that kindled energy in every bosom? How miserable

to see him crawling about with a wretched stick, with his thin, pale

face, and tottering limbs, and scarcely any other pursuit than to creep

about the pleasaunce, where, when the day was fair, his servant would

place a camp-stool opposite the cedar tree where he had first beheld

Henrietta Temple; and there he would sit, until the unkind winter breeze

would make him shiver, gazing on vacancy; yet peopled to his mind’s eye

with beautiful and fearful apparitions.

And it is love, it is the most delightful of human passions, that can

bring about such misery! Why will its true course never run smooth? Is

there a spell over our heart, that its finest emotions should lead only

to despair? When Ferdinand Armine, in his reveries, dwelt upon the past;

when he recalled the hour that he had first seen her, her first glance,

the first sound of her voice, his visit to Ducie, all the passionate

scenes to which it led, those sweet wanderings through its enchanted

bowers, those bright mornings, so full of expectation that was never

baulked, those soft eyes, so redolent of tenderness that could never

cease; when from the bright, and glowing, and gentle scenes his memory

conjured up, and all the transport and the thrill that surrounded

them like an atmosphere of love, he turned to his shattered and

broken-hearted self, the rigid heaven above, and what seemed to his

perhaps unwise and ungrateful spirit, the mechanical sympathy and

common-place affection of his companions, it was as if he had wakened

from some too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he had fallen from

some brighter and more favoured planet upon our cold, dull earth.

And yet it would seem the roof of Armine Place protected a family that

might yield to few in the beauty and engaging qualities of its inmates,

their happy accomplishments, their kind and cordial hearts. And all were

devoted to him. It was on him alone the noble spirit of his father dwelt

still with pride and joy: it was to soothe and gratify him that his

charming mother exerted all her graceful care and all her engaging

gifts. It was for him, and his sake, the generous heart of his cousin

had submitted to mortification without a murmur, or indulged her

unhappiness only in solitude; and it was for him that Glastonbury

exercised a devotion that might alone induce a man to think with

complacency both of his species and himself. But the heart, the heart,

the jealous and despotic heart! It rejects all substitutes, it spurns

all compromise, and it will have its purpose or it will break.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

_Containing the Appearance on Our Stage of a New and

Important Character_.

THE Marquis of Montfort was the grandson of that nobleman who had been

Glastonbury’s earliest patron. The old duke had been dead some years;

his son had succeeded to his title, and Digby, that youth whom the

reader may recollect was about the same age as Ferdinand Armine, and was

his companion during the happy week in London which preceded his first

military visit to the Mediterranean, now bore the second title of the

family.

The young marquis was an excellent specimen of a class inferior in

talents, intelligence, and accomplishments, in public spirit and

in private virtues, to none in the world, the English nobility. His

complete education had been carefully conducted; and although his

religious creed, for it will be remembered he was a Catholic, had

deprived him of the advantage of matriculating at an English university,

the zeal of an able and learned tutor, and the resources of a German

Alma Mater, had afforded every opportunity for the development of his

considerable talents. Nature had lavished upon him other gifts besides

his distinguished intelligence and his amiable temper: his personal

beauty was remarkable, and his natural grace was not less evident than

his many acquired accomplishments.

On quitting the University of Bonn, Lord Montfort had passed several

years on the continent of Europe, and had visited and resided at most of

its courts and capitals, an admired and cherished guest; for, debarred

at the period of our story from occupying the seat of his ancestors in

the senate, his native country offered no very urgent claims upon his

presence. He had ultimately fixed upon Rome as his principal residence,

for he was devoted to the arts, and in his palace were collected some of

the rarest specimens of ancient and modern invention.

At Pisa, Lord Montfort had made the acquaintance of Mr. Temple, who was

residing in that city for the benefit of his daughter’s health, who, it

was feared by her physicians, was in a decline. I say the acquaintance

of Mr. Temple; for Lord Montfort was aware of the existence of his

daughter only by the occasional mention of her name, as Miss Temple was

never seen. The agreeable manners, varied information, and accomplished

mind of Mr. Temple, had attracted and won the attention of the young

nobleman, who shrank in general from the travelling English, and all

their arrogant ignorance. Mr. Temple was in turn equally pleased with

a companion alike refined, amiable, and enlightened; and their

acquaintance would have ripened into intimacy, had not the illness

of Henrietta and her repugnance to see a third person, and the

unwillingness of her father that she should be alone, offered in some

degree a bar to its cultivation.

Yet Henrietta was glad that her father had found a friend and was

amused, and impressed upon him not to think of her, but to accept Lord

Montfort’s invitations to his villa. But Mr. Temple invariably declined

them.

‘I am always uneasy when I am away from you, dearest,’ said Mr. Temple;

‘I wish you would go about a little. Believe me, it is not for myself

that I make the suggestion, but I am sure you would derive benefit from

the exertion. I wish you would go with me and see Lord Montfort’s villa.

There would be no one there but himself. He would not in the least annoy

you, he is so quiet; and he and I could stroll about and look at the

busts and talk to each other. You would hardly know he was present, he

is such a very quiet person.’

Henrietta shook her head; and Mr. Temple could not urge the request.

Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort and Henrietta Temple

should become acquainted. She had more than once expressed a wish to

see the Campo Santo; it was almost the only wish that she had expressed

since she left England. Her father, pleased to find that anything could

interest her, was in the habit of reminding her of this desire, and

suggesting that she should gratify it. But there was ever an excuse for

procrastination. When the hour of exertion came, she would say, with a

faint smile, ‘Not to-day, dearest papa;’ and then, arranging her shawl,

as if even in this soft clime she shivered, composed herself upon that

sofa which now she scarcely ever quitted.

And this was Henrietta Temple! That gay and glorious being, so full of

graceful power and beautiful energy, that seemed born for a throne,

and to command a nation of adoring subjects! What are those political

revolutions, whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilating

on, compared with the moral mutations that are passing daily under our

own eye; uprooting the hearts of families, shattering to pieces

domestic circles, scattering to the winds the plans and prospects of a

generation, and blasting as with a mildew the ripening harvest of long

cherished affection!

‘It is here that I would be buried,’ said Henrietta Temple.

They were standing, the father and the daughter, in the Campo Santo. She

had been gayer that morning; her father had seized a happy moment, and

she had gone forth, to visit the dead.

That vast and cloistered cemetery was silent and undisturbed; not a

human being was there, save themselves and the keeper. The sun shone

brightly on the austere and ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stood

opposite that beautiful sarcophagus, that seemed prepared and fitting to

receive her destined ashes.

‘It is here that I would be buried,’ said she.

Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze upon the

countenance of his daughter, to see if there were indeed reason that she

should talk of death. That countenance was changed since the moment

we first feebly attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lost

something of its brilliancy, that superb form something of its roundness

and its stag-like state; the crimson glory of that mantling cheek had

faded like the fading eve; and yet it might be thought, it might be

suffering, perhaps, the anticipation of approaching death, and as it

were the imaginary contact with a serener existence, but certainly there

was a more spiritual expression diffused over the whole appearance of

Henrietta Temple, and which by many might be preferred even to that more

lively and glowing beauty which, in her happier hours, made her the very

queen of flowers and sunshine.

‘It is strange, dear papa,’ she continued, ‘that my first visit should

be to a cemetery.’

At this moment their attention was attracted by the sound of the distant

gates of the cemetery opening, and several persons soon entered. This

party consisted of some of the authorities of the city and some porters,

bearing on a slab of verd antique a magnificent cinerary vase, that was

about to be placed in the Campo. In reply to his enquiries, Mr. Temple

learned that the vase had been recently excavated in Catania, and that

it had been purchased and presented to the Campo by the Marquis of

Montfort. Henrietta would have hurried her father away, but with all her

haste they had not reached the gates before Lord Montfort appeared.

Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henrietta pressed his arm in

token of disapprobation, not to present Lord Montfort to his daughter.

He then admired his lordship’s urn, and then his lordship requested that

he might have the pleasure of showing it to them himself. They turned;

Lord Montfort explained to them its rarity, and pointed out to them

its beauty. His voice was soft and low, his manner simple but rather

reserved. While he paid that deference to Henrietta which her sex

demanded, he addressed himself chiefly to her father. She was not half

so much annoyed as she had imagined; she agreed with her father that

he was a very quiet man; she was even a little interested by his

conversation, which was refined and elegant; and she was pleased that

he did not seem to require her to play any part in the discourse, but

appeared quite content in being her father’s friend. Lord Montfort

seemed to be attached to her father, and to appreciate him. And this was

always a recommendation to Henrietta Temple.

The cinerary urn led to a little controversy between Mr. Temple and his

friend; and Lord Montfort wished that Mr. Temple would some day call on

him at his house in the Lung’ Arno, and he would show him some specimens

which he thought might influence his opinion. ‘I hardly dare to ask you

to come now,’ said his lordship, looking at Miss Temple; ‘and yet Miss

Temple might like to rest.’

It was evident to Henrietta that her father would be pleased to go, and

yet that he was about to refuse for her sake. She could not bear that he

should be deprived of so much and such refined amusement, and be doomed

to an uninteresting morning at home, merely to gratify her humour. She

tried to speak, but could not at first command her voice; at length

she expressed her wish that Mr. Temple should avail himself of the

invitation. Lord Montfort bowed lowly, Mr. Temple seemed gratified, and

they all turned together and quitted the cemetery.

As they walked along to the house, conversation did not flag. Lord

Montfort expressed his admiration of Pisa. ‘Silence and art are two

great charms,’ said his lordship.

At length they arrived at his palace. A venerable Italian received

them. They passed through a vast hall, in which were statues, ascended

a magnificent double staircase, and entered a range of saloons. One of

them was furnished with more attention to comfort than an Italian cares

for, and herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his lordship had

mentioned.

‘This is little more than a barrack,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘but I can

find a sofa for Miss Temple.’ So saying, he arranged with great care the

cushions of the couch, and, when she seated herself, placed a footstool

near her. ‘I wish you would allow me some day to welcome you at Rome,’

said the young marquis. ‘It is there that I indeed reside.’

Lord Montfort and Mr. Temple examined the contents of the cabinet. There

was one vase which Mr. Temple greatly admired for the elegance of its

form. His host immediately brought it and placed it on a small pedestal

near Miss Temple. Yet he scarcely addressed himself to her, and

Henrietta experienced none of that troublesome attention from which, in

the present state of her health and mind, she shrank. While Mr. Temple

was interested with his pursuit, Lord Montfort went to a small cabinet

opposite, and brought forth a curious casket of antique gems. ‘Perhaps,’

he said, placing it by Miss Temple, ‘the contents of this casket might

amuse you;’ and he walked away to her father.

In the course of an hour a servant brought in some fruits and wine.

‘The grapes are from my villa,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I ventured to order

them, because I have heard their salutary effects have been marvellous.

Besides, at this season, even in Italy they are rare. At least \ you

cannot accuse me of prescribing a disagreeable remedy,’ he added with a

slight smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Temple. She moved to receive

them. Her cushions slipped from behind her, Lord Montfort immediately

arranged them with skill and care. He was so kind that she really wished

to thank him; but before she could utter a word he was again conversing

with her father.

At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to retire, and spoke to his

daughter.

‘This has been a great exertion for you, Henrietta,’ he said; ‘this has

indeed been a busy day.’

‘I am not wearied; and we have been much pleased.’ It was the firmest

tone in which she had spoken for a long time. There was something in

her manner which recalled to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. The

affectionate father looked for a moment happy. The sweet music of these

simple words dwelt on his ear.

He went forward and assisted Henrietta to rise. She closed the casket

with care, and delivered it herself to her considerate host. Mr. Temple

bade him adieu; Henrietta bowed, and nearly extended her hand. Lord

Montfort attended them to the gate; a carriage was waiting there.

‘Ah! we have kept your lordship at home,’ said Mr. Temple.

‘I took the liberty of ordering the carriage for Miss Temple,’ he

replied. ‘I feel a little responsible for her kind exertion to-day.’

CHAPTER II.

_In Which Lord Montfort Contrives That Miss Temple Should be

Left Alone_.

AND how do you like my friend, Henrietta?’ said Mr. Temple, as they

drove home.

‘I like your friend much, papa. He is quite as quiet as you said; he is

almost the only person I have seen since I quitted England who has not

jarred my nerves. I felt quite sorry that I had so long prevented you

both from cultivating each other’s acquaintance. He does not interfere

with me in the least.’

‘I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in the evening,’ said Mr.

Temple, rather enquiringly.

‘Not to-day,’ said Henrietta. ‘Another day, dearest papa.’

The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. Temple, to enquire after

his daughter, and to impress upon him the importance of her eating

his grapes. His servant left a basket. The rest of the note was about

cinerary urns. Mr. Temple, while he thanked him, assured him of the

pleasure it would give both his daughter and himself to see him in the

evening.

This was the first invitation to his house that Mr. Temple had ventured

to give him, though they had now known each other some time.

In the evening Lord Montfort appeared. Henrietta was lying on her sofa,

and her father would not let her rise. Lord Montfort had brought Mr.

Temple some English journals, which he had received from Leghorn.

The gentlemen talked a little on foreign politics; and discussed the

character of several of the most celebrated foreign ministers. Lord

Montfort gave an account of his visit to Prince Esterhazy. Henrietta

was amused. German politics and society led to German literature. Lord

Montfort, on this subject, seemed completely informed. Henrietta could

not refrain from joining in a conversation for which she was fully

qualified. She happened to deplore her want of books. Lord Montfort

had a library; but it was at Rome: no matter; it seemed that he thought

nothing of sending to Rome. He made a note very quietly of some books

that Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and begged that Mr. Temple would

send the memorandum to his servant.

‘But surely to-morrow will do,’ said Mr. Temple. ‘Rome is too far to

send to this evening.’

‘That is an additional reason for instant departure,’ said his lordship

calmly.

Mr. Temple summoned a servant.

‘Send this note to my house,’ said his lordship. ‘My courier will bring

us the books in four days,’ he added, turning to Miss Temple. ‘I am

sorry you should have to wait, but at Pisa I really have nothing.’

From this day Lord Montfort passed every evening at Mr. Temple’s house.

His arrival never disturbed Miss Temple; she remained on the sofa. If

she spoke to him he was always ready to converse with her, yet he never

obtruded his society. He seemed perfectly contented with the company of

her father. Yet with all this calmness and reserve, there was no air

of affected indifference, no intolerable nonchalance; he was always

attentive, always considerate, often kind. However apparently engaged

with her father, it seemed that his vigilance anticipated all her wants.

If she moved, he was at her side; if she required anything, it would

appear that he read her thoughts, for it was always offered. She found

her sofa arranged as if by magic. And if a shawl were for a moment

missing, Lord Montfort always knew where it had been placed. In the

meantime, every morning brought something for the amusement of Mr.

Temple and his daughter; books, prints, drawings, newspapers, journals

of all countries, and caricatures from Paris and London, were mingled

with engravings of Henrietta’s favourite Campo Santo.

One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were speaking of a celebrated

Professor of the University. Lord Montfort described his extraordinary

acquirements and discoveries, and his rare simplicity. He was one of

those eccentric geniuses that are sometimes found in decayed cities

with ancient institutions of learning. Henrietta was interested in his

description. Almost without thought she expressed a wish to see him.

‘He shall come to-morrow,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘if you please. Believe

me,’ he added, in a tone of great kindness, ‘that if you could prevail

upon yourself to cultivate Italian society a little, it would repay

you.’

The professor was brought. Miss Temple was much entertained. In a few

days he came again, and introduced a friend scarcely less distinguished.

The society was so easy, that even Henrietta found it no burthen. She

remained upon her sofa; the gentlemen drank their coffee and conversed.

One morning Lord Montfort had prevailed upon her to visit the studio

of a celebrated sculptor. The artist was full of enthusiasm for his

pursuit, and showed them with pride his great work, a Diana that might

have made one envy Endymion. The sculptor declared it was the perfect

resemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed to her father. Mr. Temple could

not deny the striking likeness. Miss Temple smiled; she looked almost

herself again; even the reserved Lord Montfort was in raptures.

‘Oh! it is very like,’ said his lordship. ‘Yes! now it is exactly like.

Miss Temple does not often smile; but now one would believe she really

was the model.’

They were bidding the sculptor farewell.

‘Do you like him?’ whispered Lord Montfort of Miss Temple.

‘Extremely; he is full of ideas.’

‘Shall I ask him to come to you this evening?’

‘Yes, do!’

And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found herself the centre of

a little circle of eminent and accomplished men. Her health improved

as she brooded less over her sorrows. It gratified her to witness

the pleasure of her father. She was not always on her sofa now. Lord

Montfort had sent her an English chair, which suited her delightfully.

They even began to take drives with him in the country an hour or so

before sunset. The country around Pisa is rich as well as picturesque;

and their companion always contrived that there should be an object in

their brief excursions. He spoke, too, the dialect of the country; and

they paid, under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. All this was

agreeable; even Henrietta was persuaded that it was better than staying

at home. The variety of pleasing objects diverted her mind in spite of

herself. She had some duties to perform in this world yet remaining.

There was her father: her father who had been so devoted to her, who had

never uttered a single reproach to her for all her faults and follies,

and who, in her hour of tribulation, had clung to her with such

fidelity. Was it not some source of satisfaction to see him again

comparatively happy? How selfish for her to mar this graceful and

innocent enjoyment! She exerted herself to contribute to the amusement

of her father and his kind friend, as well as to share it. The colour

returned a little to her cheek; sometimes she burst for a moment into

something like her old gaiety; and though these ebullitions were often

followed by a gloom and moodiness, against which she found it in vain to

contend, still, on the whole, the change for the better was decided, and

Mr. Temple yet hoped that in time his sight might again be blessed and

his life illustrated by his own brilliant Henrietta.

CHAPTER III.

_In Which Mr. Temple and His Daughter, with Their New

Friend, Make an Unexpected Excursion_.

ONE delicious morning, remarkable even in the south, Lord Montfort

called upon them in his carriage, and proposed a little excursion. Mr.

Temple looked at his daughter, and was charmed that Henrietta consented.

She rose from her seat, indeed, with unwonted animation, and the three

friends had soon quitted the city and entered its agreeable environs.

‘It was wise to pass the winter in Italy,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘but to

see Tuscany in perfection I should choose the autumn. I know nothing

more picturesque than the carts laden with grapes, and drawn by

milk-white steers.’

They drove gaily along at the foot of green hills, crowned ever and

anon by a convent or a beautiful stone-pine. The landscape attracted the

admiration of Miss Temple. A palladian villa rose from the bosom of a

gentle elevation, crowned with these picturesque trees. A broad terrace

of marble extended in front of the villa, on which were ranged orange

trees. On either side spread an olive-grove. The sky was without

a cloud, and deeply blue; bright beams of the sun illuminated the

building. The road had wound so curiously into this last branch of the

Apennines, that the party found themselves in a circus of hills, clothed

with Spanish chestnuts and olive trees, from which there was apparently

no outlet. A soft breeze, which it was evident had passed over the wild

flowers of the mountains, refreshed and charmed their senses.

‘Could you believe we were only two hours’ drive from a city?’ said Lord

Montfort.

‘Indeed,’ said Henrietta, ‘if there be peace in this world, one would

think that the dweller in that beautiful villa enjoyed it.’

‘He has little to disturb him,’ said Lord Montfort: ‘thanks to his

destiny and his temper.’

‘I believe we make our miseries,’ said Henrietta, with a sigh. ‘After

all, nature always offers us consolation. But who lives here?’

‘I sometimes steal to this spot,’ replied his lordship.

‘Oh! this, then, is your villa? Ah! you have surprised us!’

‘I only aimed to amuse you.’

‘You are very kind, Lord Montfort,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘and we owe you

much.’

They stopped, they ascended the terrace, they entered the villa. A few

rooms only were furnished, but their appearance indicated the taste and

pursuits of its occupier. Busts and books were scattered about; a table

was covered with the implements of art; and the principal apartment

opened into an English garden.

‘This is one of my native tastes,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘that will, I

think, never desert me.’

The memory of Henrietta was recalled to the flowers of Ducie and of

Armine. Amid all the sweets and sunshine she looked sad. She walked away

from her companions; she seated herself on the terrace; her eyes were

suffused with tears. Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple, and led

him away to a bust of Germanicus.

‘Let me show it to Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘I must fetch her.’

Lord Montfort laid his hand gently on his companion. The emotion of

Henrietta had not escaped his quick eye.

‘Miss Temple has made a great exertion,’ he said. ‘Do not think me

pedantic, but I am something of a physician. I have long perceived

that, although Miss Temple should be amused, she must sometimes be left

alone.’

Mr. Temple looked at his companion, but the countenance of Lord Montfort

was inscrutable. His lordship offered him a medal and then opened a

portfolio of Marc Antonios.

‘These are very rare,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I bring them into the

country with me, for really at Rome there is no time to study them.

By-the-bye, I have a plan,’ continued his lordship, in a somewhat

hesitating tone; ‘I wish I could induce you and Miss Temple to visit me

at Rome.’

Mr. Temple shrugged his shoulders, and sighed.

‘I feel confident that a residence at Rome would benefit Miss Temple,’

said his lordship, in a voice a little less calm than usual. ‘There is

much to see, and I would take care that she should see it in a manner

which would not exhaust her. It is the most delightful climate, too, at

this period. The sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills at

this season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, with a variety of

objects, is what she requires. Pisa is calm, but for her it is too dull.

Believe me, there is something in the blended refinement and interest

of Rome that she would find exceedingly beneficial. She would see no one

but ourselves; society shall be at her command if she desire it.’

‘My dear lord,’ said Mr. Temple, ‘I thank you from the bottom of my

heart for all your considerate sympathy; but I cannot flatter myself

that Henrietta could avail herself of your really friendly offer. My

daughter is a great invalid. She------’

But here Miss Temple joined them.

‘We have a relic of a delicate temple here,’ said Lord Montfort,

directing her gaze to another window. ‘You see it now to advantage;

the columns glitter in the sun. There, perhaps, was worshipped some

wood-nymph, or some river-god.’

The first classic ruin that she had yet beheld attracted the attention

of Miss Temple. It was not far, and she acceded to the proposition

of Lord Montfort to visit it. That little ramble was delightful. The

novelty and the beauty of the object greatly interested her. It was

charming also to view it under the auspices of a guide so full of

information and feeling.

‘Ah!’ said Lord Montfort, ‘if I might only be your cicerone at Rome!’

‘What say you, Henrietta?’ said Mr. Temple, with a smile. ‘Shall we go

to Rome?’

The proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as much as her father

anticipated. Lord Montfort pressed the suggestion with delicacy; he

hinted at some expedients by which the journey might be rendered not

very laborious. But as she did not reply, his lordship did not press the

subject; sufficiently pleased, perhaps, that she had not met it with an

immediate and decided negative.

When they returned to the villa they found a collation prepared for them

worthy of so elegant an abode. In his capacity of a host, Lord Montfort

departed a little from that placid and even constrained demeanour which

generally characterised him. His manner was gay and flowing; and he

poured out a goblet of Monte Pulciano and presented it to Miss Temple.

‘You must pour a libation,’ he said, ‘to the nymph of the fane.’

CHAPTER IV.

_Showing That It Is the First Step That Is Ever the Most

Difficult_.

ABOUT a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. Temple and his daughter

were absolutely induced to accompany Lord Montfort to Rome. It is

impossible to do justice to the tender solicitude with which he made

all the arrangements for the journey. Wherever they halted they found

preparations for their reception; and so admirably had everything been

concerted, that Miss Temple at length found herself in the Eternal City

with almost as little fatigue as she had reached the Tuscan villa.

The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most distinguished quarter of the

city, and situate in the midst of vast gardens full of walls of laurel,

arches of ilex, and fountains of lions. They arrived at twilight,

and the shadowy hour lent even additional space to the huge halls and

galleries. Yet in the suite of rooms intended for Mr. Temple and his

daughter, every source of comfort seemed to have been collected. The

marble floors were covered with Indian mats and carpets, the windows

were well secured from the air which might have proved fatal to an

invalid, while every species of chair and couch, and sofa, courted the

languid or capricious form of Miss Temple, and she was even favoured

with an English stove, and guarded by an Indian screen. The apartments

were supplied with every book which it could have been supposed might

amuse her; there were guitars of the city and of Florence, and even an

English piano; a library of the choicest music; and all the materials

of art. The air of elegance and cheerful comfort that pervaded these

apartments, so unusual in this land, the bright blaze of the fire, evert

the pleasant wax-lights, all combined to deprive the moment of that